My Gender Bender Hen
I’m an urban chicken raiser, mistress of a flock of five hens. One late spring morning, at feeding time, I decided to check my charges’ legs for mites. It wasn’t something I did often, but there had been a case the year before, and I wanted to be on top of things. The air was happy with bird song, sweet with the perfume of lilacs as I eyed the girls as pecking at their breakfast, a mix of grain, dinner leftovers, lettuce and beet trimmings from the garden. The black skinned, partially feathered legs of the two white Silkies, Flora and Fauna, looked smooth and healthy, as did the legs of Athena, our Rhode Island Red. Even Mrs. Bush’s gams (she’s the bearded Araucana) looked all right. Then I got to our mixed breed hen, a pretty black and white speckled bird. The six-year-old hen’s legs looked fine too—except for the spurs. Yes, spurs, those long claw-like things roosters fight with. Aphrodite now had one on the back of each leg. My eyes traveled up to her head. She had also grown long, dangling wattles and a huge red rooster’s comb.
I stared in disbelief. She’d been crowing for a few months, but I had heard that hens would sometimes do that. It felt unreal. As if I had just seen our male Labrador retriever squeeze out a puppy. Impossible. I had held this chicken’s first egg in my hand over five years ago; it was streaked with blood from the effort, something I found poignant, wondrous even. We’d eaten her eggs for years, our daughter Lily even witnessed her lay one. As a resident of Colorado Springs, an evangelical Christian stronghold, my first thought was Salem, Massachusetts, circa 1600. As a lover of all things green, all things animal, I was an admitted nature worshipper; heck, I could probably be labeled a non-practicing Pagan. Could I be accused of witchcraft? Or, even worse, could this be an environmentally caused mutation?
It felt very Twilight Zone-ish, breaking the news to my family. My husband went into immediate denial, suggesting that I was somehow mistaken about the chicken’s sex (for six years!?!); our thirteen-year-old daughter Zora responded with a rather sarcastic, “Oooohh-kaaaaay”; her sister, ten-year-old Lily, laughed out loud. She laughed because Aphrodite has always been awful. Haughty, domineering and gorgeous, a mixed breed bird bought at the State Fair at a premium price, with a graceful, tapered body speckled in black and white, long slate blue legs, golden brown eyes, and, well, she did have a dainty comb and minuscule wattles. Aphrodite has always been our most beautiful and least liked chicken.
After several days, in which a supernatural aura continued to haunt our home, I sought help. I sent short emails to several universities which specialize in the Poultry Sciences. In reply, Dr. Wallace Berry at Auburn University wrote: “Sex changes such as with your hen are fairly common, especially in older hens. This happens when something damages the ovary, usually a viral infection. The remaining ovarian tissue tries to grow back, but takes on some of the characteristics of both ovary and testes. In fact, it is referred to as an ‘ovotestis.’ It will secrete testosterone which makes the hen appear and behave as a male. However, she (he) will not be able to effectively produce sperm or sire chicks.”
Well, there it was. A logical biological explanation. The chicken wasn’t enchanted, nor did she make a conscious decision to go butch; it just happened. The incident made me think about that first egg with its crimson streaks, religious debates about sexual orientation, and how mysterious our world is. What babes we are in understanding it, in understanding ourselves. Aberrations in nature are the norm. And the scientific proof was undisputable–Aphrodite transformed into Hermaphrodite–without any hocus pocus at all.