Chet: The Crowing Hen Who Chose Me

Some chickens get a name because you need to tell them apart. Some get a name because of their color, something stupid they did, or some other little thing that makes them stand out.

Chet got a name because every morning when I went out to check on the chicks, she came to see me.

She was only a couple months old and had just feathered out, but it had already become our routine. I'd walk in and Chet would fly up to greet me. Sometimes she'd land beside me. Sometimes she'd perch right on my arm. But she did it every single morning.

Every morning.

She was also doing that ridiculous little chest-bumping thing young cockerels do when they're starting to figure themselves out, and I was convinced she was a boy. So this little chicken who had decided I apparently belonged to her needed a name.

I called him Chet.

Turns out I got one fairly important detail wrong.

Chet Was Obviously a Cockerel...Until She Wasn't

For a while, Chet being a cockerel made perfect sense. There was the chest bumping when she was little. Then came a comb and wattles that seemed much too big for a pullet. Eventually she even crowed. When it came time to separate the pullets from the cockerels, Chet went in with the boys.

She didn't care.

Apparently neither did they.

The cockerels pretty much left her alone, and Chet went right on being Chet. The problem was that as she matured, she had hen feathering. No matter how many other things seemed to scream rooster, the feathers weren't cooperating with my diagnosis.

So I posted pictures of her in a Swedish Flower Hen Facebook group and asked for opinions. One of the biggest breeders in the group had seen birds with unusual sex development before and wondered whether something similar could be going on with Chet. At that point we had a bird with hen feathering, an oversized comb and wattles, and a crow. Looking at her clearly wasn't getting us anywhere.

That's why I finally had her DNA tested.

Female.

Chet, the little cockerel I'd named months earlier, was a hen.

The name stayed.

Wherever I Was, Chet Wasn't Far Behind

Finding out Chet was a hen solved the mystery, but it didn't change our relationship at all. By then, she'd been choosing me every morning since she was little.

When the cockerels were out free ranging, Chet would lead the boys right into the shop with her. Not accidentally wander in. Lead the damn parade. Apparently if Chet was going to see what I was doing, everybody else might as well come too.

She made herself at home in there. She'd curl up and fall asleep on the rug just inside the door. If I was working at my desk and she decided I'd been ignoring her long enough, she'd jump right up there and demand attention.

This chicken had absolutely no concept of appropriate workplace boundaries.

And I loved it.

She'd started out as this funny little chick who flew up to greet me every morning, and somehow she'd become part of my normal day. I expected Chet to be there. In the yard, in the shop, beside my desk, on my arm. Wherever I happened to be, there was a pretty good chance Chet would eventually show up.

And Then She Wasn't There

Eventually, Chet developed a vent prolapse. I tried to save her, but I couldn't.

I lost her.

There's no clever chicken story hiding in that part. Chet had been flying up to greet me since she was barely more than a chick. She'd followed me around the farm, slept on the rug in my shop, jumped onto my desk when she wanted attention, and made herself such a normal part of my day that I don't think I realized just how much space she'd taken up in it.

Until she wasn't there anymore.

I missed the chicken who came looking for me.

I still miss her.

She'll Always Be Chet

Chet's story used to be wrapped up in the branding for something I sold years ago. That's actually why I originally wrote about her. But that product is gone, and Chet's story deserves to stay.

Yes, she's the Swedish Flower Hen everybody thought was a rooster. She's the hen who chest bumped like a little cockerel, lived with the boys, grew an impressive comb and wattles, crowed, confused experienced breeders, and eventually required a DNA test to settle the question.

That's a hell of a chicken story all by itself.

But when I think about Chet, that's not the first thing I remember.

I remember walking out to check on the chicks every morning and seeing this little bird fly up to meet me.

I remember her perched on my arm.

I remember her leading the boys into the shop, asleep on the rug by the door, and jumping onto my desk because apparently whatever I was doing could wait.

Chet chose me before I even knew she was Chet.

Maybe that's why, all these years later, I still miss her so damn much.