Hen Chronicles: Setting aside differences for the flock's good

Our three hens have been molting for what seems like an eternity now, although in reality it's only been eight weeks at most. Snow, our Plymouth Rock, was the first to start and the first to finish. Nellie, a Rhode Island Red, is almost fully feathered now. Hope, our other Red, finally resembles a chicken rather than a cloning experiment gone horribly wrong, as more and more new feathers come in. But Hope still has a ways to go before she can lay claim to normalcy.

Snow is at the top of the pecking order in our tiny flock and Hope is at the bottom. Although that doesn’t manifest itself too obviously at other times of the year, it is on display now. Snow's not the problem. She lords it over Nellie and Hope with regal restraint, because the other two hens naturally defer to her. But Nellie, who normally treats Hope well, likes to pick on her when Hope is molting. Nellie will chase Hope away from the feed bowl, or push her aside at snack time. Hope runs off squawking in protest, but Nellie quickly loses interest, and Hope simply doubles back to the spot she occupied moments earlier, to get her share of the goodies.

These noisy squabbles, in which no one actually gets hurt, always seem to play themselves out outside, in the pen, during the day. Once “the girls” settle in for the night on their roost in the coop, harmony is restored, even before they fall asleep. This is especially obvious on the coldest nights, when the hens scrunch up together on the roost, side by side and wing to wing, each hen pressed against her neighbor (or neighbors for the lucky hen in the middle) to keep warm by cuddling.

The pecking order seems to disappear at bedtime. Something resembling common sense holds sway instead. We need one another right now, the hens seem to be saying, so let’s do the sensible thing.