Written and photographed by Lara Tupper
Everything in our yard wants to eat the chickens: bears, coyotes, bobcats, foxes, raccoons, weasels, owls, and hawks. As a devoted parent of hens, I now stand guard whenever they leave their pen. I didn’t know I’d feel so protective of my flock.
In 2020, my husband, Bobby, like many Berkshire-ites, planted a pandemic garden and said, “Let’s get chickens!” He built a fortress-like coop, complete with buried fencing to discourage predators. I called it the Chicken Palace and thought of it as my future writing shed.
“Chickens will be your thing,” I told him. As a kid, I’d been a sitter for the neighbor’s hens, who scattered and shrieked each time I was near. My collie “helped” by catching one in his mouth. I had no faith in my ability to raise my own.
But when our first eight birds arrived, gifted from a friend’s flock, I fell in love. They were three weeks old, toddlers instead of newborns. I tracked their growth in a Proustian doc titled “Chicken Diaries,” now over 100,000 words. I read every book with “pullet” (young hen) in the subtitle. I acquired chicken-themed t-shirts (Love Your Flock, Chicken Whisperer), socks, slippers, mugs, and mousepads. I was determined to be good at this.
My devotion wasn’t reciprocal, which made me feel like a failure of a chicken sitter all over again. My hens resisted when I tried to pick them up and fled from my high (hawk-like?) voice. Bobby remained the primary caregiver as I continued to assemble chicken calendars for all—and perfect the art of the omelet.
The fresh eggs were divine, more flavorful than store-bought, with rich yellow yolks. We often gathered half a dozen a day, and gifted them to friends.
The lifespan of a backyard chicken is only five to seven years; four remain from our first flock of eight. It was devastating to lose them (by coyote, fox, and old age), like losing any pet. Of the four, just two are still laying. “Time for more chicks,” said Bobby in early spring of last year. But when we stopped at Tractor Supply, they were sold out. (2025 brought another wave of interest in backyard flocks as avian flu outbreaks led to exorbitant egg prices.) By late May, chicks were back in stock.
“You can’t just pick the underdogs,” said Bobby, who knew this was my tendency. (I gave extra treats to Meema, our old hen at the bottom of the pecking order.) I studied the fluffballs, separated in bins by breed and whether or not they were “sexed” (identified as soon-to-be roosters or hens), all oblivious to their fates.
I chose hens, two of each breed: Sapphire Sky (gray feathers, greenish eggs), Amberlink (yellow feathers, brown eggs), and ISA Brown (reddish-brown feathers, brown eggs), all apparently “good-natured” and hearty in cold weather. An employee placed them in a box for me, as though we were at Dunkin’ Donuts.
In the car, I held the cheeping box in my lap and panicked. I’d read that youngsters can sometimes relegate the elders to the bottom of the pecking order. Would our veteran hens suffer? I hated to think so. We’d house them all together in about seven weeks.
Raising chickens is good for the soul.
“They’re like us, or we’re like them: curious, easily bored, competitive, but trying, now and then, to see eye to eye.”
We set up the chicks’ cardboard pen in the corner of Bobby’s woodshop. At first, they huddled under the heat lamp and did little but eat, drink, and sleep. (The lamp must be kept at 95 degrees during the first week, then reduced by five degrees each week.) I picked them up gently and spoke in quiet tones. I visited throughout the day. I wanted to connect, though I couldn’t help but document:
Week one: They fall asleep while drinking, so we put marbles in the trough to catch their little heads.
Week three: The pitch of their “peeps” is lower. Their combs are coming in, like bits of orange Play-Doh.
Week six: Another trip outside. We let the older hens out to explore. No ruckus, just curiosity, like regulars eying newbies in the coffeeshop. The elders stay close, as though they know they’re one flock now.
Was I projecting? Was I finally part of the flock? I read that hens can recognize up to 100 human faces and recall positive or negative experiences associated with them. (Which explains the chicken cacophony as a kid.) Chickens dream and have language. (See Melissa Caughey’s “How to Speak Chicken.”) In other words, they’re like us, or we’re like them: curious, easily bored, competitive, but trying, now and then, to see eye to eye.
In the Berkshires, I often meet chicken devotees. (I’ve counted 10 flocks within three miles of our house.) When we meet, we’re like sports fans trading stats. We speak chicken.
At my desk the other day, as I worried about the daily news, Bobby came in from the coop to cheer me up, clutching Rusty (now a full-grown hen), who blinked at me like a mini dinosaur and pecked at my ring. I forgot about the news. She sought me out, held eye contact. One living thing connecting to another.
7 Tips for Raising Chickens
1 Spring and early summer are the best times to get chicks in our climate. Consider which breeds will be ideal for your yard and household, based on temperament and egg production.
2 Be prepared to keep chicks indoors, under a heat lamp, for their first seven to eight weeks. If you handle them (gently and kindly) as chicks, you’ll be more likely to pick them up later.
3 Make sure your coop is sturdy and secure. Bury fencing underground to stop animals from digging inside.
4 Avoid cross-contamination: Have a dedicated pair of chicken shoes. Crocs or rubber boots will do. If visiting other flocks or farms, wash your shoes and hands thoroughly before returning to your own birds.
5 Save your egg cartons; chickens begin laying eggs at 18 weeks. (A hen’s “earlobe” color will sometimes indicate the color of her eggs.) Decoy eggs in their nesting boxes will encourage hens to lay. Certain breeds will stop laying during the coldest months in the Berkshires.
6 Once chickens start laying eggs, they love dried mealworms (available at farm stores) and will enjoy some of your kitchen scraps. Avoid giving your chickens potatoes, avocados, citrus or any processed foods, which can be toxic to their delicate digestive systems. Don’t feed them onions or garlic, as you’ll taste these flavors in their eggs. (Unless you want to skip an omelet step.)
7 Chickens, like people, need to be occupied. They’ll be less likely to pick on each other if they have activities. Hang a cabbage from a rope for chicken “tether ball.” (Hours of fun.) I’ve seen some hens enjoy the shiny sides of CDs. The best entertainment is free ranging, when possible.
Recommended reading
“How to Speak Chicken: Why Your Chickens Do What They Do & Say What They Say” by Melissa Caughey
“Under the Henfluence: Inside the World of Backyard Chickens and the People Who Love Them” by Tove Danovich
“What the Chicken Knows: A New Appreciation of the World’s Most Familiar Bird” by Sy Montgomery
“Brood: A Novel” by Jackie Polzin
