I don’t normally name my chickens, or as I call them, my girls. This past year my grandson decided he wanted to own a chicken and we picked the only one who would let us pick her up. He then thought she should have a name so I told him go ahead. He squinched up his eyes and dubbed her “Henry” What a perfect name for a hen!
I also have, Poof Head. She is one of my girls who will just die of old age. At this time she will be 5 on Memorial Day. At least that is the day my sister in law brought her here as a chick from Missouri. She was the first Americauna chicken I had ever owned.
We have now named a third girl with a name – Scrap Pile. Her name came about from an event rather than what she looked like. A few weeks ago I went to town to help out at our local food pantry. I figured I would be getting home around 7:30 so it should be no problem to wait to lock the girls in till then. I lock them in every night due to raccoons, neighbor’s dogs, coyotes and other critters. When I came home, it was dark. I went to shut the door to the chicken run and noticed a Rhode Island Red sitting in the snowbank. I picked her up and shoved her into the coop. She wasn’t real thrilled about that. I was muttering under my breath thinking the dog had been around. When I went into the coop to count the girls and make sure they were all there I found chaos. There was a dead chicken in the corner and a very large, live ‘possum in the other corner. I quickly ran and got my husband and told him I needed him and a gun now!
The ‘possum was swiftly dispatched and the girls counted. I was missing half of them. We spent the next half hour, with flashlights, trooping through knee high snow drifts digging birds out and putting them in the coop. We found them all except one. Several were missing feathers and some were injured but in the dark it was hard to really assess the damages. We decided after looking everywhere that the other one was a loss.
The next afternoon my husband found her but she was tucked way under our metal scrap pile. We tried to lure her out with no success. The next day and the days after that we saw no sign of her. I finally let go of the thought of ever seeing her again…..at least alive. Eight days later, my husband found her by the machine shed….ALIVE!!!! We herded her into the building and caught her. When she was put back in the coop with the rest of the girls she finally settled down. A chicken who survived that needed a name that would commemorate the event…..Scrap Pile.
I was incredibly grateful to find her. I now have a third one that will never hit the chopping block. I figure if she could survive eight days, in the cold, under a scrap pile she gets a pass…..even if she never lays another egg. I can testify the verse on the bottom is true, not only of sheep, and people, but also of chickens. I was totally rejoicing in her return!
12 “What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? 13 And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. 14 In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish.
Matthew 18:12-14New International Version (NIV)