Cold Chicken

It is too much to hope for a mild winter after the last few days, and counting our blessings here that we are not in Buffalo [ just a little schadenfreude going on…] with a 5' snow fall and more to come.  Here it has just been damned cold, too damned cold for just before Thanksgiving, and the hens' first winter.  Maeve, Magda, Martha, Minerva, Morgan & Mary don't know what any of this means yet, having only hatched out of a nice warm nest 6 months ago, but Mista Woosta is coming up on his 3rd round, so his behavior might be understandable.
A cold, grey and nasty morning, frozen everything and the girls are still motivated to turn over any leaf possible to see if there's something they missed yesterday, he comes out briefly has a look around, nails a hen or two and goes back to the perch until the sun has thawed the air out a little more.
By noon, the girls are racing around, being followed at a stately pace by their not very motivated caretaker.
 If there's enough sun, they will clump together under a tree, being indistinguishable from the leaves and rouse themselves only if they see me, whom they have come to associate with the kinds of food they can't find on their own.
Candy bars, ice cream, cake and other specialties.
The heater in the coop has died, and I'm hoping the new one gets here soon.  Though I am told that chickens can take it, I can't sit here in a warm house knowing I have birds who are re-enacting Jane Eyre only a few feet away.

egg revolt

Last week, I found 3 eggs in the coop, the chickens didn't seem to know what they were, or how they got there and they stood around pointing at each other.  Since then, nothing, I had nearly come to the point of deciding to get some additional older chickens and go through the troublesome adjustment period so I'm wondering if it was ruse on the part of whomever is the mindreader in the flock.
They are a little past the time by which they ought to be producing.  I would not care for myself, but there are people in my house now that eat eggs on a regular basis.
These poor girls are having to put up with my reduced circumstances.  I can't afford to replace the coop heater that died last spring, so they are going to have to rely on their reputation of being winter hardy for a while.  I could maybe scare up some bales of straw and stack them around the coop for extra insulation, I know that if it were me, I'd be appreciative, I'm not very winter hardy myself.
This morning, The hens emerged into the sun followed closely by Mr. W, and Millie crouched to the ground.  He stepped over her to get to a hen who was less willing, and I thought to myself, I know relationships like that.

Progress not Perfection

The hens have begun to show a sign or two of avian intelligence, and it's a relief.  When they first came here, they acted like a group of abused girls, keeping quiet whenever I came on the scene and muttering behind their feathers when they thought no one was listening.
After being without chicken conversation for a couple of months it was disappointing.  I thought longingly of previous chickens who displayed invention, creativity and moxie.  Pearl, in particular, my lovely undersized iconoclast who I like to think gave the bobcat's kittens indigestion.
I hoped that putting an experienced rooster into the mix would liven things up a bit, but Mista Woosta seemed to believe that standing around looking insouciant in a beret was enough effort to justify the quantities of hens he'd been given charge of.
He doesn't take things seriously at all, and this from a chicken who grew up down a dirt road where there are plenty of coyotes and other rough trade.
I had to insist that everyone waste the last of the beautiful warm days staying confined to their adjacent yard, because when let to scratch about on their own, they wandered off and stood around gazing at objects I could not see.
I realize that as a human, my priorities are not in order, but when night fell, they were still standing around, staring off into space.
Mista, meanwhile, had said the hell with it, and gone to roost, leaving the hens to figure it out.
This would never have happened on Buck's watch.
At the end of the first day of freedom, there were 3 hens and a rooster in the house, making it necessary to hunt down the sillier ones who were nestled under trees.
I can report that they are beginning to get the idea, they are traveling in clumps, sticking close to the guy, talking a little more, I think I have even heard them singing once or twice - and today I found 2 eggs!
Sometimes inadequate parents produce successful kids, maybe the kids looked around early on and thought they'd better get their act together if they wanted to escape a repeat of the parental trajectory.  Maybe Mista Woosta subscribes to a similar laissez faire approach.  Still, the same number of chickens are here that came over a month ago.  I'm experiencing a dangerous optimism.

