The Backyard Flock: My new favorite chicken

Her tiny chicken brain probably wonders what the hell is going on when I pick her up and lavish affection upon her, especially given her wayward ways. But we all love a rebel. And I think she senses that. Amy suggested we call her Skippy, because she keeps skipping out. But, like Ruby Tuesday, because it’s hard to pin a name on her. So, henceforth she will be known as Ruby.

Ruby is one of my year-old Araucanas. Her plumage is that of an American Bald Eagle, but instead of a white head, hers is a deep auburn. She is a real red-headed beauty.

I used to think of Araucanas as a difficult breed; aloof and sometimes downright snobbish. My three have convinced me otherwise. They seem no less friendly than the easygoing breeds, such as the Barred Plymouth Rocks and the Rhode Island Reds. Ruby is curious and friendly, but always the first to push her way out, if I am not fast enough with the gate to the chicken run. Lately, she has taken the art of escape to a new level.

For the past week or two, we kept finding Ruby in the backyard outside of the fenced off area we call Chickenland. It seemed almost as if she were coming and going as she pleased. We started pointing fingers: Who let her out? Who wasn’t fast enough with the gate? Who didn’t take a head-count when locking them up at night, after we had let them play in the yard? None of these accusations seemed to hold water, but there was no evidence of an escape route per se. The only hole under the fence between Chickenland and our yard was too small to accommodate her stature. Or so it seemed.

Then, a couple days ago, I was playing with her when I went out to get the eggs. I had picked her up and was petting her on the head as she cooed softly her approval. We happened to be standing right by that small hole the groundhog uses to burglarize the chicken run. I set her down and petted her one last time when, as if to reward me by showing me how she does it, she wriggled through that hole in the fence that seemed only big enough for a week-old chick. It was magic!

She waited on the other side for me to pick her up and return her to the flock. If she could talk, I’m sure she would have said, “See, that’s how it’s done.”

I keep blocking up the hole with wire, bricks and stakes, but between her and Alan Street Al, our resident groundhog, my attempts to seal off the escape route are always thwarted. I still find her strutting her stuff in the backyard every day as the other chickens look on through the fence in awe.

You’ve got to love a sassy chick like that!