Hen Chronicles: They do have an awful lot to say

No one would ever mistake a chicken for a songbird. But a hen’s vocalizations, while not particularly melodious, certainly are varied. I've read online (how's that for an authoritative citation of sources?) that chickens can make over 30 sounds. Which, come to think of it, means they have a larger vocabulary than do many humans.

When I head out to the coop every day at dawn, Snow and Nala are desperate to get out into their pen. Or, to put it more precisely, they're desperate to gain access to the bowl of feed that I am about to place in their pen.

To underscore their eagerness, the cluck, cluck, cluck that is their default chatter gets dragged out into a prolonged, mournful wail - a sort of “braaaaaaaack” - while they wait for me to open the coop door. Apparently they would have everyone within earshot believe that they’ve been confined without food for weeks and they barely have the strength to go on.

Contrast that with the high-pitched, staccato squeak “the girls” utter from time to time while eating. It's a cheerful sound that, presumably, is their way of saying they're enjoying themselves. If they’re chowing down on Liz’s special chicken blend of oatmeal, yogurt and cranberries, though, they are so gleefully preoccupied that they’re rendered speechless. Temporarily, of course.

The hens - especially, Snow, the all-white chicken who’s the noisier of the two - practically scream whenever Liz or I approach their pen, on the assumption that we always have snacks. (That’s why humans exist, right?) On those rare occasions when we show up empty-handed, they cluck loudly in frustration, obviously appalled by our incompetence.

Then there’s the “I laid an egg” squawk, a harsh, raucous sound that is sometimes loud enough to be heard a block away. Literally. (I know, because I’ve heard it while walking the dogs.) This caterwauling follow-up to egg laying has been variously translated by experts as “look what I just did” or “thank God that’s over with.”

When I head out at dusk to lock up the coop, I lift the hinged roof so I can give the hens a bowl of water and check on them one last time. By that point in the day, the girls have settled down, side by side, on the elevated roost. Their only sound is a soft, gentle cooing (much like the noise pigeons make) as the hens bed down for the night.