The Backyard Flock: "Happy Birthday" and goodnight, my little princesses

The chicks are a year old. Therefore, they are no longer considered pullets. The six of them, three Araucanas and three Barred Plymouth Rocks, are the biggest chickens in the flock, with, perhaps, the exception of six-year-old Pee Wee the Rhode Island Red.

Pee Wee is an armful. Yesterday, Katie from the bank stopped by and got a chance to pet her as I held her. “She’s not gonna get mad and bite, is she?” Katie asked as she gingerly stroked Pee Wee’s head. “Oh my God, this is the first time I’ve ever petted a chicken.”

The newly matured hens are laying almost every day. So, along with the six others of mixed descriptions, we are getting lots of eggs. The other day we got ten, a new record for us. You would laugh if you looked in our refrigerator. The eggs range from pink to almost red, green to blue, beige to brown, and some that are pure white. They vary in size from about the size of your thumb to the size of a plum.

These are the first chickens where we actually took the care to remember their birthdays. We brought them home from the hatchery as day-old chicks on May 2 of last year. Therefore, their birthday was actually May 1. But we have decided to celebrate on May 2.

At first, Amy was doubtful about all the care I put into raising this bunch. She wanted to cut the heat lamp off early; she wanted to get them out of the house as soon as possible; she wanted to merge them with the flock before they were ready. Now, as she sees the size of them and how healthy they are, when she counts the eggs every day, she acknowledges that we did it right this time, and if we ever do it again, we should do it the same way. Be patient, keep them warm, and give them lots of love. Raise them right and you will be rewarded.

We didn’t do anything special for their birthday. We didn’t bake a cake or do anything silly like that; although, some of my friends probably expected me to. When I went out to lock them up on Sunday night, I leaned into the coop with my flashlight for the nightly head count and softly sang “Happy Birthday.” I could tell they were pleased, because they craned their necks to hear.

“Good night you princesses of Yellow Springs, you queens of Ohio,” I told them, as I do every night.