Hawks and Chickens

"You were a hawk raised like a chicken." Said my therapist.

He'd said a lot of other things too, but that was the phrase that stuck in my head. It was a story in itself. A hawk raised as a chicken. There are folk tales with that theme, and how once the hawk sees the sky she could lift her wings and fly.

Well, this hawk had a lot of emotional baggage to process before she could even look at her own wings.

So, I bought a coop and five little hens. It was January, and they would arrive in March. The coop came faster, so I built it. I read all kinds of backyard chicken blogs that make it seem... a lot harder than it is. Also, I wanted to experience it all for myself. No spoilers. I waited impatiently for my chicks to arrive, positive that this would make a childhood of resurfacing trauma all... make some kind of linear sense. Essentially, I was going to jumpstart my grief by giving five little creatures the love and nurturing I should have had.

I was going to raise these chicks like hawks.

They arrived, little chirping balls of down. One yellow, two black, and one that was an ivory color with a bit of dark to her head. My daughter named the yellow one Rosabelle. I named the ivory one Andromeda. My oldest son named his Magenta, and she was the black one with silver wings. Akita was named for one of my friends. Artemis was the final black one. The babies were named.

They grow so fast. Within a month they had these fully feathered miniature wings. At two months they were showing different personalities. At three months we lost Magenta to cross beak. We buried her in the flower garden and told the memories we had of her. There weren't many, but we each had at least one story.

And then my neighbor reached out to see if I would take her last chicken in. The rest of the flock was lost to foxes, and this one had managed to survive. As a survivor to a few scrapes myself, I couldn't say no. Two days later, she brought over a fully grown hen with black feathers that turned emerald in the sunlight. She had a slash down her throat and the kindest eyes I've ever seen. She walked carefully, and had a lovely coo. We called her Queen Coco. (I called her Mafia Mama Queen Coco, but it was a mouthful for the three year old.)

Two months ago we had another change. Andromeda had huge feet, a decorative tail, and was far bigger than the rest. I think that's when we stopped seeing the other signs. We preferred delusion to the truth. She was bigger, sure, but she acted just like the other hens. She wasn't more dominant, and her head still didn't have much of a comb.

Then she started crowing. Her feathers got brighter. Her neck began having more of a triangular shape. She started grabbing all her sisters by the neck and mounting them.

Andromeda was a rooster.

So, we changed his name to Perseus. He was protective, and handsome. I called him my little phoenix. Every time he crowed, I ran out to give him a cuddle. I was hoping that would put a stop to the crowing, because he hated cuddles now. I tried to cover the windows so he didn't crow so early. Unfortunately, he had something VERY LOUD to say a couple times every hour. My neighborhood couldn't handle it. I don't blame them.

So, today, I gave away my first rooster.