Our three hens were unusually agitated when I released them from the coop at 5:30 yesterday morning. They’re always eager to get outside for their breakfast. But this wasn’t anticipation. It was apprehension.
I knew something was amiss as soon as I opened the coop door, because Hope, our most timid hen and normally the last of the three to make it out into the pen, raced through the door before Snow and Nellie. We’ve had Hope for three years now, and I'm quite sure this was the first time she ever beat both of her pals to the exit.
Snow and Nellie were, literally, right on her tail. Once they all got outside, they pecked a bit at their feed, and then began wandering around the pen, clucking loudly and peering intently at their surroundings, as if on the lookout for something. It was a relatively mild case of Chicken Little Syndrome. The hens were upset, but not running around in a squawking frenzy.
I’ll probably never know what disturbed “the girls,” but I can guess. My theory is that, when they woke up shortly before I arrived on the scene, they saw or heard or smelled some critter scurrying about outside the coop. Maybe it was a raccoon in search of a chicken dinner, or a skunk hoping to snag an egg, or even a squirrel that had the audacity to jump atop the coop or the pen in one of those random acrobatic displays that squirrels love so much.
I talked to the hens in a soft, soothing voice for a minute or two, and they began to settle down. Too bad I don’t have the same effect on humans. I could set up shop as a therapist, or a crisis counselor.
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