When I dragged myself out to the garage at about five o'clock this morning, I went through my regular early-morning routine on automatic pilot. Fill the chickens' feed and water bowls. Don a disposable glove for cleanup duty. Grab the poop bucket, feed bowl and water bowl. Head out to the coop to release "the girls" into their pen.
Rounding the corner of the garage, I caught my first glimpse of the coop, which sits about 125 feet away, at the back of our lot. There, in the small front window, was a tiny red-feathered head, bouncing up and down and darting from side to side. By the time I made my way out there, all three hens had relocated to the large window on the east side of the coop, where they watched my approach with their usual combination of hopping, jostling, pecking and bobbing.
Snow, Nellie and Hope wake up at dawn, hungry, impatient and petulant. Having walked both of our dogs by then, I can't say I'm thrilled to leave the house yet again, this time to take care of the hens. But when I finally get to the coop and unlatch the door a few minutes later, the sight of our three lovely dynamos, full of life as they race down the ramp to their breakfast, makes it all worthwhile.
Snow, Nellie and Hope wake up at dawn, hungry, impatient and petulant. Having walked both of our dogs by then, I can't say I'm thrilled to leave the house yet again, this time to take care of the hens. But when I finally get to the coop and unlatch the door a few minutes later, the sight of our three lovely dynamos, full of life as they race down the ramp to their breakfast, makes it all worthwhile.
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