When we decided to bring animals onto our land it brought not only the purposefulness that we sought, but also happiness. It is joyful to watch our Border Collies guide sheep down to the fields in the mornings. I feel peace in walking into the sheep barn in the evenings: the ewes look up from their feeding, startled, heads and faces covered with hay. It makes me laugh to drive into the driveway and watch the chickens come bombing around the corner to press against the fence and witness my arrival. My only true experience as a rock star. However, as in all of life, we also knew that the reality of lightness is dark and, though unwelcome, death is a regular visitor to farms.

I noticed one of our pullets was separating herself from the flock. In all flock animals, the act of deliberately distancing from the safety of the flock or herd can only indicate something not right. In the course of the next couple of days, despite attempts to hand feed her and to carry her back to the flock, she continued to slide downhill. On the fourth day I walked into the coop to find her completely alone in a corner, tilting left. I walked over and gently lifted her to put her into the comfort of the hen house and she made a half-hearted attempt to flap out of my arms but fell over in the process, gave a long squawk, took several stilted breaths and died at my feet. I stood there, stunned. As her body folded into the ground I had a hard time grasping the reality of what had just happened.

Two days later, one of my Brahmas began acting the same way the Bard Rock had previously. She wouldn't come over to eat, hung around the yard instead of investigating the sheep paddock with the others and acting overall dumpy. I fussed and worried over her, even had bad chicken dreams, but, as with all worry, it didn't do any good. I lost her as well.

In talking with my vet about possible causes, we came up with the possibility of their food being culprit. Due to Covid, a lot of locally sourced livestock feed producers were having trouble sourcing certain vitamins and nutrients. In addition some of the food may been sitting in warehouses in storage for too long. Young hens are especially reliant on their vitamin D intake for good development. I immediately got rid of the rest of the 50 pound bag of food (causing Paul to feel ill) and brought in standard chicken pellets. In between students I would race out to the coop to toss cracked corn, which I had been warned might make them fat...which is, at this point, exactly what I wanted. And things turned around. Death took his crook and vamoosed....for now.

There were several things that I felt watching my first farm death; the hens had been feeling ill, that was clear, but, despite that, their last moments were full of struggle to hang onto life. It truly shook me to watch them flap and squawk only to tip over into death. Alive one moment and dead the next. It seemed silly, even to me, to not fully comprehend this; I have given birth and I have seen death. I did not feel that the fact that they were “only” chickens made it any less relevant. At that moment, they represented everyone and everything. In those final seconds, I watched my hens wrestle with death, holler to chase it away, flap to stay with their flock. To no avail.

I called my friend Renee, who owns a cattle farm, but also raises chickens. I told her my story and she was quiet for a minute and then said “Well, you’re a chicken farmer now.” Life makes farming fun. Death makes farming real.

In the weeks following, I find myself more appreciative of my slightly smaller flock. I notice tinier details in their behavior and take time to bring out handfuls of blueberries and sit with them as they peck them from my hand. I listen for the Blue Jay screaming at me to get out of the way of his flight path to the leftover cracked corn. I enjoy the sunshine filtered through the still-colorful fall leaves while leaning back against an old maple. I take the time to really be there.

Interesting, especially now, to note how we never fully appreciate what we have until it has been changed, or, until we no longer have it.

Melissa Perley

Not long after the sheep arrived and the final nail had been hammered into the sheep barn, I turned to Paul and mentioned how much I'd love to add chickens to the mix. He asked me to repeat myself, not because he couldn't hear me, but because he was incredulous. He wasn't really able to say too much- a bit of mumbling, stammering and staggering. Because I love him and didn't want to kill him, I let it go.

Once the snow was off the ground I felt it was safe to try to get “Project Hen House” off the ground again. This time Paul’s incredulous had been downgraded to a cross between grudging acceptance and a bit of interest. Josh, Paul and one of my students and friend, Jeff, began working on building the coop and I began researching hens.

I knew that I didn't want a rooster- too many whispered horror stories from conversations at my neighbors hen house. I wanted enough chickens to withstand some attrition (although, let it be known I really don't want any attrition) but not so many that it was overwhelming. Our project philosophy is always to begin well within your comfort zone. I decided on ten.

Breeds- who knew? Once again, each night I was buried in a farm book, this time I was reading about chickens. So many breeds: feathers on feet?, blue eggs? Large, small, medium? Once again I defaulted to the comfort zone; I chose breeds that were described as “good for the backyard chicken farmer”- aka- easy. I ordered: 4 Barred Rocks, 2 Brahmas (yes, it was the fuzzy feet), 2 Rhode Island Reds and 2 Buff Orpingtons.

I have a good friend, Renee, who owns a nearby diary farm but sidelines in chickens. She orders approximately 40 chicks each season and said she would be happy to include mine with hers: the more the merrier. I would buy chick food, have visitation rights and pick them up once they were Adolescents.

Like all expectant parents we took what we termed “our last vacation” in July. We got a sheep sitter to come each day to the farm while we spent a week at the lake. When we returned I grabbed my muck boots and headed for Renee's farm, crate in the back of the car.

Remember the scene in Rocky I when his grizzled trainer had him chase chickens to increase his speed? He growled and said “if you can catch a chicken- you've got speed!” Turns out that wasn't just movie talk. Fortunately, my brood had been separated from the original group so at least we didn't have to chase and sift. Finally we got the last of them into the crate: screeching like any self respecting teen.

Once home they spent three days quarantining in the coop. This is necessary to teach them where their new “home” is so that, come sunset, they will return to roost. Finally, day four, we opened the side door, complete with a little chicken, or chicken little, ramp to their yard. They came careening out of the house, shavings flying all around. Once in the yard they raced back and forth a bit, squawking and flapping. Some mock fights to establish the pecking order then they settled down to scavenge for bugs.

Chickens are really curious little dinosaurs. Each morning I walk to down to let them out and they are always crowded at the windows of their front door looking for me. Their funny little heads titling back and forth in anticipation, continuous guttural chicken chatter going on.

We haven't been quite brave enough to let them free range. Living in the woods, we often see fox, coyote and members of the weasel family sneaking around. The day after the chickens moved in we heard a Broad-Winged hawk screaming his welcome from a nearby branch. While the ladies have a large area for being outside of their coop, Paul made an adjoining gate to the sheep barnyard for additional space for them. They come running when I head over to open the extra gate in the morning once I have taken the sheep down to their summer fields. They then spend their day playing king of the manure pile, pecking flies and sheep poop and bedding down deeply into the straw inside the barn. One evening I brought the sheep up a little early and the door was open from the barnyard to the chicken yard. I had thought about what that meant for chickens paying neighborly visits, but had not fully processed that the passage goes in both directions; I wandered out and noticed a large, white-fleeced rump sticking out of the chicken door going into the coop. I opened the front door and a startled Daisy looked up at me. She didn't have any particular agenda, although if she could have reached the hanging food, she would have partaken of a hen-snack. She just seemed quite content to check things out. Some of the hens were sitting above her on their roost watching her watching them.

Adding chickens has added work to my life. There are new morning chores each day that need to be done, rain or shine. Each evening I button up the sheep then head over to the hen house for a visit. They are roosting quietly but for the occasional clucks. I make sure that the gate is latched with Paul's twenty-step locking safety system and shut the front door softly.

Often I find myself standing outside the buildings enjoying the stars. One of the sheep might be standing, front feet up on a stump, looking out at me, but all is quiet. We have found the deep satisfaction and purposefulness that we began all this for. These are things that keep us outside of ourselves and yet are inherently a part of us.

Did someone hear oinking?

Melissa Perley