Barbie the chicken, aka “Babs”, has been with us for two years now. She is a Barred Rock and was about 18 months old when we picked her up along with her flock mates from a
woman who could no longer care for her chickens due to medical issues. Barbie has a personality all her own. She’s the Alpha Hen of the flock. The troublemaking young roosters got “what for” when they approached her. She’s even survived a dog attack on our flock, wounded, scared and scarred. Barbie also knows her name.
Whenever DH and I venture outside during the daylight hours, Barbie comes running. She’s got us trained well; we will be working in the garden or flower beds and she’ll be
standing outside the fence, clucking to us until we toss her a fat and juicy worm, or other variety of insect. When she has the scrumptious morsel in her beak, she begins her chorus of squeaks, chirps, clicks, clucks and numerous other “happy noises”. The bigger the “prize” we’ve handed her, the longer she keeps up the music.
Weekend breakfasts that result in extra pancakes or waffles cause her (and the rest of the flock) great joy, and make me smile, as I’m surrounded by eager hens and roosters who want what I have in hand. The rest of the flock has also learned to associate my saying, “Barbie!” with food. If they’re wandering around the yard because I’ve not found any good
tidbits for them to eat, as soon as I find one and yell, “Barbie!”, I will get at least 5 chickens and/or roosters, including Babs, to come running.
Barbie has earned her place as “pet chicken” here at the homestead. She still lays eggs, not as many as she did when we first got her, but personality can go a long way.