Confusion about the rules

A more timid lot I would be hard pressed to find.
The new squire on his first day in the new yard with 6 new young girls stood around with a pleased expression on his beak, but when it came to moving them to safer surroundings he appeared to have better things to do.  It was a little difficult to make out what those things were, but they appeared to consist primarily of lounging, preening and admiring the view.
By nightfall, I checked the coop and found him sound asleep in the center of the main perch with 3 hens nearby, and 3 hens missing.
This is a new record in my memory of avian negligence.  I promised him that there would be a chicken yard set up to counterbalance the flaws in his custodial talents by tomorrow noon and went about the yard hunting for favorite alternate roosting sites.
I found the outsider [there is always one, and she is generally my favorite because I know just how she feels…] under the porch, not such a brilliant choice because it is also a favorite of the raccoons.  [ your teenage girl wanders into a biker's bar…..]
The other two were 1/2 way up a ladder.  Sound asleep.  Complaints were registered and discussed once they were put safely inside, and since then all has been well.
I found a nice chicken gazebo that the previous tenants didn't care for, they saw it as more of a cage than a spa, but these poor girls having come from Agway view it more favorably.
There isn't much doubt in my mind that I'm going to be up against another problem that makes life for the slave class here less than ideal, I will tell them what I tell myself, that winter isn't personal.
Just like they let me know that their withholding eggs is not personal.

The new girls

This morning I woke to the sound of someone moaning.  At first I thought it was my granddaughter having a bad dream , but then I remembered that I had been given a rooster last night and put him in with the new hens who had been in residence for a day. After a couple of months in a chicken free environment, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing so I bought 6 pullets.  The first part of the first day, they refused to leave the coop, then 3 of them refused to go back in.  I spent some time with a flashlight looking for the roosting locations they preferred and found 2 of them on a ladder and the third under a bush near the house.  They appear to know that the big house the humans live in is more desirable than their own so I thought a rooster would help them figure it out.  Around here, you only need to say the word and people are showering you with free roosters.  I chose a 2 year old Wyandotte, because I had heard they were docile to humans and after having a huge personality who eschewed docility, it sounded pretty good.  I was not ready for the voice though.  It isn't a conventional crowing sound, more like a long hoot.  I am happy to note that there is now a conversation going on between Mr. Woosta and the girls, they were completely silent or only barely whispering amongst themselves until he came and I missed eavesdropping on their gossip and opinions.

Chickens.

I am definitely going to restrict the movement of my avian neighbors.  As soon as I let them out in the morning, they run like hell for my house and stand as close to the door as they can get for hours and stare at me while I try to get anything done.
I tried to distract them by putting up a large 3 sided mirror where they could admire themselves instead of insisting that I admire them all the time, but after about 15 minutes they figure out that it is only a reflection.
If you think you can work under the supervision of a chicken, think again.  They are powerful thought transfer masters.  They let me know what they think of my work.
"Not so great.  Why don't you add some more red to that?"
"Why don't any of your landscapes have figures in them?  Can't you draw people?"
This is why there is such a glut of chickenalia infesting ETSY.  People who have decided it would be a good thing to have fresh eggs for breakfast try to get to work in the morning after stealing and eating someone's potential children have to endure the accusing looks of the slave Avians.
It becomes unavoidable that watercolors, oils, fiber art and welding is given over to images of chickens.  You can't ignore what is in front of you, and if you live near chickens they always are; unless they are following you, and I can't recommend against that strongly enough if a rooster is involved.
It is clear.  If I am going to get any landscapes painted that don't have chickens in them, or portraits of humans that look less like chickens, a fence is needed.

The more things change...

There is a deceptive calm in having a rooster who is not a mean son of a bitch.  I was not counting on Spring, though, and once again, I have a giant Maran rampaging out of the coop in the morning, jumping circles around the hens and fixing me with one steely eye.  I don't need to understand Avian to know what he wants.  Now that the temperature has risen enough that protests begin at dawn I know enough to realize that I had better show up at that coop door with a handful of grapes and lettuce if I know what is good for me.
I had this idea that a rhythm had been established, harmony embraced and detente reached over the winter.  People were happy to sit on the perch near the heated water and the display of grain choices waiting for the assured delivery of nuts, berries and other treats.
Now I am being reminded, usually before dawn, that I am expected to see to the needs of my Avian neighbors, that is if I want their cooperation in the area of tick control.
Buck is willing to climb over the snow bank, skate over the ice flow and chase the cat in order to get to the picnic table where he stands and tries to jump up to the wild bird's feeder.
The squirrels stay away when he is patrolling the area, so I guess I should be grateful, but it's going to take a lot of clorox to make that picnic table useable again.
This Buck, in his second incarnation, has all the beauty of himself before, but none of the desire to strip the flesh off my legs.  I appreciate this, but I am not certain I trust it.  He has begun to make the same noises, in the same key, telling the girls of an intruder's approach, gurgling happily over finding some horrible piece of trash in the yard to eat, or letting me know what he thinks of having to share the path with humans.  I had better not, in my optimism think that I can get away with not fencing in the plants and flowers I hope to keep and have the use of this season, there's only so much that may be expected from a chicken.  They may not fly, but they remember flight.   For insecurity, there's nothing to beat a hostage who remembers his freedom.