How long do chickens live? I’m asked this question a lot. I’ve kept backyard hens for more than 15 years, and yet right now I have the oldest hens I’ve ever had, and they are eight. I don’t expect the most elderly of them to live past the summer. (Although I’ve said that about them the last two years running, so who knows?)

Chickens are not designed for long lives. Birds bred just for meat are harvested before they are mature – anywhere from 8 to 14 weeks of age. Kept longer, for breeding purposes or if they lucked out and are in a backyard flock, they’ll still not have long lives. They’re designed to put on weight quickly and their bones and hearts can’t handle the strain.

Chickens bred for high egg production, like my Golden Comets, Agnes and Philomena, are constantly depleting their systems in order to produce eggs day in and day out. Sometimes you lose a hen to what I call “sudden chicken death” (SCD). There are no warning symptoms. They simply give out and you find a bird, dead on the floor. If they live past three, they’ll often have health issues and stop laying.

Many of the so-called “heritage” breeds, (most of which were created about a hundred or so years ago), are “dual-purpose.” They were designed to lay eggs the first two years, but still have a quality carcass to be consumed as meat in their third. Breeders didn’t select for longevity beyond that. Some of these chickens, if not put in the stewpot are long-lived. Some aren’t.

All that said, with proper feed, housing, protection from predators and TLC chickens can live for years. The hens in my little barn are proof of that. They’re all retired and, for chickens, elderly. None are vibrantly healthy, but they do manage to dodder along.

Buffy has been on the brink of death numerous times and has pulled through. After her last bout, she’s back with the flock. I’m keeping a close eye on her to make sure that the bullying has stopped. Her comb is half gone, but she’s put herself right back with the others.

Twinkydink is the grand old age of eight. She’s an unassuming hen. Lately, I’ve notice something odd about her right nostril. See how it’s disfigured? I think it’s an old age thing.

Eleanor and Edwina are also eight.They used to be the worst bullies in the flock, but now they couldn’t be bothered. They haven’t laid eggs for years. They spend a lot of time resting – Eleanor especially. Edwina is the more active and healthy of the two – you can tell by her red, upright comb that her systems are still working.

Contrast that to Agnes’ comb. Agnes is only three, but she’s a hybrid and she’s done in. She stands hunched and fluffed, napping. Her comb is dark and shrinking. This bird is not well. I’ve done what I can, and we’ll just have to see how it goes.

Her sister, Philomena, is doing fine. You can clearly see the contrast between them in this photo. But, Philomena isn’t laying, either.

Tina and Siouxsie are the same age as the Comets, but they’re a fancy breed that doesn’t wear themselves out egg-laying. Tina lays about 3 eggs a week and takes a long break over the winter. The other day Siouxsie left a tiny, robin-sized egg in a nesting box, (these yolkless eggs are called “wind” eggs.) The effort was accompanied by much hollering and clucking. She appeared quite proud of herself, but hasn’t done anything as productive since.

Betsy Ross, is, at the age of 5, an old hen. I used to take her on my school visits, but she’s retired now. There are moments, when she stands still with her wings down, that I worry about her.

But then she perks up and looks like this:

The queen of the barnyard isn’t a chicken at all. It’s Candy, and she’s the most elderly of the bunch. She is eight, which is quite old for a rabbit. Candy still reigns, although I’ve noticed some subtle changes. In order to get up her ramp she has to get a straight, running shot (I’m going to lower her hutch soon to make it easier on her.) Awhile back she tore the lid of her right eye. It healed fine, but it does make her squint. I believe she’s hard of hearing, too. None of that appears to affect her status, or the joy she gets out of blocking the hen’s pop-door.

This is Candy’s attitude about aging:

A role model for us all.

Topaz, the Buff Orpington pullet, is broody. That means that she is huffed up in the most coveted nesting box, growling at anyone who comes near. There are no eggs, let alone fertile eggs, under her. She doesn’t care. Her hormones have taken over and she is determined to stay put. She could be like this for weeks.

If you dare to extricate her from the box, she becomes a gigantic angry ball of bristling feathers.

Topaz is in the prime of her egg-laying and yet she isn’t leaving a one. Every morning she exits the nest box to deposit the hugest, stinkiest pile of poo in existence (for a photo, go to Wendy’s blog – she was willing to photograph a similar load left by her broody. Me? I toss it as quickly as possible.) Topaz eats and drinks, and then goes back into the nesting box. Being broody does not do Topaz nor I any good whatsoever. I have a plan to stop it.

A hen’s body temperature becomes elevated when broody (all the better to keep the eggs warm.) If you can bring down the temp, you can break the broodiness.

I put Topaz into a wire-floored rabbit hutch. It’s a chilly, windy day. She’s got to cool off.

So far she’s mostly sitting. But, Topaz did get up to eat and drink.

Hopefully, she’ll be back to her mild-mannered, egg-laying self in a couple of days, and she’ll be put back in with the flock. Some hens repeatedly go broody, others get put in the anti-broody coop once, and that’s that. I’m hoping for the latter. I’ll keep you posted.

Eleanor, the old hen, is napping in the compost pile. It is peaceful and cozy.

