Another Day in the Country
By PAT WICK
© Another Day in the Country
"Chicken feed is getting more expensive," I announced. "Does that make your little hobby less enjoyable?" my sister wanted to know. My little hobby. Strangely, I'd never thought of the chickens in that way. A hobby? That's a little like saying going out to a movie with a friend is a hobby. These chickens have become such an interesting part of my life, a necessity, part of the family.
Last night I came home and immediately thought of my chickens. "They need to be let out for a little while before it gets dark," I said to myself. "These chickens need a little break."
Sure enough, they were waiting for me. "What choice do they have?" you are probably wondering. Well, they could have gone to bed early like they do some evenings, perched up on their high-rise roosts TTT made for them. They love those roosts up near the peak of the roof. Makes them feel safe, I guess.
I opened the hen house door and Black Bart, my rooster guardian of the flock, said, "Here we go girls. I'm sure there is something wonderful out there to eat. All together now."
"Oh my word," my red hen screeched, "will we get out in time before she tries to catch us? What is going on? She's stealing the eggs. Aaaak, after all that work laying them," and she flew through the opening in the door out to the yard, yelling the whole time. She is such a worry-wart.
Often, on these late evening forays, Bart brings the hens to the bird feeder in my back yard. He never gets the whole flock to follow him — usually it's just three or four of the girls tagging along. It's like he's taking them on a mini-vacation trip, "Just wait until you get a look at this," he seems to be saying, "There's food all over the ground, just for the taking. And there's a pond. Lovely place."
This time, Bart led the hens straight to the mulberry tree and when I walked back across the road to my house to eat my supper, my hobby was scratching around happily in the dirt, feasting on mulberry pudding.
Ten minutes later, Black Bart was in my MY backyard yelling. Tooltime Tim heard him first. "What's that rooster yelling about?" he said as he headed to the back door. "He looks like he just got chased over here." Obviously ruffled and not on vacation.
That's all it took for me to be going out the front door. We have a neighbor with a chicken-killing pooch that is supposed to be kept tied up; but one never knows. There was only one bedraggled looking hen in sight — that's unusual because the flock was just under that mulberry tree and now, surely, they'd be lazily dusting themselves at the edge of the garden, if all was well.
And there was the culprit, the chicken-hater, coming across my yard, headed for the hen house and Round Two of chicken-tag. "Get out of here!" I yelled in my best dog-intimidating voice — which worked — and I followed him home to lock him back in the yard. And, now, to find my chickens.
It took awhile to round them up. Several of them were up on the high roosts in the hen house and they told me just how frightening this episode was for them — all talking at once. I was grateful that the rooster had warned me of the impending doom or we could have found ourselves in the midst of a chicken holocaust.
We have a second community of chicks — these are the ones who inhabited my bathtub in March. They are almost full size and look like tall slender teenagers in hip-huggers with narrow waists and long legs. There's one rooster in the lot — Black Bart's son, to be exact — and he looks a lot like his father. He's learned to crow quite effectively, early in the morning, but he still hasn't gotten the idea of protecting his harem. Instead, he competes with them for food, running away with the choice tidbits, trying to keep the goodies for himself. "You've got a lot to learn," I told him last night, "before you're worth your keep."
It's just another day in the country and I'm glad to report that my hobby has lived through their recent trauma quite nicely — thanks to Black Bart — and this morning as I write, Hen House #1 is full of cackling as the girls settle down to the job of laying eggs! And not just any old eggs — they are every color imaginable. These girls are artists! Naturally!
