The Love Life of Chickens

The Love Life of Chickens, a true story

Leo died, suddenly, in the night. He was missed by many, and openly mourned by his mother, a tiny hen, with an absurd bonnet for a comb, who spent the day making the loud, anguished noises she had last produced when her entire set of chicks was eaten by a badger.  Leo, survivor of a much earlier brood, had been a fine cockerel: somewhat short and stout, but perky, and immaculate in appearance. A reliable sort, he would keep an eagle eye out for kites, shouting the alarm and bunching his hens together while he stood protectively in front of them. Moreover, he had a gentlemanly approach to females, waiting until they had eaten before he jumped on them, and sometimes searching out delicacies – strawberries, slugs – to reward them.

It was a generally happy flock, under Leo’s wing. But there was one chicken who was not happy.  He was another cockerel, known, for some reason, as Inch, and life had been weighted against him from the start. He was born in the days when the flock still had two bare-necked hens; a rather rare breed of chicken, since it does exactly what it says on the tin. These hens had originally been smuggled into a clutch of eggs by a neighbour, as a joke: seeing their long, pink, wizened necks sticking out of ample heaps of puffy black plumes, it was almost impossible not to think of vultures and, in winter, of snoods.

The bare-necks were, however, charming and maternal characters, of whose benign tolerance Leo took full advantage, and the result, one day, was an extremely strange chick. For a few days it was a fairly normal black and white Leghorn, like its father. Then it suddenly sprouted a tiny, skinny, bare neck. And then, just as everyone was hoping it was not a cockerel, it produced a sad clump of feathers, at the front of its neck, and about half way up. This was obviously its attempt at Leo’s proud, leonine ruff, but it was not a success. It looked, in fact, like a badly tied cravat; or a miniature, moth-eaten boa.

From then on, Inch developed rapidly, but not in a good way. He grew tall, for a cockerel, to be fair, but most of him consisted of legs and (bare) neck, with a shambolic mash of plumage in between. When he finally emerged from adolescence, still with his mangy cravat, and topped off by a flamboyant, poppy-red comb, he looked even more peculiar. Permanently under attack from an outraged Leo, and scorned by every right-thinking hen, his attempts at passion consisted of running frantically at unsuspecting females from behind, and trying to do the deed before they noticed. Their subsequent squawks of horror would alert his father, who would round the corner, eyes blazing: the main view of Inch, in the early years, was of a fleeing bottom, propelled by agitated, stilt-like strides.

Fortunately, chicken sex is in any case a brief, torrid affair – ten seconds would be positively tantric – and so, occasionally, Inch had his moment. Once in a while, one of the less confident hens would even start to hang around with him. ‘Oh, Inch has got a girlfriend’ people would remark, in a pleased way, but it never lasted. Quite apart from his appearance, his personal hygiene was non-existent, and his eating habits appallingly selfish; worse, his nerves were those of a hysterical diva, which made it wearing just to share the same field. Within a week the hen would be back in Leo’s harem, and Inch would be back to lurking in bushes, alone.

Then the four rescued battery hens arrived. They had spent the long car journey to their new home clucking and crooning with lively interest in the back: their pallid, featherless state caused some concern, but set against that were the four large eggs which rolled out of the box after them. They were put into a small run next to the main coop, lavished with corn and yoghurt and garlic and cheese and madeira cake, and left to settle in.

It was a week or so before Inch discovered them. He was first seen peering at them intently from about three feet away; a phase which lasted for several days. It could have gone on for ever,  but battery hens are, despite all odds, the most curious, friendly creatures imaginable. Inch, finding that, instead of bolting for cover, they were cooing at him with every appearance of enthusiasm, grew emboldened. Soon, he was swaggering up und down in front of them, chest out and pawing the ground, while the batteries clucked back through the wire, greatly impressed. Of course, they had never seen a cockerel before.

And when they were eventually released into the wider world, Inch was in heaven. The battery hens’ many good qualities evidently included loyalty: they were his constant companions, and cheerfully available at all times. Even Leo seemed to approve of this new arrangement, and left them all alone. Admittedly, Inch’s personal habits still left much to be desired, and nor did the batteries’ calm aplomb initially rub off  – he would still scream and run around like a headless version at any opportunity. But there came a day when, quite decisively, his hens decided to take him in hand.

‘What is Inch doing?’ someone remarked one morning. And there, in front of the kitchen window, where the other chickens would congregate in the hope of getting grapes, was Inch. Normally he would be dithering behind the fuchsias. Instead, he was standing stock still, while on either side of him, a battery hen was assiduously grooming his neglected and, frankly, grubby plumage. They were working with a fussy and intent air, just like a mother getting out a tissue and rubbing at her child’s face before a party. As they got further and further up his neck, Inch jerked his head away, then went back to bearing it nobly, and the analogy was exact.

This became a regular sight, with the battery hens taking turns at it and, while Inch would never look handsome, he certainly looked cared for. So everything in the garden was rosy, until Leo fell off his perch.

Being the sole male among a dozen females went straight to Inch’s head. He spent the first few weeks leaping on every hen at random, neglecting the battery hens like a playboy in the process. Unlike his father, who was invariably the first out of the coop, checking for predators, he had always been a late riser – now, he was worse. An unconvincing crow would be heard at about eight, followed by a long period of restful silence, after which, once everyone else had emerged, Inch would appear and head straight off to stuff his face with corn; and any hen in sight with gusto.

And then, suddenly, his mojo seemed to sputter. He started to stand around, rather haplessly, as though overwhelmed by choice, or exhaustion. The battery hens seemed to bear him no real grudges but nor, it was noticeable, were they sticking beside him: in fact, the whole flock had begun to roam far and wide, in a rather pointedly self-sufficient manner. Nor, which was also remarkable, were the battery hens grooming Inch any more. His tail began to droop; his plumage lost its sheen: he began to spend his days either trailing after small groups of hens, who ignored him, or  wandering aimlessly, like a lost poet, on his own in the shrubbery.

This rather miserable state of affairs lasted for months. Until this morning, actually, when someone came back from the chicken coop with the excited news that Inch had, for the first time, been the first one out of the door. What sign this delivered to the hens, or what personal epiphany it represented, is anyone’s guess. But by this afternoon, all the chickens had gathered together again, reunited, to the annoyance of the sheep, in the sheep hut. Inch was in the middle of this warm collection of feathers, tail up, bare neck extended, comb raised high. And, on either side of him, two ex battery hens were carefully grooming his wings.