My Gay Hens

Before I plunge into a narrative of what I saw today, I should set the scene.  My current flock consists of, in descending order of age:

A.  Three Buff Orpingtons, fat and yellow and indistinguishable from each other.  Poor layers all, two of them have been broody since the beginning of summer.

B.  Two Rhode Island Reds and one Barred Rock, all in their second year, and laying well.

C.  A gaggle of eight pre-pubertal pullets of various breeds who keep to themselves and have a wonderful time.

Another fact worth remembering, and one that I have documented in these pages, is that one of my hens has, in the past, occasionally been heard to crow.  This has always happened early in the morning, before I serve them breakfast, so I've never been able to figure out who was doing the crowing.  But somebody was definitely sounding rooster-like.

This evening I was outside reading Elisabeth Bailey's The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating when I looked up and saw two hens...mating.  I have had roosters before, so I know whereof I speak.  What I saw was not the half-hearted, playful reciprocal mounting of cows or bitches in heat.  What I saw looked earnest and businesslike.

The usual scenario runs like this:  the rooster struts a bit and does a little sideways dance with one wing pointed downwards, then looks around and mounts the nearest hen, grabbing her neck feathers with his beak, "treading" her back with his feet and doing his best to stay balanced.  Then there is a shuddering and a fluffing of feathers and he jumps off and the hen fluffs her feathers and they both go about their separate business.

What I saw today did not include any strutting or dancing (but then, I was deep into my book, so I may have missed it), but one of the Orpingtons got on top of one of the Rhode Islands, and the neck grabbing, the treading and the shuddering and the fluffing of feathers happened exactly as it used to when there was a patriarch in the flock.

I have not looked up "gay hens" on Google, because I'm afraid of the sites it might lead me to, so I've no idea how unusual this behavior might be.  I'm just a clueless country dweller reporting the extraordinary stuff that goes on right under my nose.

The Great Rooster Dilemma

The rooster dilemma has arisen because I now have seven hens, enough to support a rooster. By "support" I mean "allay the concupiscence of" a rooster. Roosters, especially young ones, are such mating machines that they will stress and wear out their wives, unless there are enough of them so he can spread his favors more thinly.

Of course one could end up with a monogamous rooster, as we once did. He was a gorgeous Barred Rock, decorated with narrow black and white stripes from head to tail and with a rakish red comb flopping over one eye. He fell in love with an elderly hen, one of those scrawny rust-colored hybrids who lay huge brown eggs day in and day out, winter and summer. We had a flock of eight hens, but he ignored all except the one he had set his heart upon. The trouble was that he didn't just set his heart upon her, but also the considerable weight of his body, his beak holding her fast behind her head and his spurs clawing her back for balance. The poor hen started losing the feathers on her back, and looking haunted and unhappy. I decided that she had precedence over the rooster, and so he went. Fortunately, monogamous roosters are fairly rare.

On the plus side, a rooster can be a surprisingly good husband to a flock. If he finds a worm or an especially tasty weed, he will call the hens making the very same clucking sounds with which a mother hen calls her chicks, and let the hens eat first. He will keep an eye out for hawks and foxes while the hens graze, and will get them to safety if a predator appears. And nothing beats a rooster for getting the flock into the shed at night.

A rooster means fertile eggs, and if one of the hens should go broody and sit on a nest of eggs, that means the possibility (albeit not the guarantee) of chicks. And a rooster crows--a trumpet-like, cheerful sound that heralds such events as the rising of the sun, or the arrival of guests.

On the minus side, a rooster crows. He often crows in the middle of the night, way before dawn, or because the dog just came into the yard, or because he feels like it. It is a loud, trumpet-like sound. We don't have near neighbors to worry about, but there is no question that, at all times and in all seasons, the yard is a noisier place with him about. Then there is the hustle and bustle of his sex life, the frequent beating of his wings for showing-off purposes, the sheer energy of the beast.

Rooster or no rooster, I have seen no difference in egg production or in the health of the flock. But in their hearts, are the hens happier without a mate, or would they like a strutting husband with a bright red comb? Me, I like the calm, conventual feel of a roosterless flock. But I can't deny that there is something missing: the excitement, the drama and (in the case of roosters especially) the sheer danger of the male presence. The question is, is it worth it?