Since Princess Layer passed away, we’ve been trying to integrate Pumpkin back into the flock.
On paper, this should be simple. Pumpkin is by far my largest hen, now the oldest with Princess gone, and she has seriously scary spurs that appeared rather suddenly years ago. By all the usual rules of flock dynamics, she should step neatly into the leadership role. The obvious successor. The natural boss.
Except… that’s not really how it’s working out.
Before going any further, it’s probably worth reviewing our current – and rather depleted – flock.
We have Pumpkin, one of the Halloween birds, the biggest and oldest girl. Then there are the gemstones: Emerald (Ems) and Sapphire (Sapphy), who arrived with their sisters on the morning of the Black Diamonds Ball a couple of years ago. Diamond lasted less than 24 hours, and Ruby flew over the rainbow bridge about six months ago.
The newest arrivals are the Powerpuffs – Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup – who joined us at the end of last summer.
So we’re down to six. In between, we’ve lost all the authors and the Greek goddesses. A lot of history, a lot of personalities, and more than a few reshuffles along the way.
Back to Pumpkin.
She’s fully in with the girls all day now, scratching, dust bathing, and generally pottering about. But every evening, without fail, she takes herself off to the coop she shared with Princess. She isn’t asserting herself as leader. She isn’t marshalling the others or staking out prime territory. In fact, she’s actively nervous around Bubbles and Buttercup, who are smaller, younger, and far more confident than she is.
At first glance, it looks like she’s failing to step up.
But that’s only if you assume there’s one role she should be filling.
What I’ve noticed instead is that Pumpkin is continuing the role she played when Princess was alive.
Because Princess was blind, Pumpkin became her quiet carer. She would gently groom her, pecking away bits of food stuck to Princess’s beak, tidying the feathers around her face and neck. It was never showy or dominant. It was calm, deliberate, and deeply attentive.
And now, that instinct hasn’t gone anywhere.
Sapphy isn’t well at the moment. She’s a little slower than usual, and her comb is slightly darker than it should be. Earlier today, as I was feeding them and trying to make sure Sapphy got her fair share, Pumpkin appeared beside her. When a piece of corn stuck awkwardly on Sapphy’s head, Pumpkin gently leaned in and carefully removed it.
No fuss. No posturing. Just quiet care.
It’s become clear that Pumpkin has decided she’s the nurse of the group. The watcher. The one who notices when someone is struggling and steps in softly rather than loudly.
And honestly? She’s very, very good at it.
It made me think about how often we pigeonhole people – and ourselves – into roles based on age, experience, appearance, or assumed hierarchy. The biggest voice becomes the leader. The most senior person is expected to take charge. The one who looks the part is given the title.
But real group dynamics don’t work like flowcharts.
People, like hens, tend to gravitate towards the role that suits them best. Some lead from the front. Some stabilise from the middle. Some quietly hold everyone else together, noticing the details others miss.
Titles don’t always reflect contribution. And leadership doesn’t always look like dominance.
Pumpkin could force herself into a role that doesn’t fit her nature. She could try to be something she’s not. But instead, she’s chosen to keep doing what she does best – caring, watching, supporting. And the flock is better for it.
There’s a lesson in that, I think.
Not everyone is meant to be the boss. Not everyone wants the spotlight. And that doesn’t make them lesser. Often, it makes them essential.
Sometimes the most important role in the group is the one no one formally assigns — the one that simply feels right.
Chicken Nuggets 