Someone is coming!

If you sit quietly, says Eleanor, you can keep me company.

I’m not interested, says Eleanor, and she pecks Candy’s nose.

Sourpuss! says Candy.

I know that the other day I said that I wasn’t going to let the hens out to free-range. I’d planted some grape vines. I put down wood chips. It all looked so tidy. But, the girls gazed longingly at the grass. They crowded their pen’s door when they saw me. I had second thoughts about my harsh stance. The flower beds are still bare, with only the green tips of the peonies showing. There is a fence around the raised vegetable beds protecting the seedlings. How much damage could a dozen hens do in an hour?

It turns out, that the answer is a lot. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a flock of young and healthy chickens. The old hens barely scratch the ground, but the Gems are vigorous foragers. Dirt and mulch flew through the air. Greens were eaten. Dust baths were hollowed out of lawn. Big piles of poo were left.

Usually I wouldn’t care if I don’t have a sharp edge around a garden bed, or if the bark mulch isn’t perfectly contained. However, this year, I have been asked to be on a garden tour. I tried to convince the organizers that there are many nicer gardens in town. A landscape architect on their committee came out to look at my property. I pointed out the failings. She gushed about how much she loved it. The garden tour is a benefit for a very wonderful museum. I couldn’t say no. So, on June 1 and June 2 there will about 700 people walking through my backyard. I think they’d like to see something other than dust wallows and shredded plants. The hens will be staying in.

I have ways to keep confined chickens content. There’s the compost pile that is frequently replenished with interesting and delicious refuse. There’s the kitty litter box filled with sand and DE for dust baths. There’s the occasional pumpkin and melon to demolish. In the summer, I have another trick. I put a block of wood in a sunny, hard, packed dry dirt spot in the run.

After a day in one place I turn it over. Underneath is damp ground. Bugs and worms surface!

However, it doesn’t matter how much their pen is like a chicken playground, they’ll continue to want to come out. But I’m not going to let them. I have enough work in the garden as it is. Lucky for them, much of it is weeding, and I’ll be tossing them clods of dirt and dandelions.

Meanwhile, the goats are asking to help.

I don’t think so boys. Why don’t you play on your stumps?

I’ll be posting more information about the Garden Tour soon. It’s open to the public, and tickets do sell out, so I’ll let you know when they go on sale. Do think about taking a drive out here that weekend. It’s worth a trip. The town of Concord has Louisa May Alcott’s house, Walden Pond and Revolutionary War buildings. We’re near Minute Man National Historical Park. My property will be one of eight on the tour. If you do come by, don’t forget to say hello to the Beast. She’s the one animal here that doesn’t wreck havoc. I’m sure she’ll be swimming demurely past the blooming water lilies.

Last week one of the hens tried to kill Buffy. Or, it could have been a couple of hens. I don’t know the culprit(s). All I know is that I found Buffy in a nesting box, and there was blood splattered everywhere. Half of her comb was gone. Day in and day out this has been a stable, peaceful flock. The only obvious sign of a pecking order is that the hens with the most status get the best food first. Once in awhile I’ll see a short chase of four steps, and a peck that misses.The nine hens in the Little Barn range from old to elderly. It’s not worth their energy to strut their stuff. So, that blood, worthy of a television crime show scene, was a surprise. I removed Buffy from the group. All went back as it was, with the hens doddering about and napping in the sun. There were no other attacks, so this wasn’t a case of an usurper trying to assert herself at the top of the compost heap. What happened was specific to Buffy. Something must have triggered the violence.

Buffy has lived a long life and has survived several health issues. She’s a quiet hen that minds her own business. Sometimes aggression is triggered when a hen becomes sick and weak, but Buffy doesn’t seem any slower than normal. Her manure output is the same. She’s eating and drinking fine. However, two weeks ago I noticed that part of her comb was discolored. It looked darker and shriveled. A healthy comb has a lot of blood flowing through it. I thought that perhaps Buffy was having circulation issues. I didn’t think that it was a big deal. But in fact, combs are very big deals to hens – combs are the key visual trait to how they identify each other. To us humans, a thousand brown hens in a commercial flock, all of the same breed, look the same. But to the hens, each one of them is an individual – and they know each other by their heads. Each hen has a unique comb which the other hens recognize. Change the comb and it’s like a new chicken has been inserted into the group.

Despite Buffy’s unique golden plumage, and despite the fact that she has lived with some of these hens for six years, with her comb dark and shrunken, she wasn’t recognized and was attacked as an interloper.

I put Buffy into a spare rabbit hutch, and placed the house inside of the chicken run. Buffy has food, water, shelter and a safe place to heal. The other hens get to know the “new” hen through the hutch’s wire front.

Every day I give Buffy some time in the goats’ pen, where she can scratch, dust bathe and eat grass.

Buffy spends much of her time looking at the other hens through the fence. I’ve never know a chicken to hold a grudge. The other hens aren’t puffing up their chests and challenging her through the fence. Buffy isn’t looking scared. Hopefully, when her comb is healed, I’ll be able to put Buffy back in with the flock.

Buffy is taking it all in stride.