Pearl is the latest addition to our chicken family. She arrived about three weeks ago from a farm in nearby Halifax County. The farmer there had a crowd of Dominiquers and parted easily with this fine Dominiquer hen. My Dominique rooster, Stripey, seemed content with his motley group of 5 hens before, but I hankered after a well-matched mate for him. My ultimate motive has less to do with his pleasure and more to do with my desire for pure-bred offspring.
During the first week after she came Pearl seemed fine. She and the other hens scratched side by side in the chicken yard. She was friendly with us and right away was taking bread crumbs from my daughter’s hand. I even caught her roosting next to Stripey on a few evenings. In recent days, though, I have seen a change for the worse. She is eating and drinking well, but her social behavior has flown the coup. All of the other chickens will spend the afternoon pecking around the chicken yard while Pearl is sitting on the roosting pole. If I open the door to the chicken house they all come rushing over, except Pearl who will hasten out to the yard. She will only eat when the rest are gone. The others will all lay eggs and she will not. Pearl is pouting.
Finally, I’d had enough. When the others were busy out with the worms I stole inside to talk it over. There she sat sullen on the roost. “Pearl,” I said, “Let’s have a heart to heart. I know this has been a big change in your life coming from a different county and all, but you’ve got to let me know what’s bothering you. I cannot make your life better if I don’t know what’s ruffled your feathers. This is a new chicken house, but you’ve got to admit that it has all the amenities. There’s the automatic feeder and the automatic waterer. The door to the yard is always open, so what’s your problem?” I asked. Pearl just pouted.
“Now Pearl,” I pressed on, “Have the other hens been bothering you? You should not feel in any way inferior. The Araucanas are a fancy breed, but they’re not perfect. Snowball’s white feathers get covered with mud every now and again just like everybody else’s. Genu’s black feathers and red comb are a striking combination, but your black and white stripes are just as formal as any chicken I know. Blackie was a little snippy when you first arrived, but you just can’t hide behind the feed bin. You’ve got to have some confidence in yourself and you’ve got to give them all a chance to get to know you.” Pearl seemed unimpressed with this advice and continued to sulk.
“Hm,” I thought, “Maybe this is rooster trouble. Pearl,” I asked aloud, “Is it Stripey? Now he is a little on the pushy side, but underneath all those feathers he’s just an old butterball. You’ve got to spend some time with him, get to know him. Have you seen the way he glares at the dogs through the chicken yard fence? Why, if anything tried to get in here to hurt you Stripey would be all over them. He’s such a brave rooster. There are not many choices here for male poultry companionship, so I really think you should not hop to conclusions about Stripey. He does have those handsome yellow chicken legs.” Despite my reassurances about Stripey, Pearl just sank on the roosting pole and rested her beak on her breast.
“Oh,” I thought, “Maybe motherhood is an overwhelming prospect for her. Pearl,” I continued, “Don’t be frightened about having chicks. Chicks are a lot of fun. I did fine when my two were born. Of course, I did only have 2 and they arrived 1 at the time 2 years apart, but, cheer-up, I’m sure you can handle 12 at once. We’re all here to help you. Just think about those little beaks tapping away on the inside of that shell and the happy moment when they crack through to the real world. Just imagine all those fluffy yellow biddies chirping and following you wherever you go. Won’t it be wonderful to have this large family you can call your own?”
Despite all this communication and support Pearl continued to pout and I must admit I became angry. “Look Pearl,” I said, “I have done everything for you. I have put a nice tin roof over your head. I come every day to add layin’ mash to your feeder. Frank and I put the spout on the container that automatically adds water to the trough, so that you never have to be thirsty chicken. I throw fresh mulch in the chicken yard for you and I shovel out the chicken manure from beneath your roosting pole. I believe that the least you can do is show a smidgen of appreciation and stop pouting. I’m expecting a few more chicken smiles around here and if I don’t see them, well, then I may have to make a tough decision about Sunday night dinner- Roast Beef or Chicken and Dumplings!” With that I stepped out and slammed the chicken house door. She better pluck up!