What do you call a group of individuals, whispering in Latin and pointing towards the sky? Lunatics, of course, but birdwatchers is an adequate synonym. Add to that image some beige couture and a camera lens that costs more than my first car and now you’ve got serious birdwatchers. There’s a broad spectrum of these addicts, ahem, hobbyists, ranging from the amateur beginner birder to the advanced birding fiend. Somewhere in the middle, you’ve got me.
I love birds. In part, I think, because of my deep-rooted envy of their ability to fly. I love listening to them, I love identifying them, I love watching them dip and dive in flight. I love using my binoculars to zoom in on their itty, bitty, birdy feet, with their miniature dinosaur toes and precious little claws.
I am not picky when it comes to what birds I enjoy watching. I keep winter feeders and rejoice when a nuthatch or downy woodpecker alights on the suet or a flock of goldfinch flutter about the thistle. I saw a Great Horned Owl this past December and died a small death when my heart stopped as I visually devoured its perched profile. In retrospect, it was a good thing that my morning visitor didn’t linger long since I swear my cardio system was on pause until it dropped and soared into the dawn. Wild birds bring me joy, excitement, peace of mind and a cherished connection with Nature. That said, I find similar enjoyment when I silently stalk my chickens…
I have five girls at the moment. 3½ Wyandottes (the ½ represents a bantam), a Rhode Island red and a barred rock. Garnet, the red, sticks out like a sore thumb against her black and white compatriots. Her personality too, is significantly different from the rest of the flock’s cautious, aloofness. Garnet is an excellent egg-layer, a tidy hen, and a freaking biter. You read that right; she bites. The red one bites.
Garnet 
Galena 
Are you kidding me? Carnellia
When I first got Garnet and her barred rock partner, Galena, it became instantly apparent that the redhead was going to be feisty. I introduced them to the ‘dottes under cloak of darkness as this is how it is done in the chicken world: you shove new hens (after quarantining them beforehand, if you’re smart) into the coop when all the others are asleep and by morning the prior hens just accept that the new hens have been there all along. Immaculate generation… there’s a reason we coined the term birdbrain. This method, by the way, has never worked for me, but it’s the easiest option and eventually they all seem to settle in regardless.
Garnet, Galena and their rooster pal, Gideon, had been backyard pets of a friend. He was moving to a more urban neighborhood and couldn’t take the birds so I scopped the girls and dropped the roo off at my mom’s. I have a strict “ladies only” policy when it comes to raising poultry. Garnet had always been very friendly at my buddy’s place. ‘Friendly’ is what I call a chicken that when threatened by an advancing person adopts an emergency squat position and succumbs to pats and cradling. I used to catch her for chicken cuddles whenever I visited and was thrilled when he asked if I could take his trio as he prepared his rural departure.
The morning after my drop and ditch, I woke to a high-pitched symphony of some pissed-off poultry and entered the run expecting zero eggs (“Our flock has been breached! Our energy must be reserved for shrilly vocalizing our annoyance and despair!”). I wasn’t wrong; the nests were empty and the ‘dottes were carrying on, directing their annoyance at me now that I’d joined in the rumpus.
One of them was clucking like a metronome from atop the coop roof, two others were strident from their perch on the straw bales, busy “ba-cawking” their faces off, and Carnellia (the bantam) was vigorously chasing the invaders around the run, establishing her newly risen role on the totem pole of the pecking order. I scooped up Carnellia as she rushed past, beak open like a bite-sized velociraptor, and redirected her towards the food bowl I had just filled. Scattering cracked corn had the same effect as hitting the mute button on a stereo and for a blessed moment all was well as the three large hens ditched their posts and shut their yammering in order to house some [corn] crack.
Garnet began to amble cautiously over towards me while the others were busy snacking and I watched, curious, as she got closer and closer. When the red hen was within arms reach I began to bend towards her. Before I could even initiate movement, however, that little sh*# bounced straight up as though on a trampoline and bit my hand where it rested by my side. I have been pecked by hens before, usually while retrieving an egg from an annoyed brooder. Never have I had a bird jump into the air in order to reach their target.
Getting bit or nipped by a chicken doesn’t hurt, but it is startling, and I reacted as any other startled chicken owner would have: I slipped my foot between her legs and lifted that mother clucker up and away. She landed softly on the hay pile I aimed her at and immediately hopped down and came strutting back. Prepared this time, I quickly lunged towards her and she sank into a squat and froze. Thus began our daily routine. Advance, hop, bite, fly, advance, crouch, freeze. We’ve got a bit, the biting hen and I.
Garnet and Galena have been here now for just under a year and things have settled down. Garnet no longer greets me in any fashion, aggressive or otherwise, recognizing me now as strictly a food source and a nest-robber like the others. Carnellia wasn’t able to keep Galena under her tiny, chicken foot but she has prevented the sole red hen from rising in ranks. The flock is amicable for the time being ; it is winter after all, and the more tolerant they are of one another, the better their chances at enduring these bitter nights.
There’s a message to be derived from this flocking together in times of need, but I’m going to let you figure that one out for yourself. I am just happy that I’m still getting several fresh butt nuggets each week and no longer being bit every morning. If you don’t have hens already, you should get some. If you don’t have a bird feeder at your digs, you should get one of those too. Speaking Latin isn’t a requirement until you’ve reached the advanced birder stage and everyone has to start somewhere. If spying on haughty hens makes one a birder, than I’m a GD pro already.
Get out and enjoy Nature! Go stalk some birds!