As I’ve mentioned before in this space, our hens are very reliable when it comes to their bedtime routine. Once dusk settles over the yard, Snow and Nala troop into their coop on their own initiative and without fail. They then hop/fly to their roost, where they settle in for the night, amid much cooing.
With the hens in place, I lock the coop door, to keep them safe and sound, warm and dry, until dawn breaks, when I trudge out to release them into their pen for another day of scratching and pecking and begging for snacks. Although I leave the coop door open during the day, the hens usually stay outside when it’s light out, except to lay their eggs or if the weather is especially unpleasant.
It’s all quite tidy and, seemingly, predictable. But I was reminded a few days ago that “the girls” and I may have a slightly different definition of twilight. And the one that truly matters is theirs, not mine.
As the sky began to darken shortly after 5 p.m. that day, I peeked out the back door to see if the hens had gone into their coop. The pen was empty, so I grabbed my coat and a fresh bowl of water, and headed out to the coop for the nightly lock up.
But the girls had a different idea. As soon as they heard my approach, they ran out of the coop and into the pen with cartoonish speed. I may have thought it was their bedtime, but Snow and Nala had decided it was still just light enough to hope for one last treat before they bedded down.
Alas for the hens, there were no more treats in the offing that day. I headed back into the house, knowing I would have to wait a few more minutes before the hens finally decided that they’d put off the inevitable long enough.
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