Chickens bully.
Especially hens. Picking and pecking. Sneak attacks from behind. And the not-so-subtle passive side-hip-push: the art of casually and demurely knocking an unsuspecting hen off her perch with one’s hip while roosting.
Whoops. So terribly sorry darling. I must have slipped.
Indeed, hens can be downright vicious in their attempts to be the dominant hen. The one that gets to sleep next to Heir Rooster. The feminist part of me hates that hens behave this way. I want them to evolve-up, and stop this immature and hurtful behavior immediately! We females need to treat each other with respect! We have to stick together and watch each other’s back!
Roosters can be incredibly aggressive as well. But usually only in their pursuit of sex. The young and immature rooster, especially, will often corner his potential mate and violently pin her to the ground with his beak while he has his way with her. The more mature rooster will at least take the time to woo his lady first, and give her the opportunity to say yes before pouncing on her. And though I don’t appreciate or condone the cornering and pouncing behaviors, I can’t help but notice that the hens keep coming back for more.
To each their own, right?
Except, what if those ‘normal chicken behaviors’ are causing harm to a loved one? Do we intervene, or just let chickens be chickens?
Let me explain.
It all started during a conversation about chickens over lemonade on my neighbor Ulinda’s front porch last summer. Ulinda and my farm-mate, Pat, were discussing ordering chickens through the mail. I’ve never held much interest for chickens, though I do appreciate their eggs. Horses are my true passion. At least until this particular conversation got started.
“Mail order chickens?” I ask incredulously.
“Yep,” the two of them say in unison, not even registering my disbelief as they continue chatting about which breeds they intend to order.
“That is just not right!” I exclaim, with all of the righteousness therapist tone I can muster.
“They’re chickens,” Pat says, laughing. “People do it all the time.”
“People used to sell human slaves on a regular basis too,” I fire back indignantly. “And an entire nation of Germans, under the ruthless rule of Hitler, loaded up humans in cattle cars and hauled them off to concentration camps for several years before their behaviors were uncovered. Just because people ‘do it all the time’ definitely does not make it right.”
“Yes, but it’s the only way to ensure that the chickens will arrive healthy and disease free,” Ulinda defends pragmatically. “If you buy them locally, they could have Salmonella, or other deadly diseases. All it takes is one sick chicken, and you can lose the whole batch.”
“Well, I can see how that might be true,” I concede. “But from an attachment perspective, it’s just plain wrong to send any living being through the mail. How would you feel if we packed up human babies in boxes and shipped them out for adoption?”
“But they’re chickens, Rox” Pat says again, like this explains everything.
“Chickens don’t feel emotions like humans do,” Ulinda adds. “And they don’t bond in the same way humans do either.”
Like hell they don’t, I want to yell. But I keep my anger in check. They are just chickens after all. “Every animal bonds.” I argue vehemently. But the scientist part of me is not quite so sure.
According to scientists, snakes don’t bond. And neither do fish. At least as far as we are able to measure. But I have always suspected that our beliefs about animals and bonding is due to our limited technology: just because we can’t measure bonding doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Someday, as technology improves, I know I will be vindicated. In the meantime, I wrack my brain for trivia on animal bonding, in order to defend the noble chicken.
I know for certain that mammals bond, because mammals have the same middle brain structure as humans. Which means, contrary to what zoos and mass killing-facilities would like you to believe, all mammals have the capacity to feel the same core emotions that we humans do: happiness, seeking, sadness, fear/surprise, and disgust/anger/rage. This is a scientific fact that most humans aren’t made aware of. Why? Because it would be very inconvenient to know the truth, given the way we “handle” most livestock.
But what about birds? We’ve all seen the images of little baby birds following loyally behind the most unlikely parents – including human male parents! In many parts of Asia, chickens are revered family members who take their place around the family hearth. But do birds actually bond? Though I want to believe that they do, I am not entirely sure.
Ulinda senses my uncertainty and pounces. “Chickens don’t bond. They imprint. There is a difference.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask, testing her knowledge base.
“I’m not quite sure,” Ulinda ponders. “I would think that imprinting is about dependency. Whereas bonding is more about connection.”
“Humpf,” I snort, in true Scottish-German stubborn fashion when I can’t come up with a viable argument.
“What I do know,” Ulinda continues, “is that all when a baby chic is born, it feeds off the yolk sac until the rest of the babies are born. In this way, the mother hen can keep her little ones safely beneath her until they have all hatched. The company I order from does a very good job of simulating this process. They deliver the chics right after they hatch, complete with yolk sac, in a cozy dark and confined area. Just like in nature.”
“Well, that’s all good and well, but a cardboard box is not the same as being under mama,” I reply in a last ditch effort to sway them.
“That’s how it’s done,” Pat chimes in, trying to reassure me. “They’ll be fine.”
