Chickens, as a rule, are not smart animals. And we happen to have a couple that are the derpiest birds who ever dared derp a derp.

Meet Mildred and Beverly, our “special” hens.

First, let’s talk about Lady Mildred Derpington.

Mildred here is our shiftiest chicken. When the group wanders into the road, or into the tall & predator-laden grass along the hill, it’s Mildred who’s running point.

She also believes, unquestionably, that she is an indoor chicken. The fact that we force her to live in a coop with the other hens is the gravest of farmyard injustices.

That said, Mildred is also the only one who comes with me when I’m tilling/weeding the garden. So she’s at least savvy enough to know that there’s an abundance of goodies in there, should I allow her entry.

Then, we have her sister. Lady Beverly Derpington.

Poor Beverly here is at the very bottom of the pecking order. Which means she’s last to eat, last to get a spot on the roosting bar at night, and is generally pecked and picked on mercilessly by the other hens.

She’s also…well, the poor girl’s just not right. We think Bev may have suffered NFL levels of concussions from all the skull pecking from her sisters, or perhaps underwent a late-night coop lobotomy or something…
Because there’s nothing happening behind her little beady eyes.

For example, last Sunday morning Jen noticed Albeart ambling along the road in front of our house, likely lamenting the lack of honey in our garden.
Now, Bev did see him there, and yet she never moved an inch. She just stood there, mouth agape, staring in horror as the bear ambled his way by. Her synapses were no doubt lighting up like tiny sparklers, writing “RUN!” on the surface of her polished smooth brain.
But the effect was to completely short the poor chicken out, and leave her frozen in place like a Bevvy McNugget. (Fortunately, Albeart didn’t see her.)

That said, Beverly is an absolute badass when it comes to treats. This chicken will leap headlong into the snacktime fray, violently snatch whatever chicky delight we might be doling out, and then sprint away before the other girls are wise to whatever the hell that snarling red blur was.

I’m a grown man, and I wouldn’t get between Beverly and a grape.

Yes, Beverly is one hard chicken. Probably because she’s been nearly eaten 3 times. (Only to be outdone by Doris, who has stared down death by fox/dog/hawk 4 times and somehow survived each one.)

Predators aside, Bev also once wandered too close to the swings while Daphne was on them and got mule-kicked into a low orbit when Daphne swung back forward. There was a trailing doppler effect on her surprised squawk as she whirled like a little red tumbleweed into the lilac bush. I think she suffered a sprain in one of her legs since she hobbled around for a couple days after this incident. She still walks with a little gangsta stroll, but otherwise she gets around fine.

And it’s that very trait that makes Bev my favorite chicken. There’s something endearing about her earnest pluckiness.

Clearly, our chickens do not lead placid and sheltered lives. They free range, emphasis on the “free,” around the entire 11 acres of our fenceless property.

Is this living situation rather dangerous for them?
Yes. Unquestionably.

Would they be safer if we kept them within a caged run?
Yep. I’m sure they would.

Do we think, despite the risks, this freedom gives them their best and happiest chicken lives?
We very much do.

A staid and routine life, going through the same patterns each day within well-governed and safe environs, is absolutely a way to live one’s days to their longest. Just not necessarily the fullest.
And while I’ll grant that may be an anthropomorphic projection of a personal philosophy of mine, there’s no denying that, for the days we’re lucky enough to have them here with us, these are some very happy chickens.

j.s.