That Hannah the sheep is in love with Rambo the sheep is no secret. Indeed, it’s obvious even to first-time volunteers as Hannah bolts from her stall each morning in search of her Romeo. If she finds him immediately, all is well. But if Rambo is out of sight—either intentionally hiding or simply munching hay in a newly-vacated stall—she is initially disturbed, then worried, finally panic-stricken and uttering a heart-wrenching, baleful “baa-aah” as the time it takes to find her soul mate increases. Once she locates him, all is again right in her world. She settles into her sheepness, content to roam the barnyard, grazing, stealing alfalfa from the hay room, and plotting kitchen break-ins….as long, that is, as Rambo is no more than a foot or two from her. It is a relationship that she needs desperately, and one that Rambo sometimes seems to appreciate, other times only tolerate.

Enter Barbie the hen.

Barbie is a broiler, the term used to describe chickens intended for meat. She’s one of hundreds who’ve arrived from one of New York’s five boroughs, lucky escapees from live poultry markets, slaughterhouses, transport trucks, and the ritual sacrifices of Santeria. We’ve taken chickens from dumpsters, chickens tied to trees in Central Park, chickens stuffed in mailboxes, and chickens who were drowning in crates left in flooding streets. Our latest, Barbie, was found in Brooklyn, hiding under a blue Honda.

Like Hannah, Rambo, and many more of our smaller animals, Barbie free ranges during the day. While she is young, the exercise is good for a body that will quickly grow morbidly obese. There’s also no outdoor home for Barbie, as our ratio of roosters to hens is about 300 bazillion to one. (Few people, unfortunately, want a pet rooster.) So Barbie snuggles into her cozy home in the main barn each night, then each morning is lifted out to explore the barnyard and cozy up to whomever she chooses.

Unfortunately, Barbie has chosen Rambo.

For several weeks, Barbie has been napping right next to Rambo, sometimes so close that surely even through his wool Rambo can probably feel the heat emanating from her big bird body. Sometimes she climbs on top of his back, the patient Rambo motionless, and falls sound asleep, Rambo taking her overtures in good stride.

For a while, Hannah tolerated the new friendship. After all, Barbie was merely a hen; Hannah could still rest side by side with her love, or stalk him relentlessly as he traveled the barnyard ensuring all was in order.

But Rambo, the most exceptional animal I’ve ever known, had other things in mind.
A couple weeks ago, Lorraine and I stood, incredulous, as Rambo walked up to Barbie and pawed the ground. Pawing is Rambo’s signal to humans that he wants a massage—something he receives whenever he asks for it, which is generally, oh, forty or fifty times a day. Clearly he thought that if mere human beings could discern his wishes, then a chicken could, too. We stood there, my hand on Lorraine’s arm, both of us gaping, as our extraordinary friend tried to teach his bird pal to do his bidding. When it didn’t work, Rambo finally took the tip of his horn, and very gently massaged the little bird.

A few days later, Rambo was lying in a pile of hay. Next to him was Barbie, pulling bits of hay from his wooly coat.

The deepening of this relationship was too much for Hannah. One recent afternoon, she was nowhere to be found as I entered the barn to set up feed.

“Where’s Hannah?” I asked Walt.

“She’s in time out.”

“What happened?” I asked, imagining his response.

“She head-butted Barbie halfway across the aisle.”

I never imagined I’d work at a place where a sheep and a hen would vie for the attention of a second sheep’s affection. But then again, I never imagined that a dying cow would lick my face over and over and over again until he took his final breath, or that a former cockfighting rooster would evolve into a being who begged us to share our lunches, took car rides with me, and happily climbed onto my dog Murphy’s bed to share a nap.

These are the things that love allows. These are the things that love elicits. Animals are far more like we are than I’d have ever imagined had I not had the good fortune to be with them every single day.

Walt Batycki’s Post Script:

The soap opera down at the barn continues to play out daily, as full of larger-than-life romantic complexity as any sordid daytime television plot. Just as we were putting the newsletter to bed, a new character strutted onstage to turn Rambo’s love triangle into a square of drama.

Chloe, a rescued hen from Tillson, has been eyeing Rambo since she was allowed to free range. She noticed that Rambo was all alone, catching a snooze in the aisle. Hannah was out grazing, and Barbie was busy trying to figure out a way into the kitchen for some free grub, so Chloe made her move. She strutted over to everyone’s favorite wooly ram and circled him slowly, making sure to not only be seen, but to be noticed. Rambo acknowledged her advances with a tilt of his horns, one of the charming ways he greets newcomers...it strikes me like the way a cowboy tips his hat. Chloe inched closer, making eye contact in the way only a chicken can, and greeted him with a flurry of blinks. Rambo relaxed, lowering his head back the floor. That was Chloe’s cue to start gingerly picking through Rambo’s wool with her beak. Clearly he enjoyed the grooming.

Out of nowhere Barbie came hurtling at Chloe like a fluffy cannonball, knocking her away with a squawk!

The green-eyed monster wears many disguises, some wooly, some feathered, none of them willing to share.