🐔 I Went Hen Hunting at the Flea Market and Came Home Empty-Handed

 

So Sunday I had a mission. Not a treasure hunt — a HEN hunt. And before you ask, yes, I take hen hunting just as seriously as treasure hunting. Maybe more. A bad treasure find just sits on a shelf. A bad flock fit lives in my backyard.

Here's the situation in my coop: four hens and one rooster — Too Tall Jones — who is four months old and already towers over every single one of them. He's a Light Sussex — big boy, big feet, big opinions, and absolutely convinced he runs the place. The girls are a mixed crew: Penelope's an Ayam Cemani, Cutie Patootie's a Barred Rock Plymouth, and Lucy Lou and Ethel Mae are golden-laced Wyandotte twins. They tolerate him. Mostly.

And I want more eggs, which means I need more girls. Specifically, I want Brahma hens. Brahmas are gentle giants — big, calm, good layers, and hardy enough to handle whatever weather Texas throws at them. More importantly, they'd be big enough to hold their own with my giant teenage rooster instead of getting bowled over by him. That's the plan: grow the flock with girls who fit.

So Bryan, Gunner, and I headed to the Mexican flea market to see who was out there.

Now, I need you to understand how I pick a chicken, because it's not normal. I don't walk up and pick the prettiest one or the cheapest one or the first one somebody hands me. I wait for one to call my name. I know how that sounds. I don't care. That's the rule, and it's never steered me wrong. A chicken either calls me or she doesn't. It's not something I can explain better than that — it's a feeling, and you either feel it or you don't. And I don't bring home a bird I didn't feel it for. Period.

And y'all... none of them did.

I walked the stalls. I looked. I listened. I stood there waiting for that little tug that says "this one." Nothing. Not one hen at that whole market called my name. Row after row of perfectly fine chickens, and not a single one was mine.

Honestly, it's the same way I treasure hunt. I don't force a find. If I'm scrolling and nothing grabs me, I close the app. Same rule, different aisle. Forcing it is how you end up with stuff you don't actually love — whether it's a gadget on a shelf or a hen in your coop.

So I came home empty-handed, and I'm not even mad about it. I'm not filling a spot in my coop with a chicken I don't feel something for just to say I got one. That's how you end up with a bird that doesn't fit, and then everybody's stressed, including me. The coop is fine as it is. Four hens and one very large rooster, all getting along. The right girls are out there somewhere. I'll know them when I hear them. I'm patient about this in a way I'm patient about almost nothing else.

The trip wasn't a total loss, though. Lunch at Jalapeno's in Quinlan — excellent, as always, worth the drive on its own — and we grabbed feed and crumbles at Fix and Feed, so the girls at home ate well even if they didn't get new sisters. Everybody won something, even if it wasn't what I went for.

And when we got home, it was the usual evening routine, which honestly might be my favorite part of the day: let Penelope, Cutie Patootie, Lucy Lou, and Ethel Mae out to bug-hunt while I cleaned the coop, fresh water, feed bucket refilled, treats all around. There's something about watching them scratch around the yard, doing their happy chicken business, that just settles me. Four hens and one giant rooster, all exactly where they belong.

The hunt isn't over. It just wasn't Sunday. When I do find the right Brahma girls, they'll get their quarantine time first before they meet the flock — that's just good sense — and then we'll see how Too Tall handles having some ladies his own size around. I have a feeling he's going to be very pleased with himself.

Until then, we wait. And we eat well at Jalapeno's in the meantime.

Clucky would approve of my standards. 😂

Until next time, Happy Treasure Hunting.

~ Cheryl and Clucky Diva