Daisy May and Beauregard

Our first chickens were a breed called Araucanas, which over the years have been bred in the U.S. and renamed “Ameraucanas.” I’m not quite sure how we ended up with them as our first birds, especially when Leghorns, Rhode Island Reds, and Barred Rocks were so common. Later, I learned they were originally South American fighting chickens—but that’s a whole other story.

We got them as chicks, just beginning to lose their soft fuzz and grow in real feathers. We were hoping for one hen and one rooster, though at the time we weren’t entirely sure what we had.

After a few weeks, there was a dramatic shift—and it became clear our wish had come true.

The little rooster began to develop stunning tail feathers—black with shimmering blue-green iridescence. His neck feathers came in a deep, fiery orange that glowed in the sunlight. He was truly beautiful. His tail stood over twelve inches high, with long, flowing feathers that curled and drifted in the breeze.

He was the complete opposite of his mate, Daisy May.

She was petite, compact—almost like a powder puff—but surprisingly solid when you picked her up. All muscle. Where he was dark and striking, Daisy May was soft and light-colored—a dusty white with delicate gray feathers, each edged in pale brown with a faint streak running through the center.

Daisy (Light grey hen) and her hubby Beauregard by the burning pile.

Daisy's eggs

We waited in anticipation for her to grow up because the surprise about Araucanas is that they lay colored eggs. You see Araucanas unlike typical chickens that lay white or brown eggs, Araucanas produce soft blue, olive green, and even pink eggs. This is more common today, since the popularity of this breed, but was unheard of back in the 70’s.

I’d even heard their eggs were lower in cholesterol, though I never knew if that was true.

As Daisy May approached six months old, I made a habit of checking the nesting boxes daily, waiting for that first egg.

One day, I walked into the coop and noticed something in the wooden crate we used as a nesting box—a tiny dome just barely visible in the center of the hay. I leaned in closer.

There it was.

A small, perfect olive-green egg, nestled in the swirl of straw.

She felt magical.

From that day on, Daisy laid one egg nearly every day for years.

Amazing blue and green eggs!

hatching

When she was about a year old, she began letting her eggs accumulate in the nest. We decided to leave them. When a hen goes broody—ready to hatch chicks—she makes a very distinct sound, different from her usual egg-laying chatter. When Daisy began that low, steady murmur, my mother and I knew.

We gently lifted her to peek underneath. She didn’t mind. Beneath her tiny body were ten eggs, and she stretched herself as wide as she could to cover them.

Each day, she instinctively turned the eggs with her beak—a critical behavior. Even in artificial incubators, you have to replicate this by marking the eggs and turning them daily. If you don’t, chicks can develop deformities and be unable to walk.

But Daisy didn’t need any help.

After a couple of weeks, the eggs deepened into a rich, glossy olive color—almost like jade—likely from the warmth and oils from her feathers. I waited anxiously for the hatch.

Twenty-one days later, Daisy stepped off the nest.

I stood quietly in front of the box, listening.

Tiny peeping sounds came from inside the shells.

Within hours, the chicks began breaking free, using their small “egg tooth” to crack the shell and wriggle out—wet, fragile, and full of life. Their markings were unusual: not solid yellow or black, but streaked with brown stripes along their backs and wings. They looked almost like miniature quail, or even tiny versions of baby ostriches.

Perhaps a hint of their wild South American roots.

Daisy May was an exceptional mother. She showed each chick where to find food and water, and she responded instantly if one strayed too far. Other hens I had later were not nearly as attentive, and often lost chicks—but Daisy rarely did.

In fact, she was so successful that before long, our yard was overrun with her offspring. Blue and pink eggs joined our daily collection… along with more than a few unwanted young roosters.

Their fate is another story entirely.

But Daisy May will always hold a special place in my heart—my first chicken, with her magical olive-green eggs.

Some of our chicks. This isn't Daisy, but a hen named Scarlett

beauregard

As much as we adored Daisy May, the opposite was true of her husband, Beauregard.

While he was breathtakingly beautiful, he was the meanest chicken I have ever encountered.

“Aggressive” doesn’t quite cover it.

He was ruthless.

Anything that entered his territory—my brother, me, my grandmother, even the dog—was a target. He claimed the back pasture as his domain and defended every inch of it with relentless determination.

To make matters worse, Beauregard grew an incredible set of spurs—long, dagger-like nails on the backs of his legs. They were easily two inches long and razor-sharp, resembling sharp, pointed alligator teeth.

And he knew exactly how to use them.

He would leap into the air, tuck his legs, and strike forward with both spurs in a terrifying attack. It was like something out of a martial arts film.

We started carrying brooms whenever we went into the pasture, but even that didn’t feel like enough. It was like playing baseball with a rooster—you could swat him away, but he’d land, regroup, and charge again.

Most of the time, we just ran.

The worst was when he caught you off guard—rounding a corner, suddenly face-to-face with him, broomless and defenseless. It was excellent exercise, constantly sprinting away from an angry rooster.

Usually, we escaped with scratches and scrapes.

But eventually, Beauregard got better.

And that’s when the hospital became involved.

Beauregard waiting to pounce!

One day, my mom was leaving a small shed where we kept the washer and dryer, carrying a basket of laundry. She was inside a fenced area where Beauregard normally didn’t go, so her guard was down.

But that day, he had gotten in—whether by flying over the gate or slipping through a gap.

As she turned the corner, he struck.

With perfect precision, he drove one of his spurs straight into the heel of her foot. It went in so deeply that when she reached down to pull him off, she couldn’t free him at first. He flapped wildly, his body twisting while his spur remained embedded.

Finally, with a hard pull, she managed to yank it free.

Beauregard crows as Mrs. Browning eats some scratch.

She limped back to the house, bleeding, while Beauregard strutted, crowed, and danced among the hens.

“It’s just his nature,” she said on the way to the emergency room. “He’s defending his territory.”

But after the tetanus shot, antibiotics, and a very unpleasant cleaning of the wound… her sympathy wore thin.

Still, her kind heart spared him.

And so the broom-swinging, running, and screaming continued for years.

Until one night, a raccoon broke into the coop.

It happened occasionally—sometimes even a bobcat—but this time, the raccoon tore through the wire and got fully inside. It killed one of the hens (thankfully not Daisy May) and stayed to eat.

What it didn’t expect… was Beauregard.

He flew down from his perch, sounding the alarm, placing himself between the hens and the intruder—a behavior many roosters instinctively display.

The raccoon turned on him.

From the house, we could hear the chaos—squawking, pounding, feathers flying, and a strange, terrible screaming. My mom grabbed a shotgun and a flashlight and ran for the coop, but it was far out in the pasture.

By the time she arrived, Beauregard lay still.

Nearby was the half-eaten hen.

At first, it looked like the raccoon had won—Beauregard’s neck appeared broken.

But then my mom swept the flashlight across the coop.

In the corner lay the raccoon.

Dead.

Its face and chest were riddled with wounds—multiple punctures from Beauregard’s spurs.

Beauregard may have died…

…but he took the raccoon with him.

And in the end, that was one hell of a rooster.