Perhaps Slutvana thinks I look like this rooster?

I’ve had trouble in the past being mistaken for an alpha male rooster, but only by actual alpha male roosters who were so cocky they didn’t even get that I didn’t have feathers.  Or wattles.  Or a comb.  And since I wasn’t equipped with claws and spurs, I didn’t accept any challenges; I just boxed up my rival(s) and headed for the poultry auction.

But, for the last few days, our Russian Orloff hen has been “assuming the position” and offering herself to me when I go out to greet the girls in the morning.  She even lets Little Red Hen get a head start on the scratch that I scatter, hunkering hopefully by my feet and waiting… FOR WHAT?!?

Click, Clack and the Head Cluck – 2012

It is true that long before Slutvana — in fact it was our first introduction to chickens — we were “adopted” by two stray, very young Leghorn roosters.  They would “work” along side me in the garden;  I think that my red hat must have confused them into thinking I was a relative.  But they never acted as though I were a potential lady friend.

Of course, no one said that Slutvana is the brightest biddy in the coop.  “Can you not see that I have no feathers?” I ask her.  “Do I really LOOK like a rooster?  And just how horny are you, anyway?”

None of my questions seem to make her question her behavior.  Somehow, the boss is the boss is the alpha male.  At least when your name is Slutvana.  And, of course, we named her that for a reason.  She was introduced to the coop as a young pullet when we happened to have two very randy roosters in residence.  (Actually all roosters are randy and should be so named.)  Of all the girls we had then, and there were “quite a many” (as my mom would say), most avoided constant attention from the guys.  But not Slutvana.  Oh no.  Not Slutvana.

Slutvana

Perhaps some of my readers are under the misapprehension that hens need roosters to produce eggs.  That, of course, is not true.  To produce fertilized eggs which can hatch into chicks, yes.  But hens need no help from the male of the species to produce plain old everyday (don’t we wish!) eggs.  I’ve spoken to both Slutvana and Little Red about this since they’ve stopped laying. Somehow, though, I think the Russian Orloff has her wires crossed.  YIKES!

Ida-Mae and Clara — In Plummier Days

Not that it makes any difference.  But, I have discovered that it wasn’t Clara who was feeling ill.  It was Ida-Mae, Clara’s almost-twin sister.  I’m embarrassed to admit it but, for almost a year, we’ve been calling our (now) missing hen by the wrong name!

I know that for a fact because yesterday, after seeing that beautiful black and white hen in such obvious distress, I looked up her history.  Not that I have ancestry.comforchickens (if, indeed, there is such a thing) but I do write about various chicken milestones in my blog.  I was curious about how long we’d had “Clara” and when her “almost-twin” had died, so I took a look in past blog posts.  Here is what I found:

June 20, 2020 – a pair of Barred Rock hens came from our neighbors down the road who generously answered my plea for a couple of hens to increase our puny flock of two — if you can really call two hens a “flock.”  They are beautiful, mellow additions and, for a while, are being isolated from Slutvana and Little Red Hen in the once-up0n-a-time “Broody Coop” …  Their former owners estimated them to be two years old.

In June 2020

June 27, 2020 – In the seven days since we’ve had them, they’ve give us seven eggs.  They are totally sweet, good-natured girls.  We are calling them Clara and Ida-Mae. 

December 14, 2020 – I had just finished writing my blog about chickens’ sleeping habits yesterday when I went to let the girls out of the coop and found Ms. Clara toes up just behind the roost…

And, apparently, without missing a beat, I’ve called Ida-Mae by Clara’s name ever since.  I’m so sorry.  It sort of reminds me of the Victorian habit of changing a living child’s name to that of a sister or brother who has just died.  My own great-grandmother Richardson, born October 30, 1856, was Christened Anne Maria Taylor but when younger sister Medora Law Taylor (1864-1869) died, Anne Marie became Annie Medora Taylor.  An odd custom I’ve always thought.  And  here I’ve done it to our chickens!

