Dog owners know that we can, by studying facial expressions, posture and vocalizations, get a fairly good sense of what’s on a pup’s mind. In my experience, the same is true of cats as well, although perhaps to a lesser extent.
Chickens, on the other hand, are another matter.
As soon as I released our three hens from their coop Sunday morning, Nellie and Hope, the Rhode Island Reds, headed straight for the water bowl, which was up against the inside edge of the pen, a mere foot or so from where I had squatted to watch “the girls” for a bit.
For whatever reason, the Reds were very thirsty, so they remained in place for quite some time. Being chickens, they didn’t lap water like a cat or a dog, or swallow it instantly, as a human would do. Instead, they dipped their beaks into the bowl, retrieved some water and then lifted their heads to swallow, repeating this procedure over and over again.
As a result, the hens and I were, essentially, eye to eye at very close quarters for a couple of minutes, before I finally headed back to the garage. During that time, they eyed me carefully whenever they raised their heads.
I was at a loss to figure out what they were thinking. They weren’t “speaking” while drinking, so there were no vocal cues to read. And chickens don’t really have a lot of facial expressions, so there was no guidance to be found in that department. They simply scrutinized me with clear, unblinking eyes. (Chickens do blink, but I haven’t seen it happen very often.) They were calm and alert, but there was nothing more specific to be learned about the inner workings of their little noggins by watching them.
The experts say chickens recognize their people and each other, so after several years of daily interactions, they certainly weren't confused about my identity. Perhaps they wondered why “the food guy” was hanging around, or whether I might be persuaded to head off in search of snacks, to liven up their breakfast of pellets. Or maybe they just saw me as a forever-intriguing example of an exotic and alien species, one devoid of such essentials as combs and wattles and beaks and feathers and wings.
Chickens, on the other hand, are another matter.
As soon as I released our three hens from their coop Sunday morning, Nellie and Hope, the Rhode Island Reds, headed straight for the water bowl, which was up against the inside edge of the pen, a mere foot or so from where I had squatted to watch “the girls” for a bit.
For whatever reason, the Reds were very thirsty, so they remained in place for quite some time. Being chickens, they didn’t lap water like a cat or a dog, or swallow it instantly, as a human would do. Instead, they dipped their beaks into the bowl, retrieved some water and then lifted their heads to swallow, repeating this procedure over and over again.
As a result, the hens and I were, essentially, eye to eye at very close quarters for a couple of minutes, before I finally headed back to the garage. During that time, they eyed me carefully whenever they raised their heads.
I was at a loss to figure out what they were thinking. They weren’t “speaking” while drinking, so there were no vocal cues to read. And chickens don’t really have a lot of facial expressions, so there was no guidance to be found in that department. They simply scrutinized me with clear, unblinking eyes. (Chickens do blink, but I haven’t seen it happen very often.) They were calm and alert, but there was nothing more specific to be learned about the inner workings of their little noggins by watching them.
The experts say chickens recognize their people and each other, so after several years of daily interactions, they certainly weren't confused about my identity. Perhaps they wondered why “the food guy” was hanging around, or whether I might be persuaded to head off in search of snacks, to liven up their breakfast of pellets. Or maybe they just saw me as a forever-intriguing example of an exotic and alien species, one devoid of such essentials as combs and wattles and beaks and feathers and wings.
Then again, perhaps I was, to them, the chicken equivalent of a cereal box on the kitchen table: something inconsequential to focus on while preoccupied with far more important things.
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