Just call me “Vanna” now! – 2022 in Seaview

If the oystershell telegraph — actually, in this case, the eggshell telegraph — is correct, Slutvana is undergoing a name change at her new home in Seaview.  It was reported to me recently that she is now being called “Vanna.” I wonder what she thinks about that.  And  will anyone notice that her Slavic roots (she is a Russian Orloff, after all) are no longer hinted at in her name.  You know… the “Slutvana, Svetlana” association.”

Lest you roll your eyes at the very idea of her understanding her name whether it be “Slutvana” or “Vanna,” be assured that chickens do, indeed, recognize their names in “human talk” and actually repeat them to one another — sans vowels!  Or so the experts in fowl language tell us.

Slutvana On The Prowl – 2019 in Oysterville

So, what will the impact of this change be to five-year-old Slutvanna?  So far, I have no data with respect to chickens on this question.  But here’s what one expert said regarding children:  “By the age of two or three, children do have a sense of identity and a name change could send mixed messages The child might ask himself, ‘Do you want to change me?’ Stability is very important for children and changing a name could create a lot of insecurity.”

I guess the big question is, how deeply do chickens ponder such things… or ANYthing, for that matter?  In Slutvana’s mind, was there any sort of connection between her behavior and her name?  Probably not.  So, the lesser question is, will her promiscuous behavior continue once the first part of her name is omitted?  I’m betting it will.  But you never can tell with chickens…

The East Door – Where Slutvana waited.

She didn’t really say so — which is out of character for a Russian, even a Russian Orloff — but she was lonely.  Her hen friends had left her, one by one, each the victim of old age, until she was the only coop lady left.  She tried to talk to Farmer Nyel about it — came to the east door several times and waited patiently, looking through the window.  But Farm Nyel was too sick and, though I tried to explain that to Slutvana, she didn’t really want to hear it.

So, day before yesterday I called the local “Chicken Spa” — at least those who know the luxurious life led by Nancy Allen’s chickens refer to her place in those terms.  She came to the rescue right away and though Slutvana put up a little fuss — broke out of her box and headed into the rhododendrons and on down the lane — she soon succumbed to Nancy’s charms and they headed south to Seaview.

The Green, Green Grass of Slutvana’s New Home

“I gave her some ice water (“Spa!” I say!) when we got home,” Nancy told me later.  “She must have been hot in that box.”  She’s been in semi-isolation for a couple of days — seeing and being seen by the other ladies of Nancy’s flock, but not actually co-mingling yet.  Cate stopped by to see her in situ and said she looks great — cocky (if hens can look cocky) as usual.  Or maybe saucy is the operable word, though that may not be the best choice for a chicken, either!

I miss her — when I think of her.  But, truth to tell, right now that’s not as often or as timely as she requires.  I’m sorry to be out of the chicken biz, but there was never any doubt that they were Nyel’s girls, not mine.  One more big piece of my life that must be relegated to wonderful memories.  And perhaps I’ll think about the chicken book that Nyel was hopeful I’d write.  Maybe…  We’ll see.

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!