Our Neighbours, The Rileys

I can’t name the exact date but a few months ago we had a family of chickens move in to the empty lot next door. Dennis started feeding them. Table scraps and fresh water, daily. As a kid, Dennis was raised on the family farm, working long, hard days, with exposure to all kinds of animal-y stuff like birthing cows, etc…ick.

Growing up in suburbia, I am the opposite. I was delighted that some kind of “poultry bird family” was living so near, with cheeping babies hiding in the tall grass. Apparently I was calling them the wrong thing, so Dennis gently advised. I shouldn’t admit this out loud…I did not know they are all “chickens.” The male is a rooster and the females are hens. Got it. We met the family of chickens; one rooster, three hens, and four half-grown chicks.

The rooster was definitely the dominator, pushing the others away from the table scraps. We learned to set out more than one little pile of food so the ladies and babies could partake in snacking, too.

Dominate, yes, but he should be embarrassed by his less than mighty “crow.” Every other rooster I have ever heard, whether it be on television or right here around town, projects a robust “Cock-A-Doodle-Doo!” Not Mr. Riley. “Sounds like he has a two-pack-a-day habit,” says Dennis. Every now and then he will call out “Aroota-roo,” which never fully develops. He’ll get so far then it just dies away. I think I heard the females snickering…you know, the ones he pushes away from the food?

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It soon became sheer entertainment each time we opened the door to make the short trek to the feeding area, in the lot beside our house. I would have thought chickens had fairly small brains, but what do I know? Remember the Pavlovian Theory? After a few days, whenever they heard the “swoosh” of our street door opening, they would come running. Eight chickens, coming full force toward you like track and field Olympians, from around the corner of the house, or where they’ve been foraging across the road; legs circling like windmills, heads bobbing, trying to be the first to arrive. Sidesplitting!

We named them The Rileys after they had a decadent meal like no other chicken has ever, ever been served. We had smoked salmon that was far past it’s date for human consumption. You guessed it, it went to the chickens. Oh, The Life! I was surprised Dennis didn’t throw in some cream cheese and capers.

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When they rang the doorbell, we knew it had gone too far.

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As the circle of life continues, we have realized a recent change in the family dynamics. We haven’t seen the rooster for about a week. Evidently though, while he was here he was busy. I walked past their “hideout” a few days ago and what do I see? I should say “hear?” Cheep-peep…Peep-cheep! Without upsetting the nervous hen I was able to count eleven little fluffy blond chicks, darting around their mother’s feet, reminding me of the Keystone Cops.

We’ll have fun observing from afar as we walk past the area where they nest. I’ll keep you posted.