But I am not at all reassured. All I can envision is a little baby chicken bouncing around in a cardboard box inside a Fed Ex truck, terrified and alone. Clearly this is NOT the same as breaking out of a shell while being nestled peacefully under mama’s warm soft belly. In my mind and heart, these two experiences are worlds apart. The problem is I don’t have any scientific evidence to dispute this issue with my very intelligent female friends.
“Fine then,” I say, giving in against my better judgment. “We can try this mail order chicken plan. But I don’t like it one bit. And I intend to prove to both of you that chickens do indeed bond!”
And that is how Ms. Bonita came into my life: In a mail order cardboard box, with sixteen other baby chickens. Two of which got smashed like pancakes during the journey. I don’t think baby chickens get squished like that when they are underneath their mama’s belly.
Oh well. They’re just chickens.
Ulinda agrees to keep the babies at her house until we can get a coop built.
“Make sure you hold them regularly,” I remind her. “Don’t be trying to sway the experiment in your favor!”
“Of course,” Ulinda assures me. “I will take good care of them.”
And to give her credit, she does. But A few weeks after their arrival we get a very distressed phone call Ulinda: Something got into the chicken coop, and killed all but three of the baby chickens.
Pat and I rush over as soon as we get the news. We arrive to find a chicken coop full of feathers. Ulinda had kindly disposed of the bloody body parts before we arrived. The three remaining babies pace anxiously around in their pen, little eyes darting furtively in every direction. One of the babies is limping and dragging a wing, most likely due to a broken hip, we surmised upon closer inspection. And the other baby chicken, a golden buffy, looks like she narrowly escaped getting her head bitten off. She has a bloody ring around her neck, and her right eye is swollen completely shut. Only one of three chics is physically unharmed – a big white one, most likely a rooster based on his size. But even he is clearly traumatized by the attack. He anxiously paces back and forth across the tiny pen, and is startled by the smallest of movements.
As we survey the damage, the white one suddenly lunges towards the golden buffy, pecking her hard on her damaged eye. She squawks in terrified alarm, flapping her little wings as she frantically tries to get away.
“Hey!” I yell instinctively. “Cut that out! She’s been through enough already!”
“They’ve both been picking on her since the attack, “Ulinda says, matter-of-factly. “Chickens do that you know. They pick on the injured ones. They will kill her if we don’t get her out of there.”
“I’ll take her home with me then,” I say spontaneously, feeling very protective of this little one-eyed survivor. I know all too well what if feels like to not feel safe in your own home. It’s not a life I would wish for anybody. Even a chicken.
Sadly, the next day, we learn from Ulinda that the two remaining chics disappeared into thin air. Ulinda surmised they were killed by crafty magpies who figured out how to get into the coop through the chicken door. Killed by their own kind. Just like my brother Jay. We humans think we are so much smarter and better than animals. But clearly, I wonder.
I decide to name the little one Bonita Viviente Miraya, which is the feminine version of “beautiful surviving miracle” in Spanish. Uncertain how best to care for a lone chicken, I start out by placing Ms. Bonita in a plastic tub with a towel on the bottom. She barely moves, and refuses all food and water. I know that she will perish if I can’t get her to drink and eat. I also know that skin-on-skin contact is the prescribed treatment for human premature and trauma survivor babies. If my theory about chicken bonding is correct, then I figure this should also work for baby chickens.
To my amazement, it works. When I place Ms. Bonita against my bare skin, she immediately responds by nestling in. And then she does something I have never heard of chickens doing: she begins to vibrate softly against my chest. A lot like when a cat purrs. But there is no sound. Just a steady vibration.
Now, the scientists will argue that this isn’t necessarily a sign of bonding. They will say that it is an evolutionary behavior designed to let the mama hen know her babies are alive beneath her. And perhaps they are correct. But what I do know is that it made my heart light up with joy when I felt little Ms. Bonita vibrating contentedly against my chest. I knew then and there that she was going to make it. Not only did she begin to eat, but every time I had to roust her out, she would get extremely upset, flapping her little wings and peeping loudly in protest. As soon as I would put her back, she would nestle in, vibrate, and sleep for hours, safe and warm against my beating heart.
But enough of the sappy emotional stuff. I am a very busy woman. And I don’t have time to sit around holding a baby chicken against my skin for hours on end. Not to mention I have to earn a living. So, when Monday morning rolled around, and it was time to go to work, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of to do: I stuffed Ms. Bonita in my bra and headed out the door. I figured this way I could get my work done, and Ms. Bonita would continue to be safe and warm against my skin. Of course, I got a few sideways glances from my co-workers when I had to explain how I went from a size B to a Double-D overnight. I am sure that my behaviors confirmed some of their suspicions about my sanity, or rather the lack of. But my clients understood completely. Most of them have a history of trauma themselves.
