This is not Big Important News -- no economic meltdowns or international showdowns. It's just a note about a new generation of backyard chickens trying to fit in.
Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff/File
A new generation of spring chickens, fuzzy and endearingly incompetent, arrived at our New England home six weeks ago. They are replacements. During the hungry winter months, a red-tailed hawk visited. Hawks are admirable in their own way. So despite the drama, there are no hard feelings. And because this is the time of year the biota of the Northern Hemisphere bust loose, predators now have other options.
With Memorial Day approaching, we are well beyond spring’s delicate, tentative sprouting – the mix of last year’s memory and this year’s desire, to paraphrase T.S. Eliot. The fiesta of summer is about to begin.
The new chicks have their pinfeathers and are experimenting with flying (which they’ll never win prizes for, but, hey, a hawk can’t hit Mach 1). During the warm-up of mid-May, we moved them to a mini-coop adjacent to the shed that houses the backyard flock we’ve had for the past three years. The class of 2012 (Rhode Island Reds, Wyandottes, and Sex Links) has bonded over water and mash and a popular warming light. Now their range is extending. Ahead lie the treacherous shoals of integration with those who arrived before them.
Precedence is a powerful force. No matter how gradually integration is engineered, there’s no way to avoid issues as older fowl assert their pecking order. No amount of human intervention – not helicopter parenting, not shaming, not a court order – can stop the hazing. Generation 1 did it to Gen 2. Both will do it to Gen 3.