Failing the presence of a rooster to lead them around the yard pointing out the dead mice, struggling insects and a patch of violets not yet ripped out by the roots the girls stay together, and stick close to the house.
This is the first batch of hens who are interested in spending the entire day either under the house or roosting on frames in the cellar. They will ascend to their coop, but will not go down the stairs in the morning, so I guess I'd better come up with a more attractive ramp. They look at me as though I had asked them to balance on a narrow ledge in stilettos, which is a fair assessment. A set of steps I found at the dump is their ramp, and it is probably a little too much to deal with first thing in the morning. Unlike hens of days passed, they have avoided the garden, which to be fair has been allowed to get overgrown with every weed in the Northeast except the edible ones, and looks like a place predators might be lying in wait.
My mother was a terrific gardener; I tend to get rashes and lose interest, but some transit of the great celestial beings caught me in their vortex today and I thought if I can't have a garden this year, I can at least get it set up for the next. After I had ripped out enough space to attract interest, the hens came and joined me, happily scratching around for snacks, and I remembered that being in the yard with chickens is a joy.
I love having people around who are glad to see me, and chickens always are. They are easily bribed with grapes and whole wheat bread, and the alpha always runs over and asks to be picked up. At least, I choose to interpret it that way, she runs over and crouches, seems to like being scratched under the wings, and I'm sorry if she is disappointed by being picked up to sit on my shoulder for a second before flying back to her kind, but it's the best I can do.
At night, I used to do a beak check when I had a big coop, but this one is tiny and even though there is enough room for them to spread out over the 2 perches, they clump together in a tight knot and I have to reach in and count bodies to make sure no independent thinker is sleeping in the hay bales under the house.
The girls sing to each other, it reminds me of middle school when the only good thing was singing and though I haven't learned the verses yet, I can join in on the chorus.
This is the first batch of hens who are interested in spending the entire day either under the house or roosting on frames in the cellar. They will ascend to their coop, but will not go down the stairs in the morning, so I guess I'd better come up with a more attractive ramp. They look at me as though I had asked them to balance on a narrow ledge in stilettos, which is a fair assessment. A set of steps I found at the dump is their ramp, and it is probably a little too much to deal with first thing in the morning. Unlike hens of days passed, they have avoided the garden, which to be fair has been allowed to get overgrown with every weed in the Northeast except the edible ones, and looks like a place predators might be lying in wait.
My mother was a terrific gardener; I tend to get rashes and lose interest, but some transit of the great celestial beings caught me in their vortex today and I thought if I can't have a garden this year, I can at least get it set up for the next. After I had ripped out enough space to attract interest, the hens came and joined me, happily scratching around for snacks, and I remembered that being in the yard with chickens is a joy.
I love having people around who are glad to see me, and chickens always are. They are easily bribed with grapes and whole wheat bread, and the alpha always runs over and asks to be picked up. At least, I choose to interpret it that way, she runs over and crouches, seems to like being scratched under the wings, and I'm sorry if she is disappointed by being picked up to sit on my shoulder for a second before flying back to her kind, but it's the best I can do.
At night, I used to do a beak check when I had a big coop, but this one is tiny and even though there is enough room for them to spread out over the 2 perches, they clump together in a tight knot and I have to reach in and count bodies to make sure no independent thinker is sleeping in the hay bales under the house.
The girls sing to each other, it reminds me of middle school when the only good thing was singing and though I haven't learned the verses yet, I can join in on the chorus.
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