After we set up our chicken coop three years ago, I quickly came to realize that hens have personalities. That belief has only been reinforced with the passage of time. Recently, though, I’ve discovered that their behavior can be more complex, and less predictable, than I had thought.
Which brings us to the case of Hope.
Hope is one of our two Rhode Island Reds. She shares her life with Nellie, another Red, and Snow, a Plymouth Rock.
The smallest of our three hens, Hope is at the bottom of the pecking order. She’s almost always the last hen to get up in the morning; she lets Snow and Nellie hop down from the roost and march out into the pen before she does. Hope refuses to be lured out into the yard for treats. Too timid. Whenever I hear the high-pitched trilling noise chickens make to express fear or alarm, I know it’s Hope.
So you’d expect Hope to be meek and mild-mannered in all things, and that’s almost true. But not quite. She has been known to play against type.
Once — and only once — I made the mistake of trying to move Hope while she was in the nest box, which is where “the girls” lay their eggs. She turned her head with lightning speed and gave me such a strong, swift, vicious peck on the hand that I had a nasty bruise for days.
Round 2 came last week. When I lifted the lid on the nest box one morning, I found Nellie and Hope smooshed together inside the tight space, which covers about one square foot of the coop’s real estate. That wasn’t surprising, because all of the hens insist on using that box, even though there are two others. So sometimes they team up. What did startle me is that Hope reacted to my appearance by screeching like a demented hawk on steroids. When I closed the lid, the noise stopped. When I opened it again, Hope resumed her high-volume protest, as if she were channeling a murder of crows.
I left her to her mission.
I left her to her mission.
Now, you might say I shouldn’t have been surprised by Hope’s shrieks. A hen should be expected to try to protect her eggs, or to complain if anyone intervenes while she’s in the process of laying. But consider this.
Snow and Nellie, both far more assertive than Hope in all other things, never behave this way. No pecking. No screaming. I can pet them in the nest box, even nudge them aside without incident. Other hens we have had never behaved like this either. In fact, even Hope doesn't normally squawk in anger if I open the nest box while she's inside. But for whatever reason, when I appeared on the scene this time, it triggered an unprecedented tantrum.
It turns out that Hope — little, mousy, nervous Hope — can morph into a T. rex when she has a mind to.
That bird’s brain may be small, but there’s plenty going on inside.
