Chickens adhere to a very precise bedtime schedule. If I, a mere human, try to mess with it, I’m sure to come out on the losing end of the transaction.
Our hens — the Plymouth Rock, Snow, and the Rhode Island Reds, Nellie and Hope — roost for the night at dusk. Not right before dusk. Not just after dusk. At dusk. As the days have grown longer, bit by bit, the chickens have delayed their bedtime, minute by minute.
During the darkest days of winter, “the girls” went to bed about 4 p.m. Over time in the weeks that followed, that got bumped to 4:15, then 4:30. More recently, lights out came at 4:45. Time marches on as the season advances, and whether I pay close attention to such changes or not, “the girls” certainly do.
When I went out to lock the hens in their coop at 4:45 Monday afternoon, I was surprised to see that they had yet to make their way up to the roost. Instead, Snow and Nellie were busily pecking away at what was left in their feed bowl. (Apparently, Hope had had her fill.)
By their reckoning, it wasn’t quite dark enough outside to call it a night just yet, so a pre-bedtime snack was in order.
Chickens are not dogs. You cannot order them about, or sweet talk them into doing your bidding. I could issue instructions until I was blue in the face and the hens would not roost until their time-keeping mechanism told them to do so. So I traipsed back to the house, watched the clock, and dragged myself out to the coop 15 minutes after my first visit.
Sure enough, by then the girls were abed for the night, nestled wing to wing on the roost for warmth and companionship.
Five o’clock. It’s the new 4:45. For a little while, anyway.
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