It’s an annual spring ritual at our place, a chicken chore that I normally tackle in late April or May. This year, though, I didn’t get around to the pesky coop raising until the end of June.
Our elevated coop sits atop a wooden frame. The adjacent pen consists of chicken wire attached to another wooden frame. Thanks to the combined effect of gravity, snow melt, spring rain and summer downpours, the pen and the coop sink ever so slightly into the ground over the course of a year.
To protect the wood from rot, we temporarily relocate the chickens and raise the heavy coop, one corner at a time, using a car jack. I fill in the depression beneath each raised corner, lower it, and move on to the next corner until the coop is done. By contrast, Liz and I can easily lift the lightweight pen. We move it to one side while I rake the ground within and fill the depressions along the perimeter. Then we move the pen back into place so it rests on the ground, rather than in it.
This time around, though, I didn't simply smooth out the soil where the pen normally sits. Instead, I raked up the dirt into the middle of the pen area, creating a mountain for “the girls” to play in. Once the pen was back in place, this mound dominated the interior.
Snow, Nellie and Hope were momentarily confused once they got back into the pen, because the topography had changed so dramatically, from plain to highland. But they quickly got down to work, clucking happily as they scratched and pecked their way through Mount Chicken. It didn’t take long. They dismantled the mountain in no time, redistributing all of the dirt until their turf was as flat as a pancake once again. Perhaps the U.S. Army’s Corps of Engineers should allow chickens to join its ranks; they may be a bit short on advanced skills, but you can't beat their work ethic.
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