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If you sat in my living room on a temperate spring afternoon, after a few minutes you
might hear a thunk against the window. Maybe you would think it was a child’s ballgame gone awry, or a smitten admirer trying to get your attention. Upon further inspection, you would find that it was neither of those things, shrug your shoulders, and resume your previous activity. After a few more minutes, you might hear that same dull smack against the window. Thunk! At that point, if your curiosity had been piqued, you might stare at the window, waiting for the source of the disruption to reveal itself. If you waited patiently and never once peeled your gaze from the window, you would see a cardinal, repeatedly flying directly into the glass, the source of the telltale thunk.
Every year, this same cardinal returns to my childhood index in Lancaster Pennsylvania to perform this routine over and over. Why is anyone's guess. Perhaps he wants to visit my family, but more likely he is unable to recognize his own reflection and believes that he is chasing an invader out of his territory. Behavior such as this is likely where the term “bird brain” originates.
I happen to have a long history of friendship with fowl. For my twelfth birthday my parents gifted me with my own flock of backyard chickens whom I subsequently named Song, Duck, Dream, Angel, Jade, and Peck. The chicks found themselves in my care on their third day of life. By the end of that day, they were already happily eating out of my hands and were beginning to tolerate gentle handling.
As the chicks developed into fledglings, our bond only strengthened. Within three months, they were ready to move out of their incubator and into their forever index; a handcrafted coop. In summer, they laid their first eggs, each chicken producing a distinct shade of tan. As we got to know each other, I learned that each chicken had a personality as unique as the color of her eggs.
Song was strong and feisty, a fighter. Her relatively smaller size might have caused the others to bully her, as hens are wont to do, but she was quick to bite back. Song didn’t adore people as many of her sisters did, but she would endure a pat or two and was always excited to perch on a shoulder and peck at someone’s hair.
If Song was a fighter, Duck was a lover. I took a liking to her early on due to her tendency to hop into her water dish when she was small, thus earning her name. People always chuckled when I told them her name; A chicken named Duck, how novel! Duck was always underfoot, seeking attention and scraps of food. She was daring, usually the first of the group to approach strangers.
Similar to Duck, Dream enjoyed socializing with humans, although she was a bit more shy. All of my chickens were Rhode Island reds, and Dream was easily the most distinct due to her darker brown feathers. Her coloring made her a favorite of some of my friends, because she was easiest for them to distinguish. Dream was sharp, and later in her life I taught her tricks such as jumping through a hula-hoop.
Angel was a stereotypical mother hen, always keeping the others in line. Once the girls had developed a friendship with my dog, their fierce protector, I felt comfortable allowing them to free-range around the yard. Whenever a chicken wandered too far away, Angel’s alarmed cry could be heard above all else, and the others would rush to her side. Angel cared for her family and wouldn’t allow one of her own to be left behind.
Then there was Jade, the baby of the flock. The smallest by far, Jade was sometimes picked on by her sisters. She was quite gentle and never fought back. Jade was curious and liked to observe humans. She loved to be held, and often perched in my lap when I sat outside to read a book.
Peck was a silly chicken, frequently getting herself into odd situations. She could be found in the treetops, and even once on the roof! Her perseverance in mischief never failed to make me laugh. She was not easily frightened, as other birds typically are, and therefore had the strongest bond with my dog. I regularly saw them basking in the sunshine together on warm days.
I saw myself as a part of my flock. Subsequently, I spent many hours traipsing through the woods and learning the ways of my chickens. After a few months, I learned a perfect imitation of their calls. I loved to sit near the coop with its door ajar and watch the birds drink water. Chickens have a curious way of consuming liquids. They dip their beaks into the water to scoop it up, then stretch their necks and tilt their heads back as they swallow. It is quite endearing to watch. I had an old coffee can that was filled with birdseed that I would shake, and the chickens would run to me, excited about their treat.
