Six hens lived in the chicken coop at the McGilvery Farm. Milly, Josephine, and Mabel occupied the nesting boxes on the left side of the coop. Doris, Rowena, and Isabel did the same on the right.

Of the six, Milly laid the most eggs.

That, however, was not why the other hens looked up to her. Milly’s intelligence and sense of responsibility were what put her on top. For not only did she feel she had to take care of herself, she felt it was her job to protect Josephine, Mable, Doris, Rowena, and Isabel, too.

Milly and “the girls” were very happy living in their coop. And when, as a special treat, Beth Ann McGilvery tossed corn for them in the backyard from a big aluminum bucket, they greatly enjoyed picking the kernels out from among the weeds.

But all that changed with the arrival of Clarence.

Clarence … no great surprise … was a rooster.

He wasn’t particularly handsome. But he wasn’t particularly un-handsome either.

Like all roosters, he had a large red comb and huge red waddles that sagged loosely below either side of his beak. Also like other roosters, Clarence had long legs, wicked-sharp claws, coarse back feathers, and aggressive tail feathers to make him look fierce if confronted by a foe.

Although Milly felt no antipathy toward Clarence – or toward any other roosters who had cock-a-doodle-do-ed her awake over the years – and even though, on occasion, she had enjoyed their jaunty gait and masculine posturing, she had absolutely no desire to BECOME a rooster.

Frankly, like the concept of an oak tree turning into a lilac bush or an elbow turning into a knee, the idea had never occurred to her. Until, that is, that first Monday in May when Clarence came swaggering intro the chicken coop, hopped up to the top shelf where Isabel was nesting, and with the big, nasty claw of his left foot, kicked her down to the floor.

Kerplunk.

Then Clarence plopped himself on top of the egg that Isabel had just laid, and … and … and … he crowed.

Milly, who was multilingual and understood the crow of a rooster as well as the cluck of a chicken, was appalled to hear his announcement. For Clarence declared, “From now on, call me Clara. You may think I am a rooster, but I was born in the wrong body. I am really a hen.’”

Well, I can’t tell you the level of dismay with which Clarence’s actions were met after he ousted Isabel. Not only had he – big, burly, bullying and twice her weight and size – taken her place, he also injured her left leg, which ached and swelled and caused her to limp for a week.

When Beth Ann McGilvery came in later that morning to collect eggs – “Hello, Ladies,” she always cheerfully said – she was appalled to find Isabel lying on the floor of the coop with her feathers in disarray, and Clarence sitting contentedly on the woebegone chicken’s nest.

At that very instant, wanting to impress Mrs. McGilvery with his newly acquired “chicken-ness,” Clarence tried (and really thought that he had succeeded) to cluck like a hen.

Cluck. Cluck. Cluck.

But what came out instead was a falsetto, but distinct “cock-a-doodle-do.”

Shocked, as nothing like this had ever happened before, Beth Ann McGilvery dropped her egg collecting basket, glared at Clarence, and shouted, “What the heck is a rooster doing in my chicken coop?” Then she grabbed him around the middle, pushed open the door, and literally threw him across the yard.

All the while Clarence was screaming, “but I’m not Clarence. I’m Clara. And I’m not a him. I’m a her!”

Over the next four harrowing weeks, Clarence continued to persecute the residents of the hen house. Every dawn, he would kick one of them off her nest. Then he would crow (still thinking he was clucking) with pride, and arrogantly insist that Isabel’s, Josephine’s, Mabel’s, Doris’s, or Rowena’s egg – never Milly’s, though. He was afraid of her – was his egg, that his name was Clara, and that he was a she.

And every morning, when Mrs. McGilvery came to collect the eggs, she found Josephine, Mabel, Doris, Rowena, or Isabel lying on the floor of the chicken coop, feathers rumpled and frightened after one of Clarences’ powerful kicks

I should mention a progression here.

During the first week Clarence occupied the coop, he had his rooster comb and wattle cosmetically reduced (who did it for him? I have no idea) so that he would look more like a hen. During the second week, he applied hair conditioner to his coarse rooster feathers, and they became soft and plush. And by the third week, all of his long, curved, pointed tail feathers had been plucked out.

But he was still twice the size of the hens, he still crowed instead of clucked. And he still couldn’t, wouldn’t, and hadn’t laid a single egg.

Realizing how disheartened all of her hens had become (except Milly, who militantly marched up and down the aisle of the coop, squawking at Clarence nonstop), Beth Ann McGilvery decided, “Enough!” At 10 o’clock on the fourth Monday in May, she lay in wait for Clarence. The instant he flew up to the shelf where Isabel was nesting, but before the terrible iron claw of his left foot could make contact with the little hen, Beth Ann swooped over and grabbed him by the neck.

Cradling him none-too-gently in her arms, she jammed the fiendish fowl into a straw basket she had previously placed beside the door, and latched it shut. Then she drove him to an animal rescue that advertised it never turned down a … what would she have called Clarence? A donation? Surely not. A rescue? Hardly. An infliction? Now wasn’t that the absolute truth.

Then she drove home.

After that? Well … Josephine, Mabel, Doris, Rowena, and Isabel – overjoyed at the return of normalcy to their lives – started to lay up to seven eggs in seven days.

Beth Ann, a naturally cheerful soul, easily resumed her routine of entering the chicken coop every morning with a cheerful “Hello, Ladies.”

And Milly, who was actually tri-lingual and understood English very well, would respond to the cheerful greeting by saying, “Good morning to you, too!”

But to Beth Ann McGilvery, it just sounded like a happy … Cluck.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, vibasit www.shellyreuben.com