Holly Kays photo
The Founding of Fluffy Butt Hut
There was much rejoicing when Gretchen finally laid her first egg at the exceedingly mature age of nine months.
My big chicken-keeping adventure started out as a throwaway conversation over beer. Between rounds at trivia night, a friend was talking about how she and her husband had accidentally hatched out too many chicks for their backyard flock that spring.
“I’m not sure what we’re going to do with them all.” She paused. She leaned forward. “Want some chickens?”
The obvious answer was, “No thanks.” Neither my husband nor I knew anything about chickens, and we had a quarter-acre residential lot rather than a rural homestead. The fenced-in backyard was often inhabited by a little brown dog named Arti who takes great joy in killing any feathery ball of fluff she can get her mouth around. Still, it was tempting. I’d always been a bit “chicken-curious,” and in this climate of bare shelves and high prices, having a constant supply of fresh eggs in the backyard just sounded smart.
So instead of no, we answered maybe. Our yard was small, but it was big enough for a few chickens. We could figure out how to build a coop, and we could teach Arti not to kill them—or, if that failed, we could at least build a good fence. Soon, we found ourselves driving away from our friend’s house on a Saturday morning with a Rubbermaid tote containing wood chips and four feathery chicks.
When we got home, I pulled out one of the birds and held it on my lap while my husband fetched Arti. The idea was for us to sit side-by-side, each holding one of the animals while Arti explored her feelings regarding chickens.
Holly Kays photo
The Founding of Fluffy Butt Hut
Poe surveys her surroundings.
Arti, unfortunately, was not interested in doing anything so sophisticated as “exploring her feelings.” Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her tongue lolled. She whined a constant, high-pitched whine while straining to escape my husband’s arms. She wanted the chicken. She wanted to take its feathery little body in her mouth and shake, shake, shake. She wanted this more than anything, and could not understand why we were keeping her from such a clear picture of predatory ecstasy. Didn’t we even love her?
That night was cold for June, too cold for a bunch of month-old chicks. So we brought the chicken tote inside and shut Art in the second bedroom—but she could still smell them. She whined all night long.
According to what I found online, the best way to train a dog to behave itself around chickens is to walk it, leashed, as close as it can go to the birds without reacting. Then, offer a reward and, over a period of weeks, slowly close the distance.
The only problem was, seemingly no distance was enough for Arti to ‘experience’ the chickens without reacting—quite loudly, might I add. She was nine years old, officially a senior dog despite her puppy-like looks and energy, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether there was truth to the old adage that old dogs can’t learn new tricks.
Yet somehow—miraculously—the training began to work. One day, Arti managed to suppress her barks as long as she was on the opposite end of the yard from the birds. Slowly, we closed the distance, getting within 10 feet, then 8, 5 and 4. Eventually, she could stand right beside them, more interested in eating their poop (dogs are gross) than in eating them. Unless somebody flaps their wings, of course. Then it was game on.
Holly Kays photo
The Founding of Fluffy Butt Hut
The chickens check out their new home.
In the months since, our little chicks have matured into egg-laying hens and moved into the palatial coop we built for them, which is sometimes called the Chick Mahal and other times referred to as the Fluffy Butt Hut. They cluck softly when I enter their enclosure, gathering around in hope of treats. I usually oblige. Chickens will eat nearly anything, so all our food scraps now go to the chicken yard. Two of the four have decided that, in the absence of an actual male chicken, I’ll do as an honorary rooster. They squat down in front of me, asking for pets, while their flockmates cluck, “Just the food, please.” In return, they leave us an average of three delicious eggs each day, clustered in the straw-covered nesting box floor.
To Arti, we refer to our small flock as her “chicken sisters,” and she seems to have accepted them as such. When the two species are allowed to mingle, she usually starts out by giving their butts a good sniff and then proceeds to search for chicken poop. Even wing-flapping doesn’t send her into predatory mode anymore.
These days, most of her chicken-related barking has to do with complaints about favoritism rather than bloodlust. When I go see the chickens, I have to throw a stick or a treat for Arti first. Otherwise, I’ll be shielding my ears from a succession of high-pitched yelps the entire time I’m in the chicken yard. It’s annoying, but I can’t really blame her. It’s just how sibling rivalry works.