Yesterday, and the day before, the mercury was frozen at the zero mark when I got up at 5 a.m. And it had not budged by the time I set out to release the chickens from their coop less than two hours later.
Caring for hens in the dead of winter requires a greater sense of empathy than feeding and watering them during the other seasons, when heading out to the coop is a pleasant stroll. But no one forces me to brave the elements every day at dawn from December through March. Liz and I chose to keep chickens of our own free will, and with that decision behind us, we are now committed to caring for “the girls” as best we can, no matter the season or the weather.
I walk both of our dogs at 5 a.m. every day, yet that seems to be less arduous. Perhaps that’s because I’ve been taking dogs for early-morning jaunts going on 30 years now. Or maybe it’s because doing so is a simple process requiring little more than a leash, a “poop bag,” and a dog coat when it’s extremely cold.
Dealing with the hens is another matter. Their coop and pen are at the far end of our rather large (by city standards) lot, and their feed is stored in our insulated but unheated garage. So the process is more involved. After decking myself out in scarf, coat, hat, etc., I fill a jug with warm water from the kitchen tap, grab the empty feed and water bowls, and head out to the garage.
Once there, I put feed and a snack into the food bowl, retrieve a bucket to clean out the coop and don my gloves. Then I haul everything - food, empty water bowl, jug, bucket and tarps to cover the pen if rain or snow are in the forecast - out to the coop.
It’s not that long a walk, really. This is a city lot, after all. But when the temperature falls to or below zero, it feels like I’m trudging out to the back 40, especially if the wind is up or if I have to shovel my way out there.
Having reached my destination, I fill the water bowl from the jug, place the feed and water bowls in the pen, unlatch the coop door to let “the girls” out, and nudge any uncooperative hens who don’t want to get up just yet. I then close the coop door to keep the hens out in the pen, lift the hinged roof on the coop, scoop the overnight poop into the bucket and drop the roof back into place. I reopen the coop door so the hens can come and go as they please, and dump the bucket’s contents into a nearby compost bin.
On the coldest days, some of my fingers have started to tingle by this point, so I tell “the girls” that I’ll see them soon and then race back to the garage to drop off the empty bucket before heading into the house.
Tackling this task in zero-degree weather is nothing new; this is our second winter of chicken keeping. In fact, things have been worse. One of my obsessive rituals involves tracking the temperature at 5 a.m. every day. Looking back, I see that the mercury has dropped below 10 degrees 15 times since Jan. 1, falling one night to -10 and another time to -15, plus the wind chill. Now that’s cold.
The dictionary defines “duty” as “something that is done as part of a job.” Obviously, that doesn’t apply here. We’re not running a farm. But there’s another definition as well: “something that you must do because it is morally right or because the law requires it.” The law certainly doesn't force me to own chickens. But now that they are here, and completely dependent on us for their very survival, I do have a moral duty to put their needs above my comfort.
Yet there’s more to it than that. Duty is only part of the equation. On some level, I enjoy going out back at dawn to tend to “the girls.” I like getting things ready for them in the pen, and hearing their clucks and chirps inside the coop when the sound of me shuffling around outside wakes them up. Watching them jostle as they struggle to be first to pop through the small coop door and down the ramp always brings a smile to my face. Even when it’s 15 below.
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