After a few weeks, Ms. Bonita is so big that she can no longer fit comfortably inside my bra. Not to mention the potential poop factor. Amaziingly, Ms. Bonita has not once pooped in my bra. But still, the idea of it makes me wrack my brain for an alternative solution. I devise a mini sling out of a wool scarf by tying the ends together and draping the scarf diagonally across my shoulder. My heart-sling allows Ms. Bonita to stay close to my chest, while also providing easy access for me to reach her when needed. Problem solved.
The sideways glances at work have stopped, though the muffled laughter and whispers of “the crazy chicken lady” continued to echo down the halls. But I don’t care. Ms. Bonita’s comfort and well-being is all that matters to me. Besides, anybody who understands anything about attachment will understand perfectly well what I am doing.
I don’t know for sure if Ms. Bonita has bonded with me – perhaps her loud protests in response to me trying to remove her from her heart-sling are just survivalist dependency behaviors. But what I do know for certain is that I have clearly bonded with Ms. Bonita – like a big fat brooding mama hen.
“Don’t even think about messing with my Bonita,” I hiss at Ms. Bella, my six-year-old German Shephard.
Bella slinks away, no doubt feeling unfairly ousted from her number one position by this little one-eyed chicken. It is clear to me when I look into Bella’s eyes that devouring Ms. Bonita is her preferred solution to the annoying dilemma. Bella’s whole body shakes as she desperately tries to control her primal urges. But her love and respect for me, as the leader of the pack, are stronger even than her urge to kill. Dogs are mammals. Mammals bond.
After a few more weeks of being nestled safely near my bosom, Ms. Bonita begins to show signs of true healing. With a little encouragement, she tentatively begins venturing out into the great big world of my tiny little agency office. At first, she only stays out long enough to poop and eat before scuttling back to the safety of the heart-sling. But with time and trust, she begins to explore the world around her for longer periods. She even let’s a few of my clients hold her while we talk. These are profound healing moments for those of us who understand what it’s like to be a trauma survivor. Especially early childhood trauma. Witnessing Ms. Bonita’s journey from surviving to thriving gives all of us a little extra hope that healing is indeed possible in this often cruel and heartless world.
After much thinking on this issue of chicken bonding, I have developed a theory on how we humans have developed the story that chickens don’t bond. We humans have influenced the way captive chickens bear their young, and hence bond. Birds in the wild instinctively brood (i.e. sit on their eggs until they hatch). This may not be considered bonding by scientific standards, but to me it’s exactly what we humans do: Birds in the wild care for and feed and teach their young ones until they are equipped to survive on their own. Granted, once they reach adolescence, the bird-parents kick them out, sometimes with a vengeance that implies a lack of parental bonding and love. But any human parent who has had an over-indulgent teenager under their roof understands exactly that this parental behavior has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with self-preservation.
But back to my original point: Many hens in captivity have lost the brooding instinct. They lay their eggs, and then off they go in search of food. So what happened? I believe their behaviors are a direct result of humans systematically taking their eggs away from them (as well as killing off the broody hens) for so long that the motivation and desire to brood has evolved out of their gene pool.
After my brother Jay died, my younger brother and I went to live with my paternal grandparents on their farm for a few years. It was my job to fetch the eggs each day. Many of the hens just laid their eggs and left them. But there was always one or two brooding hens. And they were downright MEAN! I remember very clearly trying to figure out how to successfully steal these mother hens’ eggs without getting hurt. And I have quite a few scars to show for my efforts. I also remember never feeling quite right about stealing their eggs in the first place. These were their babies, after all. But when I asked my grandfather why we couldn’t just let them keep their eggs, he said we didn’t have time to be raising baby chickens. And then, when it came time to butcher, guess which hens got selected first? The mean broody hens, of course. I have to wonder how many of the fierce and protective hens have also been ‘disposed of’ in the mass production chicken industry as well?
The human convenience of non-brooding hens is clear: in addition to the inconvenience of raising baby chicks, hens stop laying eggs while they are brooding. Therefore, brooding isn’t efficient or cost effective for humans. Just like hiring women in the work-force wasn’t considered cost effective because they might get pregnant and have to take maternity leave. Nowadays, it isn’t cost-effective for mothers to stay home and care for their children, because single income households can no longer survive in today’s economy. And then there is the whole single-parent household dilemma in which childcare costs more than most full-time working class jobs pay. And if you are a single mother, your choices are even more limited: either full-time and never be available for your kids; try to get on disability; or not have kids at all. It is no wonder to me that so many woman are choosing to go childless. But regardless of their choices, women are harshly judged. Much like we judge chickens. But perhaps, upon closer inspection, chickens have been forced to choose between survival and bonding.
The parallels between humans and chickens are many. From a scientific lens, I am curious to see how humans will evolve to meet the competing demands of convenience and survival. From a therapist lens, this issue is deeply concerning to me. In our efforts to efficiently provide the basic material needs for our young, will we forgo the time-costly process of healthy bonding? Will the bonding gene within our own human gene pool diminish over time because we must choose between survival and bonding? I wonder if this isn’t already happening to some extent.
TO BE CONTINUED…