The first year of the chickens’ lives was full of long, lazy days and sunshine. Bliss is temporary, it comes and goes as it pleases. In winter, tragedy struck. Winters are harsh in Pennsylvania. Often, a storm can deposit over a foot of snow. It was during one such storm that my flock suffered its first casualty. I was unprepared for the cruel realities of nature. I had purchased a water heater and a heat lamp. Between those provisions and their own body heat, I was not worried about the chickens’ safety. The morning after the snowfall, I trekked through the white blanket to the chicken coop to refill their water. When I opened the coop’s door, all seemed well until I noticed an unmoving shape in the corner: Jade.
I could not give Jade the funerary service that she deserved immediately. The ground was frozen solid, so I was forced to store her body in my garage. Her crumpled form was a measly addition to the heaps of junk stockpiled in my garage, but it enveloped every corner of my mind. I couldn’t believe that, despite my preparations, the icy cold had claimed sweet little Jade.
Jade’s eventual funeral was a somber affair. I gouged a ragged hole in a soggy patch of earth near the coop and shrouded her body in an old sweatshirt. After gingerly placing her into the shallow grave, I said a final goodbye and covered the mound of earth with a large, flat rock to mark the spot and protect the corpse from scavengers. Her loss was felt deeply by my flock and I, now one member smaller.
Due to a combination of advanced age and extreme weather, in the following years two more of Jade’s sisters, Song and Peck, met a similar fate. Eventually, I learned that the brutality of nature was out of my control. Angel, Duck, and Dream became a tightly-knit trio. Angel became more prominent in her role as the mother hen, keeping the other two in line, and even once fighting off a predatory hawk. Duck and Dream followed Angel constantly. At night, the three of them roosted at the top of a sapling, preferring to be lofted and out of harm’s way.
Angel died quietly, three months shy of her fourth birthday. Instead of collapsing in a corner of the coop, she slipped away into the woods and never resurfaced. She had been lethargic for half a week, so it came as no great shock, yet still rattled the remains of the dwindling flock. Without their leader, Duck and Dream were lost. They became extremely attached to me and to each other. On warm days, my mother left the back door of my house open to circulate air. Far too often, the chickens followed me inside the house, desperate for a leader in Angel’s absence. Because of this, my mother elected to keep the kitchen door closed.
My kitchen door is composed of twelve glass panels, three by four. It acts as an extra floor to ceiling window and provides a pleasant view of the woods surrounding the house. Through the door, I could watch my two little hens, and they could watch me. After the final closing of the kitchen door, Dream and Duck constantly prowled around the patio, watching and waiting for me to come out. This behavior was especially amusing when I was cooking, as the stove is directly adjacent to the glass door. Whenever I cooked, the chickens and I could watch each other intently.
One afternoon, I was tidying up the kitchen when I heard a thunk followed by the shattering of glass. Outside, Duck and Dream scrambled away from the scene. I realized that one of them had broken a pane of glass trying to get to me. I felt my stomach lurch as I finally internalized a thought that had been nagging at me since Angel’s disappearance; These chickens need a new flock.
Saying goodbye to my feathered friends was a tearful endeavor, but I knew that they would feel more secure in a larger flock. Unconditional love means knowing when to let go. Duck and Dream lived out the rest of their days at a local ice cream shop turned animal sanctuary. They quickly became favorites of the patrons due to their bold personalities and penchant for stealing french fries. Each night, they roosted in the trees with their newfound family, happy and at peace again.
A bird repeatedly bashing itself into a window is admittedly idiotic, but it is inaccurate to apply this label to all members of its taxonomic class. An attempt to smash through glass may be driven by instinct or by a desire for companionship. Animals are thinking, feeling beings, but their intelligence is not easily measured. Researchers can perform tests and assign them endless tasks, but it is impossible to know if the animals are adequately motivated to do their bidding. A better question is not how smart animals are, but what we can learn from them.
Potential research questions: How can animals enrich our lives? Why do Americans consume products derived from CAFOs? How is intelligence measured, and are these systems of measurement outdated?