On long runs, I have lots of time to think and write stories in my head. This little love story came out of an experience that happened over the past 12 years and just the other day.
Enjoy and Happy Valentine’s Day.
At first she wouldn't stay in our coop, as hard as we tried to keep her there. Months later, as we got to know each other, we determined that she should never be penned. Therefore, she earned her freedom and her name, Penny. So began the story twelve years ago of a small, crippled game hen with tan and copper-colored feathers who came out of the woods and gave us an unexpected Valentine. And also, how we learned that if a stranger appears on your doorstep, welcome them in for, as it is written in the Bible, you may be “entertaining angels unawares.”
Generally speaking, we don’t name our hens. It’s a dangerous world for chickens in which they are succulent to many predators and because they go into a deep sleep at night, thus making them easy prey. Of course, we do our best to protect them with solid chicken coops, Border Collies, sensor lights and with the guarantee that chickens are habitual and they need no urging to go home at night. But still, the fox babies are crying from hunger and the coyotes have so many mouths to feed. Who can blame them? There are also hungry hawk families, raccoons, possums, and countless varmints. You get the point, don’t name your hens.
And then in comes Penny. The story our family would tell is that she was thought to be a male game cock bred to be a Cock Fighter. Yes, apparently that’s still a thing here in North Carolina - quite illegal and grossly inhumane. All four of her toes on each foot were already cut off when we found her, healed into nubby stubs, ready to one day don a set of 1'' sharp metal knives. And then it was discovered that she was a her. Here’s where we give the characters in our story a little humanity. Penny got tossed out of a slow moving truck by hands that were hoping she might assimilate into one of the neighborhood flocks without notice. In truth, we don’t know exactly how Penny came to us, but we humans often create stories to make sense of a world that is simultaneously messy and beautiful.
What we learned over the years is that some breeds of game birds are closer to their wild heritage, and with their instincts still intact, they make strong fighters but also fierce mothers. Penny would go broody every spring, which is an uncommon practice in our overly domesticated breeds. She would go into a stupor, not eating or drinking, just sitting on eggs for 24 or so days. Since we didn’t keep roosters, early on we were perplexed as to what to do. We tried sneaking fertile eggs under her, but she would just sit staring into space, well into the second month with no positive results. Finally, we devised a plan to get a few 2-day old biddies from the grain store and tuck them under her in the dark of night. It worked! Our dear hen woke up and exclaimed, “I’m a mom!”
She cared for her adopted chicks like any tiger mom would. Family members would cautiously put a hand in to change their water or give them food, fearing the mighty Penny pecks! But in return for our attention, she would show us what it meant to be a really good parent. Her stubby toes would scratch and peck the feed on the newspaper floor, breaking it apart for her chicks, making sure their little bellies were full and they were resting under her before she allowed herself to eat. We had a heat lamp for Penny but her chicks quickly learned that mom’s downy underbelly feathers held the very best warmth.
On average, chickens live four or five years but Penny had twelve seasons of raising young’uns. Every spring we would anticipate Penny’s broody period and it would fortunately match up to when the chicks arrived at the store. We would be amazed by the miracle of her accepting and tending to her babies who had arrived by an annual nocturnal sleight-of-hand. As the babies grew from biddies to teens, Penny was always challenged by how wide she could spread her wings to keep them safe and warm. Her off-spring would quickly outgrow their diminutive mom but Penny always ruled the roost. After all those years, every grown hen on our little farm belonged to her.
Most animal stories are told with a kleenex box nearby. We love our pets because they give us far more than we could ever give them. How could a three pound, handicapped orphan become a legend? Two days ago, we went out to check the coop. We were down to just two hens, Penny and her one grown child. We opened the coop door to find black feathers everywhere and no hen in sight. On the ground outside the door, lay the Mighty Penny, with hardly a scratch.
The story we tell ourselves is that what made this game hen a good mother also made her a good fighter. Penny had escaped many previous battles, always using cunning, speed and flight. This time, she stayed as long as she could, not fleeing, but protecting her charge with all that she had. And when the varmint left with the last of her kids, she lay down and died. She had the heart of a mother and the courage of a cockfighter and now her work was done.
On Saint Valentine's Day, people celebrate by expressing love in any number of creative ways. We found an honorable resting place for Penny beside our two beloved dogs and one cat. Today we will celebrate our love for her by placing shiny pennies on her grave, remembering that angels take many forms, the smallest ones often making the greatest impact.
Penny's Girls
I'm running the Umstead100 Endurance Run, April 6-7 in Raleigh, NC while writing, painting and fundraising for Go Conscious Earth, whose mission is to empower the people of the Democratic Republic of Congo and Congo Basin Rainforest to protect their ancestral land upon which we all depend for survival. Please visit (and share!) my fundraising page GCE100 and make a donation for this critical cause. Also, please forward my collection of blogs to anyone who might be interested in learning more about my experience preparing for a very long race!
Thank you so much!
xo Anne
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