No matter.  Whether we remember her as Clara or Ida-Mae, she was still missing this morning.  Missing and presumed… you know the rest.

Last night — or more like yesterday afternoon — I actually remembered to go tuck the girls in while it was still light enough to see who was doing what. It was just 4:30 but it was definitely beyond twilight or gloaming.  Full dark (or Big Dark as it is known here) was soon to descend.

I followed my usual goodnight routine — removed their hanging food dispenser from the coop and shone my flashlight toward the roost.  All three were there, but not yet completely settled, and each of them cooed and clucked and wished me good night.  I then closed and latched the  doors, checked the nest boxes for eggs (grumbling “why bother”, I’m sure) and made certain the gate to the run was securely fastened — a no brainer at this time of year when the rain and wet swells the wood to close-tight proportions for the season.   But knowing the raccoons are ever-present an  more-than-ever crafty, I double-checked the parameters and then took their food container up to the house for the night.

This morning it was growing light as I headed out, food container in one hand, can of scratch (grapes and stale bread today) in the other.  I paused for a moment to watch our pear tree sway in the wind.  Scary.  I wonder if it will make through the winter intact.  And, suddenly, I heard the clucking and muttering of the girls coming out from under the house!  What the heck?

We hurried down to the coop together.  All was as I had left it last night — no gates or doors open; no ramparts breeched.  But the girls were out.  With me.  And clattering for food!  Once I got them snugged in with plenty of food and water for the day, I did a walkabout, first one way and then another.  I saw nothing untoward.  No exit or entry points.  No clues.

I truly hope it was Mrs. Crouch — or even her husband, the unrighteous reverend.  That seems a far better alternative than a bear with opposable thumbs or a pranky neighbor.  Even more disconcerting, Farmer Nyel remains silent on the issue.  As do the chickens.

Slutvana

Slutvana laid her first egg on January 14, 2017 — almost five years ago!  I don’t think she had revealed her name yet  It was during a rooster-less time period in the coop and we were still referring to this young (35 weeks old) hen by her provenance name, “Russian Orloff.”  According to my blogs of that period, she was a good layer and her production continued at a steady four or five eggs a week for several years — even after she discovered boys!  She never did go broody, though.  Motherhood did not seem to be a priority.

For several years around that time, we had had a run of bad experiences with roosters and had been careful not to add any to our flock.  But in May 2018 (when all our hens had probably given up even the faintest hope of children) Tucker called and asked Nyel if he was interested in a little rooster that was hanging out at their house.  Of course, Farmer Nyel couldn’t resist and so… “The  Banty Rooster Rescue on School Street” took place.  Mr. Banty was soon incorporated into our small flock and, despite the fact that he was half as big as any of the three hens, there was not a doubt about who ruled the roost.

Mr. Banty Rooster

Mr. B had his way with all the girls all the time — or so it seemed to me.  But only the Russian Orloff actually sought him out if she felt she was being neglected (read “left alone for more than an hour”).  She was incorrigible and practically shouted out her name to us.  “Okay,” we said.  “Slutvana it is.”

Since then, roosters have come and gone and Slutvana’s heart has no doubt been broken repeatedly.  She doesn’t complain, although I do wonder if her slow-and-intermittent production over the past two years is related to a lack of love interest possibilities in the coop.  If so, the love-sickness has definitely been catching and none of our girls (who are all about the same age) have been laying.  For several years.

Morning Bounty – January 16, 2017

As we all know, roosters are not needed for egg production.  But maybe they are required for hen happiness and maybe THAT’s the bottom line.  So to speak.  Eggs or no eggs, however, there will be no roosters in our coop as long as Mrs. Farmer Nyel is in charge of chicken chores.  I’ve fought off my last frenzied feathered fowl and shed my last blood to rooster spurs and made my last rooster delivery to the poultry auction house in Chehalis.  I’ll be the first to tell you that store-bought-eggs look (and taste) pretty darned good after repeated rooster attacks, you betcha!