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By Root 583 0

in one spot, I’d end up with a large area of dead grass in the middle of the yard. Mind you, the arrival of chickens seemed like an odd time to start worrying about the state of our lawn. We’ve never had a gorgeous lawn—the sod was laid in November for heaven’s sake. It never had a chance. It snows in November up here. So our lawn has never been much of a priority. Nevertheless, I suddenly became possessive about the grass the way some people become possessive about the junk they put in their garbage. It’s fine for the landfill, but heaven help anyone who swings by early in the morning and loads up a perfectly usable chair that’s sitting out with the trash. I didn’t mind ruining the grass myself, but I certainly didn’t want the chickens doing it.

The trouble with the chicken tractor system began as the chickies started to grow. As their feet became bigger, their scratches went deeper. Each week they became more excited by the fresh grass, bugs, and other treats in their new patch of lawn, attacking the ground with gusto. They also started taking dust baths. Granted, dust bathing is a good thing, as it keeps the creepy crawlies off the birds. The problem is, when chickens don’t have an area of dirt to bathe in, they create one.

The more the chickens traveled, the worse our yard looked. Friends who came out back to visit the chicks heard “Oh, just ignore the lawn. We’re moving the coop around to help the yard.” And they’d glance around at the worn yellow areas with puzzlement.

Thinking back to the day I ordered my Eglu, I’m now certain that Clare snickered when I told her we were going to move the coop around the yard weekly. We ended the summer with, to put it generously, a unique lawn: large yellow rectangles of sod, stunted from being pecked to death; dirt-filled, bathtub-size depressions scattered randomly around the backyard, shallow enough to miss but deep enough to twist an ankle; and trampled areas that looked like elephants had slept there, not baby chicks. Our yard was a mess, but I learned not to care. I was raising chickens and growing eggs, not sod. Eventually I abandoned the tractor idea, put up a temporary fence on the sides of the yard that were open, and let the chickens free-range most of the time. As I learned later, most chicken tractors are too small and don’t provide enough room for the chickens. Chickens should have at least six square feet per bird in their run. Depending on the number of birds you have, that gets too big to move without a crew.

* * *

I was upstairs one day when a sound I’d never heard from the chickens echoed from the backyard. An intense high-pitched shriek, a staccato warning that continued in repeated measures like some deafening tornado siren. The shrill babble that followed sounded like my flock of three had increased tenfold. As I lunged toward the window, everything suddenly went silent. Nothing moved, not even the leaves on the trees. It was like the eerie stillness before the storm hits.

Chickens make over thirty different sounds, more than most of the bird population. When they’re happy and satisfied, they putter about scratching and pecking, mumbling softly to themselves. When everything is right in their world, for instance when they’re sunbathing after a tasty lunch and leisurely dust bath, they emit a throaty, guttural vibration that sounds eerily similar to a cat’s purr.

They occasionally let out a deep, panicked bonk-bonk-bonk when they suddenly find themselves alone with no one in sight. These social birds travel in cliques with a pack mentality and are struck with terror when separated from their group. But the sound I had just heard was different.

It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning and a lawnmower buzzed in the distance as Marty and I thundered down the stairs. I didn’t hear another sound and wondered why we were racing like greyhounds to beat each other out the door. Then I heard someone shout “No!” Someone else added, “Get her!”

Had the chickens escaped? If so, we were going to have a devil of a time catching them. Chickens are extremely sensitive