Myrtle, chicken not little

Myrtle was the exception that proves the rule that all chickens are dumb. Because she wasn't. Dumb, that is.

All our yard chickens had much the same beginning. One day one of the matrons in the flock would look up at the sky - you know the way they look, head on one side, one eye up and one eye down, to anchor the vision - and decide that it was spring. She'd go all broody and extra loveable and retire to a nice dark corner. Every now and then, at feed time, she'd pop out to join the fun, and then disappear again. All you could see was a bright glint in the shadows, and all you could hear was that deep throaty chuckle-mutter that's one of the main reasons we kept the beasts around.

Then, just when you'd forgotten her, she'd leave the shadows and shepherd a little clutch of chicks out for their first feed. Reared this way, of course, the survival rate wasn't too high, but those that came through it were tough, hardy birds much admired by our neighbours.

Myrtle must have arrived like that. Nothing special. Just another young hen joining the flock.

She first singled herself out for attention because she grew so fast and so big. And mean. And fearless. She always had the very best sunny basking spot. The other hens, all her senior, yielded to her single minded unerringly accurate peck. At feed time, if she thought she wasn't getting enough, she'd create a frightful racket and peck, hard, at the feeder's ankles in complaint. It always worked. And, very early on, she showed the yard cockerel she wasn't the type to be dominated. Chased the poor blighter round the yard willy nilly, shrieking wild feminist curses at his cowardly tail feathers, she did, to our astonishment and uproarious delight. Well, Charlemagne was a bully, and needed a lesson in humility now and again.

It was about then she got her name. Myrtle. Goodness knows why, but she was acclaimed Myrtle. By unanimous consent.

Not that it made the slightest difference to her, of course. No, she went on, oblivious, learning the ways and developing the means of the dedicated and eccentrically mean creature she was to become.

Then, one fine September day, just after lunch, when we were sitting quietly before resuming the tasks of the day, Myrtle announced her first egg.

A great eerie chicken howl rose from the hen house. Not the normal, flustered chicken cluck... cluck... CLUCK!. This was a chicken bellow. A cluck from hell. We rushed to see what was going on, fearing foxes, to find her there, in the middle of the floor, gazing fiercely at all about her, and sniffing occasionally at her first, her very first, and totally unexpected egg. The other hens cowered, each in its laying box, fearful of discovery.

I expected an argument when I went to pick up the egg. But no, she just sniffed, clucked, got up, shook feathers into place, and stomped off into the sunshine. She wanted no more of the affair.

So there I was, left holding the baby as it were. And it was quite a baby. None of those soft, namby-pamby maidenly first efforts. Oh, no, not Myrtle. This wasn't just an egg, it was an EGG. Huge. Brown. Crisp shelled. The family oooh-ed in admiration.

It became a daily routine, always at the same time. A summons from Myrtle. She'd keep the racket going until someone went to collect the day's EGG. Then she'd go back to resume her ordinary everyday meanness.

We got accustomed to it, of course. Well, you do, don't you? The effect on unsuspecting and, I can't imagine why, unwarned guests was hilarious, though. Not fair on them of course. But funny.

"It's all right. It's only Myrtle," we'd say, calming wild-eyed visitors who'd leapt from their chairs in alarm. And then, returning from the hen house, we'd show our proud harvest: "It's only the EGG."

Like Myrtle, the EGG became part of our lives. We took it in turns to have an EGG for breakfast. You didn't need much else. Always sunny side up, of course - you'd need two strong hands to do it over easy. A bit like Myrtle herself, I suppose.

Not that we escaped without payment, of course. Myrtle dominated the yard. Top Hen. Belligerent. Fearsome. Chicken-folk she'd tolerate, even Charlemagne, so long as he kept out of her way. And she allowed us feeders to pass unhindered. The cats and dog soon learned to stay well clear of her territory. Well, they would, wouldn't they. You just don't expect, when you're a dog or a cat, to be faced by a great red feathered whirlwind of chicken fury. Nothing in a cat or dog's experience or heritage prepares you for being faced by a great red feathered whirlwind of chicken fury.

Visitors ankles were pecked without fear or favour. Ankles were well within Myrtle's province. They were the right size, and at her level. She just didn't care about what might stand over them.

We took to keeping Band-Aid, tea and sympathy at hand.

The postman suggested after one attack, and I'm sure he was only half joking despite his stout boots and years of experience of farm yard animals, that we should post a "Beware of the Chicken" notice on the gate post.

And so it went on, year after year. Myrtle grew ever more clever in seeking comfort and ever more devious in finding ways of relieving the bad mood she relished constantly.

Eventually, of course, her days came to an end. We let her go on way past her productive laying years, a bad tempered pensioner clucking about the yard. It's a weird family that gets to love a chicken. Again, Myrtle disproved the rule. It was a sad little gathering in the orchard when we laid her to rest. Might sound daft, in fact, I'm sure it will, but we even put up a little marker over her. "Here lies Myrtle. Mind your ankles."

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