Meet the Flock
The “ladies” in The Barnyard Ladies are, of course, the hens. There are a couple dozen of them at any given time, and even though I tell myself I’m not going to pick favorites, I absolutely have favorites. Here are a few of them.
Pearl
The namesake. Pearl runs a tight ship around here — she’s the first one out in the morning and the last one in at night, and she has opinions about everything. If you’ve read the About page, you’ve already met her. She’s the boss, and we all know it.
Ethel
Ethel is a Naked Neck — also called a Turken, because the bald neck and red wattles make her look like a chicken who got partway through becoming a turkey and then gave up. She didn’t, of course. She’s all chicken. Just a chicken with strong opinions about her own personal aesthetic.
Naked Necks are surprisingly hardy birds — the bare neck actually helps them stay cooler in hot weather, and they’re known for being calm, friendly, and dependable layers. Ethel checks every one of those boxes, except maybe “calm” when there are treats involved. Then it’s every hen for herself.
She’s also the chicken people ask the most questions about when they visit. “Is she okay?” Yes. “What happened to her?” Nothing. “Was she born like that?” Yes. She’s just built different.
Hazel
Hazel is Ethel’s quieter counterpart — another Naked Neck, but cut from a different cloth. Where Ethel has opinions about treats, the weather, and your life choices, Hazel just… vibes. She’s the most relaxed chicken in the flock, and her dark feathers give her a sort of moody-poet look to match.
She’s the one I find sitting in a sunbeam in the middle of the afternoon while everyone else is scratching around being dramatic. The chicken equivalent of someone who has read all the books and feels no need to talk about it.
If Ethel is the chicken people ask questions about, Hazel is the chicken people sit down next to.
Phyllis
Phyllis is a Polish chicken, and Polish chickens are exactly what they sound like — a breed defined by the enormous feathered crest on top of their heads, which gives every single one of them the permanent look of someone who has just stepped out of a wind tunnel. Or a hairdresser. Or both.
Phyllis takes this gift seriously. While the other hens are out there being practical — laying eggs, scratching for bugs, settling territory disputes — Phyllis is mostly working on her brand. She struts. She poses. She turns her head just so. If chickens had press kits, hers would already be on its third edition.
She’s also half-blind in the way Polish chickens often are (the crest covers their eyes, which is why they sometimes get startled by, you know, air), so when she walks across the run she has the slightly cautious, slightly imperious gait of a celebrity navigating a crowded sidewalk without her sunglasses.
Legend. Icon. Total drama. Wouldn’t trade her for anything.
Barnyardladies.com 