Chickens are creatures of habit. Or call it instinct, if you prefer. Perhaps the best example of this involves their relationship with the sun. When it sets, they roost. When it rises, they get up.
Religiously. No rooster required.
As part of this daily ritual, our three hens go bonkers in their coop when I fail to unlock and open the door as soon as the new day dawns. A few minutes late and I’m greeted by squawking, bouncing, aggrieved hens who peck feverishly at their plexiglass window, all the while placing the neighbors on notice that I’m incompetent and irresponsible, at least from the perspective of frustrated hens.
This fact of life poses no problems in the dead of winter, when it’s easy to make it out to the coop by 7 a.m. But it’s May. That means “the girls” are up and about shortly after 5 a.m. And eager for their breakfast. And mad as, well, wet hens, if they have to wait an extra 60 seconds to chow down.
One morning this month, in a rare display of perfect timing on my part, I worked my way out to the coop just as the hens were waking up. I could hear them cooing softly inside, but they had yet to hop down from the roost, so there was no movement in the coop.
The next day, though, I showed up perhaps five minutes later. By then, all hell had broken loose in the coop, with much hopping about and raucous complaining. (An angry chicken can make a truncated cawing sound. Trust me. I know.) Upon seeing and hearing such a display, someone unfamiliar with our hens' antics would think they'd gone stark, raving mad after being stuck inside for weeks on end.
One morning this month, in a rare display of perfect timing on my part, I worked my way out to the coop just as the hens were waking up. I could hear them cooing softly inside, but they had yet to hop down from the roost, so there was no movement in the coop.
The next day, though, I showed up perhaps five minutes later. By then, all hell had broken loose in the coop, with much hopping about and raucous complaining. (An angry chicken can make a truncated cawing sound. Trust me. I know.) Upon seeing and hearing such a display, someone unfamiliar with our hens' antics would think they'd gone stark, raving mad after being stuck inside for weeks on end.
Thus, I fantasize. By some miracle, maybe our take-charge, top-of-the-pecking-order hen, Snow, will turn to Nellie and Hope when the sun comes up one of these mornings and cluck: “Hey, what’s the rush? Let’s sleep in every morning this week. I could use a little more shut-eye. It’s not as if we’re on a tight schedule.” Then they'd tuck their heads under their wings and return to slumberland for half an hour or so each day.
Yeah, right. What is it they say about pigs and flying?
No comments:
Post a Comment