The End of An Era...Or, Goodbye Binky

Seven years ago, I mentioned to Matt that I'd always wanted to keep chickens. To my surprise, he thought it was a great idea, and he spent that Spring researching, designing and building a chicken house and run for our suburban backyard. I got special permission from the city to keep a backyard flock.

That May, we brought home 6 chicks from the local feed store - 3 Barred Rocks and 3 Golden Sexlinks. We each named two of the chicks. Mine were Binky and Bucky, Matt's were Pinky and the Brain. Two-year old Quin named his chicks Rocko and Sluggo. Don't ask me why a toddler would give names more suited to thugs to sweet little baby chicks, but he did. We tried to convince him to pick different names, but Quin was adamant. It became a joke, and our little flock became the "Chicken Mafia" (or the "Cluckanostra," as Matt liked to call them).

Those six hens taught us what to do and what not to do when raising chickens in suburbia. We weathered chicken diseases, visits to disbelieving vets, laying problems, and chicken nutrition issues with our starter flock. We learned how to maintain chicken health by "turning" laying on and off using light. We learned how to be compassionate and loving with our chickens. I learned all about what makes chickens great pets and companions. When we lost the first of those six hens at two years old to cancer, it was heartbreaking. I still get choked up thinking about it. Most of our original hens lived longer than we'd ever anticipated, with the last being Binky, the little grandmother of our current flock.

Binky quit laying over two years ago, but after over five years of giving us friendship and eggs, we felt she deserved a retirement without work or worry. As far as we were concerned, she'd more than earned her keep. She taught two other flocks of pullets the ropes, and was a trooper in dealing with Jesse (the serial rapist rooster) making sure he knew she wouldn't put up with any of his funny business. As an old hen, she'd go toe-to-toe with any rooster, fighting just like they do, with wing slaps and "spur" kicks.

While we were on the muzzleloader deer hunt this fall, a neighbor kindly looked in on our girls for us. She called to tell us that she'd found Binky dead in the chicken run a day after we left.

Binky had fallen asleep in a puddle of sunshine and didn't wake up.

Just the way I want to go.

With the last of our original backyard flock gone, and a remaining large rural flock of girls, it's like the end of an era for us.

Keeping Binky and the chicken mafia got us where we are today. We owe much to those first six hens. They all helped sparked the desire for more chickens, more land, more space, more farm animals. Our success with them helped give us the courage to take things further, one step at a time.

And while it may seem strange that this blog post is something of a eulogy for a chicken, it is no less than a dedicated pet deserved after eight years of being part of our strange, extended farm family.

Bye, Binky. You were loved. You will be missed.

Thanks for everything.