Snowball Comes to Biology

The first bell rang and the moment I was waiting for arrived. Biology class was coming up, and being the eccentric animal lover that I was, my biology teacher, Mrs. Ruegger, was delighted to welcome my pet to her classroom for a day of behavioral science and animal study.

No other student had brought a pet in, but my pets were synonymous with my quirky personality and vegetarian lifestyle, and I was just as excited as Mrs. Ruegger to show off my beautiful girl, Snowball.

The second bell rang, indicating the start of the third period, but the halls were not yet empty. I'd just met my mother outside and she'd placed my beloved pet in my loving hands, and together, we walked through the school. I drew many giggles, smiles, and confused looks as I passed students, teachers, and classrooms brimming with bewildered, curious eyes. I had brought my pet chicken to school.

I was 14 years old and I had owned my six chickens for two years by then. I can still remember meeting the gorgeous and friendly New Hampshire Red at camp two and a half years before. I had been an animal lover for as long as I could remember but had little familiarity with farm animals.

After I had become acquainted with Falcon who had a home at the sleep-away camp "Mini Farm", I fell in love. She was truly a free-range chicken. She was unconfined to the gates of the farm and would make appearances around the paths nearby, greeting people with friendly clucks and allowing others to pet her soft wings.

She would follow me around and I would follow her around. Looking back on it, I wonder if my familiar red hair was a sign to her that I was family, for her feathers matched the color of my hair perfectly. Or perhaps, she was just that friendly to everyone she met.

Soon after our friendship blossomed, I found myself with a chicken patty on my plate at camp, thinking of the personable Falcon, and feeling sick to my stomach at the thought of eating the flesh of a species that my friend was inextricably a part of. So, from that day forward, and all twelve years since, I became a vegetarian.

The first thing I mentioned to my mother when she picked me up from camp was whether or not we could get chickens in our small suburban home in Connecticut. I was expecting apprehension, but what I found was excitement. She'd always wanted pet chickens!

My father, on the other hand, as we both knew, would not be easy to persuade. He'd always been kind, but not always welcoming to change. Therefore, for the rest of the summer, I dedicated myself to learning everything there was to learn about raising chickens. MyPetChicken.org was an invaluable resource, and it couldn't have been named better.

I did my research, I took notes, and as the summer neared an end, I drafted my PowerPoint presentation and presented it to my scrutinizing father. Again, to my surprise, he was more open to the idea than I'd thought. He saw how much I wanted these chickens and was interested in the idea of getting fresh eggs, free fertilizer, and tick-eating machines.

Finally, the day of reckoning arrived during my first week of the seventh grade. The one-day-old chicks had been shipped from a nearby farm in CT in the mail, and I had insisted that if I was away when they arrived, my mom had to pick me up so that I would be the first person they would see. I wanted the chicks to imprint on me and me alone, because as I had ensured my father, they were going to be completely my responsibility. And as I assured myself, I was going to be their mother hen!

All six chickens arrived safely. I had been anxious that one would die in transit because it’s not uncommon for chicks to die during their first day of life. I had ordered six different types of chicken breeds, but oddly enough they appeared to come in pairs. The New Hampshire Red and the White Leghorn were both yellow, like your classic chick; the Speckled Sussex and Easter Egger had the same brown patterns and stripes running down their backs and across their faces; and the Golden and Silver Laced Wyandottes shared the same patterns but where one was gray, the other was the color of rust.

I watched the adorable chicks grow old, and I gently handled them regularly so they would become accustomed to humans, particularly me. I would watch them as they would stand up, walk around, then slowly close their eyes and teeter to each side before falling over asleep. The neighbors flocked to my house to see my new pets, and the little girls and boys were fascinated by their cute and fragile bodies. Many of them had never seen a chick before.

Early on they developed personalities and pecking order. As chicks, they were all relatively the same size, and the two yellow chicks, Snowball (the White Leghorn) and Little Miss Muffet (the New Hampshire Red) would square up with heads raised and gently battle each other with pecks and pushes of their bodies until eventually, Snowball had won enough times that she was declared the winner.

Once they were old enough to move into the shed-turned-coop, their pecking order became set in stone and their personalities were undeniable. There were two roosts in the chicken coop, and at night the top three chickens sat on top, and the bottom three on the lower roost.

Sprinkles, the Silver Laced Wyandotte, was the smallest and meekest and rested at the bottom of the pecking order. She often trailed behind the other chickens in the yard and reluctantly received some pecks from the other chickens at night. (I should note, that not once did any chicken draw blood or feathers from another chicken, I believe the pecks were more of a show of rank than a cause for pain.) Golden Nugget, the gorgeous, kind, and the most easy-going chicken was second-to-last in the pecking order. She never seemed to mind. Little Miss Muffet was next in the pecking order, but she was almost not in the pecking order altogether, almost as if during her infant fights with Snowball, they’d agreed she’d be a lone agent if she liked. In the yard, she was often by herself, exploring on her lonesome rather than sticking to the flock like the rest of the chickens. Oddly enough, just as this young redhead had become enamored with a similarly colored chicken, our red-haired Golden Retriever befriended the red-feathered Little Miss Muffet, and they could often be seen enjoying the outdoors side-by-side.

Then there was Oprah, who I had named for her fabulous looks and resemblance (I thought) to Oprah Winfrey, who my mother adored. She was an Easter egger with puffy cheeks, a fluffy tush, and a ring of gold feathers around her neck like a gold necklace. Oprah cared about her status and reveled in flaunting it over the lower chickens, but resented being reminded that there were two chickens who were higher ranks than she. She also laid teal-colored eggs. Henny Penny was second in command, the largest chicken by far. A stunning Speckled Sussex with maroon feathers that were tipped in white that sparkled purple and teal in the sun. She was fair, intelligent, and always stuck close to Snowball.

Finally, Snowball was the most intelligent and fiercest of all the chickens. She had a look about her that reminded me of a strict mother and she had an effective evil eye that could stop any inappropriate action in a second. She was not mean to the other chickens, but she was at the top of the pecking order, and they had better remember. I had no favorite chicken because they were all like my babies and friends, but Snowball was special. She would follow me around the yard, let me pick her up, and I even did homework with her sitting on my lap sometimes. Something about Snowball always impressed me, like if she could talk she’d let everyone know just how smart chickens really are. That’s why I chose Snowball to come with me to class that day.

I remember the eagerness and pride I felt holding her in my arms as we made our way to Biology class where my classmates and teacher eagerly awaited me and my feathery friend. I remember the girls' outbursts of laughter and excitement as I walked in the door, and my friends calling out in excitement as if I’d just walked in with an alien that was both strange and cool.

I remember Mrs. Ruegger’s gentle touch as she used Snowball to explain animal behavior and the anatomy of a chicken. Like the way their eyes are located on the sides of their head so they can see 300 degrees around their head. Also, unlike humans, chickens have four cones in their eyes rather than three, allowing them to see colors we humans could not possibly imagine.

I remember how Snowball was nervous at first and then settled down. She looked at the strange environment suspiciously, eyeing my classmates whenever Mrs. Ruegger made a funny joke. Everyone laughed when she pooped.

While Snowball may be long gone, that memory of taking my pet chicken to school will stay with me forever.