The Backyard Flock: The mysterious case of the dead sparrow

I had been thinking about this piece for a few days. It was to be about the merciless cruelty some chickens can show to one another. But it had to be broader than just the story of how one chicken always seems to end up as the target of bullying. I wasn’t sure how I was going to end it when suddenly it came to me.

I had just turned on my computer and sat down to write when I heard a kerfuffle in Chickenland. I turned and looked out the window behind me. Just a few minutes before, three of them had been seemingly cooperating in jumping up and trying to pull down a branch of a low bush to get to its leaves. It warmed my heart to see them working together. But now, one of them was running around with something in its mouth with the rest of them chasing her. She must have gotten a leaf, I reasoned. But it seemed bigger than a leaf. From the distance of about 50 feet it looked more like a small bird.

Visions of a bird flu epidemic danced in my head as I slipped into my galoshes and hurried out to get a better look. Indeed, it was a bird. Now I was giving chase, but the young Barred Rock that had the dead sparrow by the neck wasn’t about to give it up. I grabbed a rake and was finally able to get her to drop the poor thing, by poking her with it. But I had no way to pick carcass up, except with my bare hands, because the perpetrator kept trying to get it back.

My two writing heros, Mark Twain and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., have both offered this piece of advice: Start as close to the end as possible. I have just recounted the end, the exclamation point to this tale of chicken misbehavior. Was this a case of murder? I will now tell you the beginning and let you decide for yourself.

Just about this time last year, maybe a few weeks later, my six new chicks were big enough to be moved into the dog house I had converted to a mini-coop in a makeshift run next to the bigger chickens. At the same time, I noticed that the older birds were picking on a small buff Cochin that was too meek to defend herself. It got so bad, I had to remove her from the flock and put her in with the smaller chicks. This worked out just fine. When the young birds got big enough to be merged with the flock, I put the Cochin back in Chickenland, too. As it turned out, she had bonded with the younger ones and they ended up sleeping together in one coop, while the rest of the girls slept in the other. To this day, that same sleeping arrangement has held up, with minor variations. That also brought about an end to the bullying; until last week that is.

This time it was the little Cochin’s pals that had become her tormentors. First one, then two, then all six of them started chasing her. I could hear her screams all the way in the house. At first I imagined that it was harmless fun. But then I witnessed more serious attacks, gang attacks, the whole group holding her down and pecking at her. By the time I decided to rescue her, they had plucked all the feathers from her head. The little chicken, which normally avoids letting me get too close, was happy to let me pick her up.

I locked the victim in one of the coops with a broody hen to keep her company and plenty of fresh food and water and kept her isolated for two days. When I thought the bullies had gotten over their viciousness, I let her out. But within a few hours, it started anew. So, I had to separate her again.

What brought about this change in what had previously been a friendly relationship? I guess the simple answer is hormones. The youngsters, having achieved the age of one-year-old, are now officially adults. They are no longer considered to be pullets and are called hens or chickens. I always wondered about what seemed like an arbitrary time period to demark the end of pullethood. Now I understand the reasoning; at this age they start to assert their place in the pecking order. In other words, they are starting at the bottom and working their way up. Docile little Buffy was surely at the bottom of the pecking order, so far down that the older birds no longer bothered with her, as long as she stayed out of their way and avoided confrontation. Not so with the younger ones, which are just beginning to feel their oats and looking for some defenseless soul to prey upon.

Back to that dead bird… So what do you think? Did it die of natural causes or had it ruffled someone’s feathers?