Victoria King

My backyard has turned into the site of a major soap opera, with Milly turning into super-hero chicken. Clara has been pulling some shenanigans, and had to be moved away from the other Littles for their safety. So while Milly and Madeleine were out free-ranging yesterday (Harriet is still inside, recovering from a broken foot), I put Clara in THEIR yard to exercise. Milly and Madeleine came back toward the entrance of their yard, and Clara decided to STRUT toward them like a rooster. She eyed them both, and then decided to JUMP Madeleine (who is at the absolute TOP of the pecking order)! She knocked poor Madeleine on her butt, because she totally was not expecting one of the Littles to dare to do something like that. Milly saw it, got SUPER ANNOYED, and jumped on Clara, pulling her off of Madeleine. Milly then proceeded to whoop Clara's butt, until Clara got away, running across the yard with Milly hot on her tail. NOBODY messes with Milly's best friend.

Madeleine is queen. Thankfully, she is very fair-minded, and does not bully. She simply puts chickens in their place, and is done with it. Because of that, everyone seems to love her.

I named most of my chickens after old women I loved when I was growing up. I used to be a very shy child, but one who wanted to brighten the older women's day. So I would often sneak flowers (out of my Mom's garden) to older women's doors. They all remember me for that. So I began to name each chicken after a special older woman in my childhod.

Harriet was our first chicken, bought from a farm where her bum feathers, right down to the vertebrae, had been eaten by the other chicks. She is the smallest of our entire flock, despite her breed (splash blue laced red wyandotte). She is sweet with us, and her best friend is Madeleine. But she is a stinker. She likes to tease Madeleine, and she will put the LARGEST chicken, Milly, in her place. She has a jealous bone, is very talkative, and looks like a perfectly round, feathered basketball.

Most of my chickens will follow me around like dogs when they are loose in the yard. My mother can sit down and call them all by name, and each one will come up to her, ready to be picked up and baby-talked to. Sometimes they gather around her, vying for her attention. My mother had chickens in the 40s and 50s while growing up on the farm, but even her pet chicken Fluffy ended up on the dinner table. Now she has a chance to love without fear of that, because my chickens are our pets.

Milly once got out of the chicken yard, and flew INTO my dog's yard. My heart stopped when I walked out the door and saw her standing at the bottom of the steps, wit my dog Hattie sitting on the deck. Hattie is over-exuberant with the chickens, and I could not believe she had not accidentally hurt Milly. I could tell there had been SOME sort of incident, as a big water bucket was knocked over. My guess is that Milly did what she had done to Hattie at other times when Hattie got too close - pecked her HARD right between the eyes. Nobody really messes with Milly (except Harriet, the little round chicken, who is half her size and has 100X the attitude).