OPINION

As someone who loves names, the chickens have also been a creative outlet. And I’ve learned in a real way that children have more of an opinion about their names than chickens do. As it turns out, my kid likes naming things, too, and it’s been pretty fun to see what she comes up with. My personal favorites of the monikers she’s given have been Dilly and Dally for a couple of Australorps; the potato trio of Rhode Island Reds: Tator, Tot, and Idaho; and then there’s Barb (full name, Barbecue) — a saucy little Barred Rock with a signature stumbly sort of walk.

It’s advised to never let a chicken get a taste for a raw egg as once they do, they’ll make it their life’s work to snatch them up for their own meals. I don’t exactly recall when this batch learned they can produce their own delicacies, but it seems like it had to have been a bit mind-blowing.

For several days in a row this winter, when I opened the door to the coop and took my first step in, I consistently heard and felt a crush under my foot. The chickens would swarm me, eager to get their share of the busted egg. Maybe one of the hens was getting bullied away from the available boxes or simply wanted a new view, but I kind of like to imagine a devious chicken strategizing a way to get a daily appetizer minus the required pecking.

Besides eating potential offspring, there was plenty I didn’t know before getting chickens. The first year was certainly a learning curve. But what surprised me most was suddenly being on the receiving end of so many poultry items. Potholders, framed art, statues, knickknacks — there’s a lot of stuff decorated with chickens out there, and it seems most of it has found its way into my home.

When I was a newbie and pretty taken by the celebrity chickens of social media (and their mansion homes), I brought a toy piano into the coop and scattered feed across the keys, thinking I might get

We got our first group of chickens when the Disney movie, Moana, was in its prime and so of course one had to be named HeiHei. This little black and white Barred Rock was more like a puppy. In the mornings, she marched back and forth at the door like a soldier, waiting for us to let her out for the day. In the evenings when we pulled into the driveway, she always came running to greet us. Treats or no treats she seemed to genuinely enjoy the company of humans.

It was her lovable personality that made HeiHei’s disappearance especially hard. It was a rainy Friday evening in the summer. I went to close up the chicken run door and walked inside the coop to do the nightly count. I was one short. We had multiple of her breed, but I knew right away it was HeiHei that was missing. I did my walk through the yard calling her name (it was worth a shot). Some of our chickens have a habit of staying out later than others, but HeiHei wasn’t one of them. She usually followed close behind Carlos, the bedtime initiator. After shaking the mealworm bag as bait, and checking under possible shelters from the rain, I headed inside, not looking forward to delivering the news.

This little country living kid of mine had already become familiar with losing a couple chickens at this point. But HeiHei was certainly different. I will never forget watching that six year old pull on her pink boots and walk through the falling rain with me calling her dear chicken’s name and the tears that followed when it was time to call it a night. It was heart wrenching, but at the same time, I felt