The chickens make such a racket sometimes that I worry about them. I'm certain a massacre must be in progress. I run outside to make sure, and they are completely fine--every time. They resume silence immediately and look at me the way chickens look at people, from the side with an air of contempt mixed with the hope that maybe you have food for them.
In vain I lecture them about crying wolf. I tell them that many of their predecessors on this farm over the years have died horribly. I recount the massacres: the Fatal Fox Blood Lust of 2001 that killed an entire flock; the Heartbreaking Summer of Unstoppable Hawks (2008) that took out more than a dozen; the Deadly Roaming Dog Party of 2015 that took out eighteen birds just for fun. The chickens remain silent and continue eyeing me as they return to scratching about looking for bugs. I tell them about the effort it takes to keep them safe, that we do have to sleep sometimes, that fences get holes in them over time and we have a lot of other things going on out here that delay the repairs. I remind them that they are lucky to be free-range chickens but that their freedom may come with a price. They look at me with the same expression as always.
Since I’m there, I check for eggs. There are none. I’m starting to think they are all barren because I haven’t found any eggs in the nests in several days. But then I remember that sometimes they lay their eggs elsewhere. So I go on a hunt around the fence that encloses their field where they’ve been wandering around eying me suspiciously when I walk by with my pups. After a long search I see it: a clutch of more than a dozen light brown eggs tucked beneath an unruly pine sapling that’s been cavorting with some brambles. After some finagling and failed attempts to avoid being stuck by thorns, I gather the eggs to bring them inside. Several of the hens begin yelling. That's the only way to describe the sound. It isn't cute little clucking noises. They yell. I assume they are yelling at me because they’ve intentionally been collecting the eggs under that dancing pine. I wonder what they think they’re doing. (They aren't thinking much of anything.) Chickens have been domesticated for so long. I believe their ancestors were quite unlike them. What natural bird has the potential to lay an egg every day of the year? What use would that be? Still, they seem like dinosaurs at times; at other times they remind me of people, the way they show off when they find a tasty morsel they think the other hens will envy.
Every time someone who lives in a town or city tells me they think they’ll want to raise backyard chickens, I want to warn them about the high potential for death and how they’ll have to explain that to their children. I want to tell them how loud and filthy the birds are. But I know people will do what they will do even if I tell them the truth. So, I don’t bother. And I assume they too will run to see whether their chickens are okay when they begin squawking their hearts out for no apparent reason.