The pet I’ll never forget: Brown Hen, the eggless hero who loved us – and outsmarted all her predators

Brown Hen was originally one of five chickens that we kept at our home in the Scottish countryside. But chickens do not live long, and over time our flock dwindled until only she was left. Having lived in the shadow of the others, somewhere near the bottom of the pecking order, Brown Hen now took the chance to come into her own.

Hens are social creatures and we wondered how long she would last without company. We only ever called her Brown Hen or “the hen” to avoid getting too attached. But in the absence of other chickens, she adopted a new flock: us.

Whereas the previous chickens had shown interest in humans only when there was food on offer, and grudgingly tolerated us the rest of the time, Brown Hen began to follow us around and inveigle herself into any outdoor activities that we got up to. She particularly liked it if we were digging or planting, and would interpose herself between the spade and the ground to investigate whatever had been dug up. On warm evenings, if we were sitting out, she would hop up on to a free chair and settle down quite happily.

She must have considered herself a fully fledged family member, and was always disappointed when she was not allowed into the house. She had a habit of sitting at the window, gazing longingly in at us and looking as pathetic as possible in the hope that we’d relent.

For a while she also befriended the local pheasants, who wandered into the garden from the woods. All in all, she led what seemed an idyllic little life. Eventually, though, a pine marten moved into the area and the pheasants disappeared, as did all the neighbours’ hens, one by one, as the beast broke into their coops and ate them.

We did our best to reinforce Brown Hen’s sleeping area. But pine martens find ways of getting in everywhere, and we braced ourselves for the worst. Remarkably, though, it never did manage to enter her coop, despite making a concerted effort. It left serious tooth and claw marks on the door, an experience that must have proved pretty terrifying for the hen inside.

But Brown Hen was spared, and in the end she achieved a rare feat for a country chicken: she died of old age. Having slowed down in her final months, becoming less energetic in her endless searches for food, she died peacefully one night in her sleep. In a neighbourhood where hens’ lives are often cut brutally short by predators, she had been a survivor.

What had led her to live so long? I wondered if it was down to the fact that she had never laid an egg in her life. Previous flocks had provided daily batches of two or three, sometimes leading to gluts if they were particularly productive. But our Brown Hen laid no eggs, and was fed and sheltered by us all the same. Perhaps this was the secret of her longevity?

I still miss our little hen, who came bustling over whenever we opened the door. Maybe one day we’ll get new birds, but she has left big shoes to fill.