We currently have five chickens – two big whites, one ginormous black, and two banties, one brown and one black, both with golden necks.

The banties were inherited after they showed up at my parents’ house unannounced one day and took up residence in a holly bush. Relocated to our place, the wee ones became lowest on the pecking order, chased away from treats of leftover corn cobs and cat food tins by the big ones.

The three big chickens would move in on whatever I was tossing, but when anything landed near the tiny black one (dubbed “Weeun”), they left what they had to chase her down and take it. Since only one chicken could take this dubious prize, the other two would continue to pursue the little black hen with what sounded like grunts of misplaced blame at missing out. The brown one (we call her Goldie) was clever though; she ignored her wee sister’s plight with a kind of “take her not me” vibe—and then moved in on the abandoned pieces the big girls left when they gave chase.

I’ve lived with chickens long enough to distinguish “squawk” from “SQUAWK” and from
“squuuuuuaaawwwwwk.” These translate, respectively, into 1) give with the treats, lady; 2) I will effin kill you, and 3) I have just produced the world’s most beautiful egg; come admire it.

Weeun got #2 consistently.

We became accustomed, from time to time, that Weeun would go missing, probably looking for a better life situation. Every three or four days, Jack would look out the window and say, “Weeun’s back, I see.”

We felt sorry for her, but…c’est la coop vie.

Then Goldie (the wee brown one) disappeared. Five days, she was gone, and Jack and I figured that was it…she’d been eaten by something that likes chicken more than egg.

Yesterday, I heard a loud “SQUAAAAAAAAWWWWWKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!” This was new vocabulary. It means, “Hey girls, I’m back from my vacation and let me tell you Aruba is everything they say it is.”

Goldie landed on the last exclamation point of that squawk. Chickens don’t fly unless they have to, but she came in at an architect’s dream arc over our stone bird bath to land PLOP in the inner yard.

Our chickens are supposed to stay in the outer yard. We have a gate and all that. They don’t care.

At first, I didn’t think it was Goldie. Some new chicken had arrived: bigger, brighter. On second glance, it was her, but Goldie looked tanned and well-rested, not like the hen-pecked brown thing of the week before, who ignored her sister getting picked on so the mean girls wouldn’t turn on her.

No, this Goldie gave the chicken grunt of self-empowered satisfaction (people sometimes think we have pigs on the back garden because of these noises) and began pecking at the iris bulbs. She laid an egg in the birdbath. Then she waddled toward the gate, demanding I open it and announce her presence to the other birds, who gathered to watch her strut up the path. Presumably, she opened her valise and showed them her collection of postcards plus her new hat.

Will Goldie teach Weeun these self-empowerment skills? We don’t know. Will Goldie head to Acapulco next year? Probably.