When the wizened bird-lady told me to choose three chickens from the flock, she clearly wasn’t expecting the existential crisis that followed. In Australia, backyard hens are common, but they don’t hold the same status as dogs or cats. Unless, of course, you’re me... So after re-enacting scenes from Sophie’s Choice, I decided on a friendly ginger, a cautious brown, and the smallest of the bantams - a little chook with beautiful dark markings.

In the weeks prior, my husband and I had toiled to build an enclosure that rivalled the Taj Mahal - such was the love (and chicken wire) that went into it. The work was overseen at the time by our dear dog Fudge, who, when there was digging to be done, would often be found taking a nap on a nearby heap of soil. When the girls arrived, we were hesitant to let them roam freely. But any concerns about Fudge and the chooks quickly vanished - true to his gentle nature, he tiptoed carefully around them as they explored the garden.

Friends advised not to name the trio, as “it doesn’t help to get attached.” Therefore I did what I usually do, and ignored that very sound advice. Daphne was always a favourite name of mine, and it suited our biggest, friendliest girl - the ginger hen. Our brown-speckled chook was the most skittish and perpetually cross. I briefly considered naming her Clementine, but ultimately, Mary felt more fitting - short for ‘Mad Mary’ (don’t judge me).

That left our small, dark hen. We settled on Glynis early on, inspired by my husband's boyhood crush on actress Glynis Barber, best known for Dempsey & Makepeace. It made little sense, but somehow, the name fit her perfectly. With a Napoleon complex that saw her fearlessly chasing brush turkeys, Glynis quickly became a firm favourite. She was also the first to lay, and eagerly embraced the role of town crier, loudly announcing the arrival of each impending egg.

Looking back, my little girl was always ever so slightly on the fringes. Admittedly, she didn’t do herself any favours. For some reason, Daphne’s cheery disposition grated on her, so Glynis would sometimes behave in a way reminiscent of Robbie Williams seething at Gary Barlow before his dramatic exit from Take That.

Thankfully, Daphne took Glynis’s occasional insults and pecks in her stride and they muddled along fine. In fact, in the weeks that followed, I’d watch, fascinated, as the girls purred and trilled while enjoying dust baths in the sun, their bliss punctured only by the threat of a malignant magpie, which sent them scurrying into the undergrowth. On one of these occasions, I struggled to find Glynis, and when I did, the realisation fully dawned on me: just how vulnerable these little chooks were - my smallest hen especially - which, quite naturally, made me worry even more than usual.

The biggest challenge came when she was the first to turn broody. For those unfamiliar with this phase, it’s not unlike Invasion of the Body Snatchers - your once busy, greedy chook is suddenly replaced by a catatonic imposter who refuses to leave the nest, not even to eat or drink, convinced she’s about to hatch chicks. Paradoxically, broody hens stop laying but will sit on any eggs they find. Without a rooster, the only option is to break the cycle - removing eggs, coaxing them to eat, even cooling them down. But no matter what I tried, nothing worked.

Over the weeks that followed, I can honestly say that I spent more time at the coop with Glynis, than I did in my own house. What’s more, Mary fell under the broody spell and the pair were inseparable, united in their attempts to prove the theory of immaculate conception. They say God works in mysterious ways, and this was apparent when during this period, while approaching with feed one morning, I was confronted by a snake in the enclosure. Fortunately for me, the broody twosome were still ensconced in the coop, but happy-go-lucky, Gary, Daphne was marching close to the serpent, with zero thought for the consequences. On closer inspection it looked like the snake had squeezed its way in during the night to eat a mouse, and then struggled to escape back out again due to the bulge in its belly. My clucky pair had escaped unscathed, as had my cheery ‘normal’.

After a couple of weeks, Mary snapped out of her haze. I hoped Glynis would follow, but with no appetite for grubbing around, she was losing weight fast. I was now very worried and turned to the local online community page for suggestions. It was there that I heard from a lady called Rose, who offered up a fertile egg, which was a week away from hatching.

To say that we treated that egg with more reverence than a billion-dollar Fabergé, is understating the case. My little Glynis thought all her Christmases had come at once, and took her nesting duties very seriously. We had gone from trying to persuade a broody hen to go against nature, to proving her right when the day came, and a healthy chick hatched.

As humans, we’re often world-weary - jaded by experience, but watching a creature’s natural mothering instinct emerge, when presented with a baby, is truly humbling. It wasn’t long before we named the tiny chick. My husband maintained ‘Beverley’ to be unisex (I’m not convinced either) however, it suited this gangly spotty bird, who bore zero resemblance to her mum - but that didn’t matter. Glynis was hugely protective, and her foster duties did not end there.

When Rose called to say the other chicks from the brood were hatching - but their mother was attacking them - it was Glynis who came to the rescue. Placed in a large, heated cage with the vulnerable hatchlings, she treated each one with the same love and care she had shown their sibling, Bev. It was Glynis who gently tucked them under her wings at night, keeping them safe and warm. Glynis who ‘spoke’ to them daily, guiding them to food and water, and demonstrating the best spots to dig for grubs.

Sadly, Glynis died this week, my little hen - the only comfort being that it was mercifully quick. She was lovingly cradled as she took her last breath.

Not everyone ‘gets’ chickens. Admittedly, I was naive to their charms before deciding to adopt, but they are playful, friendly animals with distinct personalities - capable of surprising and frustrating you in equal measure.

Glynis was a wonderful mum. Her babies are now teenagers, and though I’m heartbroken that she’s gone, it brings me comfort knowing she fulfilled her deepest instinct to nurture chicks. I wouldn’t have had her any other way.