When the mercury tops 25 degrees at dawn on any given morning in February, New Englanders joke that spring has sprung. But the same reading on an October morning leaves us grumbling that we've slid into a deep freeze. Weather that seems uncomfortably cold in the fall feels downright balmy in the dead of winter.
I tend to think of such wimpiness as a human phenomenon, but our three hens reminded me last weekend that we are not alone in having to adjust to the cold weather.
The deck thermometer read 27 degrees when I headed out to release and feed "the girls" at dawn on Sunday. They sauntered into the pen quickly enough, knowing that breakfast awaited them. But once they'd had their fill, it didn't take them long to retreat into the coop. They spent most of the day there, except for brief forays outside, even though temps slowly rose into the low 40s.
Monday, which dawned even colder, brought a repeat performance. Normally, the hens await their late-morning snack in the pen, where they keep a sharp eye out for my arrival. But the pen was empty as I approached it at 10:30 a.m. Not until I reached it did the chickens bound from the coop and down the ramp, even though it was in the mid 30s by then.
Snow, who is molting, has an excuse. Her temporarily bare patches of skin must make her more sensitive to the cold than she normally would be. But Nellie and Hope still have all of their feathers, so their only justification for beating a hasty retreat indoors was that the cold left them feeling as wimpy as, well, a mere human.
Come February, though, the hens will be hanging around outside -- even sitting on the ground -- in single-digit weather. It's all relative.
The deck thermometer read 27 degrees when I headed out to release and feed "the girls" at dawn on Sunday. They sauntered into the pen quickly enough, knowing that breakfast awaited them. But once they'd had their fill, it didn't take them long to retreat into the coop. They spent most of the day there, except for brief forays outside, even though temps slowly rose into the low 40s.
Monday, which dawned even colder, brought a repeat performance. Normally, the hens await their late-morning snack in the pen, where they keep a sharp eye out for my arrival. But the pen was empty as I approached it at 10:30 a.m. Not until I reached it did the chickens bound from the coop and down the ramp, even though it was in the mid 30s by then.
Snow, who is molting, has an excuse. Her temporarily bare patches of skin must make her more sensitive to the cold than she normally would be. But Nellie and Hope still have all of their feathers, so their only justification for beating a hasty retreat indoors was that the cold left them feeling as wimpy as, well, a mere human.
Come February, though, the hens will be hanging around outside -- even sitting on the ground -- in single-digit weather. It's all relative.
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