Some people shake their heads when I tell them my chickens have names, especially after the emotional loss of Georgina-Henrietta and Eloise. But today when I got home from work and school, a bit tired and more than a bit crotchety, three little chicks chirped, flew around their brooding box, and then happily danced under the mint bush when I took them out to play in the garden. My irritability dissipated, and the little squawkers (despite their lack of affection) gave me the warm ‘n fuzzies. So the chicks get names like the rest of the pets, treats and love and the comfort of known their not intended for the chopping block.
There are worse things than naming a chicken. Or three.
For those of you who have seen the 1950s flick Gidget, I think you’d agree that if Sandra Dee was a chicken, she’d look just like our little blondie Buff Orpington. So Gidget it is for chick #1. Our little hen-to-be with the strange hairstyle and the French blue eggs seemed to fit a name belonging to one Marie Antoinette. This seemed a little morbid (especially for a chicken), so I settled on Antoinette – Nettie for short.
And last but not least… our fiery, little redhead… who now escapes her brooding box and dances around the carport closet at every chance… who bathes in the drinking water… who flies. I asked for a little help with her name. Two of my dearest friends, Shannon and Crawford, named her in true Shannon-and-Crawford style: with humor. So our little redheaded chicken bears the name Duck. In the future, when she misbehaves, I look forward to saying, “What the Duck?!” as Crawford suggested, instead of profanity.
So there we have it: Gidget, Nettie, and Duck.