The Hen Hilton has closed its doors. And the proprietors couldn't be happier.
Some of you may remember that Snow, our Plymouth Rock hen, severed a chunk of her comb back on Sept. 15, when she freaked out during demolition work on a nearby lot and cut herself, probably on chicken wire.
Once Liz and I stopped the bleeding, cleaned her up and applied medication to her messy wound, Snow had to be isolated to prevent our other hens, Nellie and Hope, from pecking at her during her recovery. Chickens, those cannibalistic little devils, are wont to do just that when they spy an injured victim.
As a result, Snow ended up in a backup pen at the other end of the yard -- outside during the day, in the garage for safety at night. That pen became her own private suite, complete with food and water bowls and treats galore. There she remained for almost three weeks, except for our abortive attempt to reunite the hens on Sept. 18, which lasted about 15 minutes because Nellie and Hope were too aggressive. Oh, and there was last week's breakout, when Snow escaped from Liz's clutches and ran toward the main pen, where Nellie and Hope were located. We finally caught her and brought her back to her home away from home.
By last Friday, though, Snow's wound had healed. The scab was gone, and some fresh skin had emerged. She seemed to be tired of life in the isolation ward, even though we had been doting on her. To put it bluntly, she was lonely.
She likes her peeps, but she missed the other chicks.
So, with some trepidation, we decided to try reuniting the flock yet again.
The experts claim the best way to introduce a new chicken -- and we figured Snow had been away long enough to be sort of new at this point -- is to place the newcomer in the coop at night. Chickens sleep very soundly, and the theory is that the regulars won't really notice a nighttime addition until everyone wakes up the next morning. With the latest arrival already in place by then, the flock may live happily ever after, with little or no fuss.
So that's what we did. Once it was dark outside on Friday, and Nellie and Hope had gone to bed, we placed Snow in the coop. I was disappointed to see that she settled into the nest box for the night, instead of joining the other hens up on the roost. But at least there was no fighting. All three hens emerged unscathed Saturday morning and immediately got down to the serious business of attacking their breakfast.
Once that was out of the way, though, Hope and Nellie began poking at Snow. At first, Liz and I were worried, but we quickly saw that the pecks were too gentle to draw blood. In fact, the pecking was more inquisitive than aggressive, and Snow tolerated it well. To my amazement, Snow lightly pecked the other hens too, as if returning the favor. It seemed to be some sort of get-acquainted ritual, like one dog sniffing another pup's you know what.
When snack time rolled around late Saturday morning, all three hens ate out of Liz's hand, and all at the same time. By Saturday night, the three of them were roosting side by side, with Snow smack dab in the middle. It was clear that "the girls" were glad to be together again, and Snow seemed to be the happiest of them all. Nellie and Hope were quiet, but Snow as clucking animatedly, like an excited kid.
I was quite relieved, primarily for her sake but also our own. Caring for one flock in one coop is quite enough work, thank you very much, without running a separate, movable, single-occupancy poultry palace on the side.
So that's what we did. Once it was dark outside on Friday, and Nellie and Hope had gone to bed, we placed Snow in the coop. I was disappointed to see that she settled into the nest box for the night, instead of joining the other hens up on the roost. But at least there was no fighting. All three hens emerged unscathed Saturday morning and immediately got down to the serious business of attacking their breakfast.
Once that was out of the way, though, Hope and Nellie began poking at Snow. At first, Liz and I were worried, but we quickly saw that the pecks were too gentle to draw blood. In fact, the pecking was more inquisitive than aggressive, and Snow tolerated it well. To my amazement, Snow lightly pecked the other hens too, as if returning the favor. It seemed to be some sort of get-acquainted ritual, like one dog sniffing another pup's you know what.
When snack time rolled around late Saturday morning, all three hens ate out of Liz's hand, and all at the same time. By Saturday night, the three of them were roosting side by side, with Snow smack dab in the middle. It was clear that "the girls" were glad to be together again, and Snow seemed to be the happiest of them all. Nellie and Hope were quiet, but Snow as clucking animatedly, like an excited kid.
I was quite relieved, primarily for her sake but also our own. Caring for one flock in one coop is quite enough work, thank you very much, without running a separate, movable, single-occupancy poultry palace on the side.
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| Nellie, Hope and Snow, before "the incident." The musketeers are together again. |
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