When the first six girls arrived, I cavalierly named them: Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo, Patty and Nugget. I didn't care what names they had. They weren't going to be around for long. IF they survived baby chickendom, and that seemed a big IF.... I certainly wasn't going to get attached to them and keep them past butchering season so names were irrelevant.

But summer came, the babies turned into the girls, and time ticked on past. Having chickens became a natural part of life at my house. I forgot the butchering plan. I forgot I didn't like chickens.

I started to recognize the individual personalities of the girls. Meenie lived up to her name. She was vicious, wicked mean. If you got near her, she would peck you. If you didn't get near her, she'd chase you so she COULD peck you. Meenie bullied me, she bullied the other girls, she was just mean. Then, Meenie got sick. Then, Meenie died. And I felt something unexpected: I was sad. As mean as she was, I couldn't help but feel a part of our little flock was missing. I felt almost responsible for her death because I'd been calling her Meanie instead of Meenie in my head.

As all the girls started laying eggs, we tried to track which eggs came from which girl. One consistently layed huge brown double-yolkers. I had it narrowed down to a red chicken but couldn't decide which one produced these lovelies. Catching the smallest red chicken sitting in the nesting box one day, my husband grabbed a can of fluorescent pink paint and sprayed her white tail feathers. From then on, she was known as Pinkie and was the source of the double-yolked eggs we discovered.

Another red chicken got sick and died, having crawled far under the nesting box in the process. I bawled like a baby as I had to use a pitchfork to drag her out and a 'dispose' of her. Not long later, the girls were out playing, suddenly, three ran squawking for the coop. The other one had just disappeared. I searched high and low, calling and calling, but no luck.

Then there were three.... who became known as Hawkie, Blackie and Red.

Their adventures have been many... including them getting lost tonight in the spruce tree scrub by my house. But knowing them as I do, I simply rattled the tortilla chip bag and called, "Girlies!! bock bock!! Girlies!!" and rattled a bit more. They came scampering, through the underbrush, over the fallen trees, through the swamp, making that magical musical sound happy chickens make when they know they are loved and cherished.