After almost five years of keeping chickens, we experienced a first this morning. Our three hens — Snow, Nellie and Hope — simply refused to get up.
When I checked the weather forecast late yesterday afternoon, snow and ice and freezing rain and sleet were in the offing. So I draped tarps across the top, sides and front of the pen. (The back of the pen abuts the coop, which remains dry and snug during inclement weather.)
I was buffeted by sleet and a stiff breeze when I headed out to the coop this morning. Not surprisingly, the hens were not bouncing around in the coop, demanding to be released. But even after I scattered feed in the pen, opened the coop door and called “the girls” to breakfast, no one moved a feather. Presumably, the sound of sleet pelting the coop’s metal roof had persuaded the hens to do what any sensible human would prefer to do under the same circumstances: stay in bed.
Still, I had to check on the hens to make sure they were okay. So I lifted the east side of the roof, which is hinged at the peak. There, staring back at me from the roost where they had spent the night, were Snow, Nellie and Hope.
The chickens did not move, or speak. They simply eyed me warily. The message was clear: no way, no how. And please close the roof. You can come back and clean the coop later. Thank you.
When I checked the weather forecast late yesterday afternoon, snow and ice and freezing rain and sleet were in the offing. So I draped tarps across the top, sides and front of the pen. (The back of the pen abuts the coop, which remains dry and snug during inclement weather.)
I was buffeted by sleet and a stiff breeze when I headed out to the coop this morning. Not surprisingly, the hens were not bouncing around in the coop, demanding to be released. But even after I scattered feed in the pen, opened the coop door and called “the girls” to breakfast, no one moved a feather. Presumably, the sound of sleet pelting the coop’s metal roof had persuaded the hens to do what any sensible human would prefer to do under the same circumstances: stay in bed.
Still, I had to check on the hens to make sure they were okay. So I lifted the east side of the roof, which is hinged at the peak. There, staring back at me from the roost where they had spent the night, were Snow, Nellie and Hope.
The chickens did not move, or speak. They simply eyed me warily. The message was clear: no way, no how. And please close the roof. You can come back and clean the coop later. Thank you.
Haha! Similar scenario here in Portland!
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