Tap tap tap tap.
Those little familiar taps against my feet are all I need to know my best friend is ready to be greeted. I look down to see the sweet feathered face that made sure I started my day full of love, and that little face belongs to my pet hen, Elvie. Her yellow eyes were looking straight at me expectantly, and of course I would never be forgiven if I didn’t give her what she wanted, so I bend down, pick her up and settle in for our daily cuddle. She doesn’t flap, she doesn’t squawk, she doesn’t peck. She just cuddles.
As an autistic adult, it’s always been difficult to make and maintain friends throughout my life. I knew I had a better connection to animals, but when my mum insisted on rescuing hens back around 2017 I had been vehemently against it. After all, chickens were noisy, and messy, and they were way too much work for what they were worth. We had our little flock, and it seemed like more of an annoyance to rescue more hens during my weekends. I was in university, 10 hours a day 5 days a week. I wanted my weekends for me!
Graduation came and went in 2018, I got a job at a local pub, travelled to Germany on my own for the first time. And then, of course, in 2020, we got locked down during the Coronavirus Pandemic. Luckily, despite the restrictions we were able to continue rescuing hens and I found it much more enjoyable. They usually were in very good condition, give or take a few feathers being missing.
And then in September 2020, we had our first caged hens to come to us for rehoming. Mum brought a small handful who were reserved, and for some reason an extra cat carrier came out of the car too. She warned me that there was an extra hen in there who needed some extra care. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but when I peeked inside I saw her for the first time.
Elvie was stood there looking back at me, except back then she wasn’t Elvie. She was completely naked, suffering from a permanent seizure and pale as the chickens on the shelves at the shop. To be honest, her future didn’t look bright, but something in me was determined to at least try for her, or at least give her an opportunity to enjoy the simple joys that had been stolen from her during her first 72 weeks of life.
I don’t know whether it was because of how unfair it had all been for her, or the feeling of being needed by something so small, or that her struggles had finally come to an end, but she was the biggest reason why my attitude towards hens changed.
Over the next few weeks, I gave Elvie her name – a more girly version of Elvis after the king of rock ‘n’ roll himself; after all she was “All Shook Up”! – and deemed her my new egg checker. Every morning I would get up and collect her from the safety of her cat carrier, scooping her into my hoodie and carrying her gently around the garden as we collected the eggs together. I was talking to her non stop, and every egg I gently held up to her and asked if it was indeed an egg.
I usually only got a funny look from her, but I also would get a little, gentle peck at the shell as if she was confirming it every now and then. She would then gently snuggle up into the warmth of the hoodie and have a nap against me, her head usually resting against my chest and at that point her seizure would more often than not calm down. I was struggling with anxiety over the pandemic at that point, but with her presence it felt like another world away.
Over time her feathers began sprouting again, and the day I found her first egg I sobbed into her back for a good ten minutes, and that was also the first day she started giving me her “cuddles”. It was as if she was saying “Don’t cry, mum! See, I’m so much better!” Every day her seizures got less as well, and by the time new year rolled around, Elvie was almost an entirely different hen and her connection with me was something else entirely.
She seemed to understand my feelings whenever I came around; hopping up onto my lap for a chat and an inspection while I was cleaning her coop, or simply nudging my leg if I was struggling. Often I would sit in the run if I was crying or my senses were overwhelmed and she would almost always come to me with the same routine.
She would first make sure the other hens wouldn’t bother me – her pecks were pretty ineffective back then and were usually more her just flailing her head in a random direction – but after that she would wait until I held my hand or arms out before coming in to give me a cuddle. She’s so smart too; bringing her head onto my shoulder and nuzzling into my neck for her hug, or resting the bottom of her beak against my cheek or nose for a kiss.
My connection with Elvie drew me to more special needs hens, but there will never be another one of her. Perhaps it’s her brain damage and seizures that makes her so able to understand my struggles with autism, or her terrible start to life that makes her so able to relate with my depression.
To me, she’s not just some ex-commercial, useless hen that a farmer deemed worthless. She’s my best friend. She’s my confidant. She’s never judged me for my decisions, or who I am. She just sees me as her human mum, and she’s my number one girlie. When she saw me for the first time after a particularly low point and I looked like Spider-Man with my bandages up my arm, she didn’t look at me with disappointment or disgust, or even overwhelming pity.
She came up to me, had a quick peck to see what the bandage was, and then she proceeded to have a quick think before plopping her chest against my arm, purring softly. I still like to think she was trying to fix me up as I once had done for her, mimicking my chatting and body warmth against the part that was so damaged.
I have been lucky enough to help and adopt another 7 special needs girls who need that extra bit of help to enjoy life, but without Elvie I never would have been able to discover their gratefulness and love for just being able to see them for who they are. And tonight, when I go to bed I know I’ll be getting up in the morning to that wonderful, familiar routine with my special, number one girlie, Elvie.
Tap tap tap tap.
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