It began to snow before dawn last Wednesday, and within 15 minutes, I was heading out to the chicken coop, to cover the pen with a tarp.
I thought getting out there 15 minutes after the snow began to fall was a show of efficiency on my part, especially because it was still dark out. But as far as our three hens were concerned, my arrival came 15 minutes too late.
Snow, Nellie and Hope hate the snow. They positively despise it. Loath it. Fear it. Cannot comprehend it. They will go to extraordinary lengths to avoid it, probably because I almost always prevent any of it from getting into the pen. It is, to them, an alien force.
I’ve seen photos of chickens traipsing through the snow, looking for all the world like intrepid explorers unfazed by the white stuff under their feet. But not our trio.
They’re spoiled rotten.
Thanks to my quick arrival on the scene last Wednesday, there was very little snow in the pen when I opened the coop door at dawn to let “the girls” out. Just a dusting, really. And such a light dusting that tiny bits of soil remained visible, as if moths had eaten away at the snowy blanket.
None of which mattered to our hens. All three of them peered out at the pen. All three of them squawked in protest. And all three of them refused to set foot on the ramp that leads from the coop to the ground below.
I’ve seen such behavior before, so I knew the hens could not be cajoled into coming out. The only thing to do was to leave their food and water in the pen until hunger and thirst won out. Or until I caved in. Whichever came first.
I went back to the house, from which I can see the pen and the coop. An hour later, none of the hens had emerged. Two hours passed. Then three. Finally, just as I was about to move the feed and water bowls into the coop, “the girls” mustered enough courage to venture forth. They greedily gobbled up a goodly amount of feed, quenched their thirst and, of course, returned to the henhouse.
Snow has been with us for close to five years now; Nellie and Hope, for almost four years. So they probably aren’t going to change their attitude toward snow now, after having avoided it so well for so many winters. I suppose my next performance evaluation will give me a failing grade in the “keeping snow out of the pen” department. A repeat occurrence and I may even lose my job.
I thought getting out there 15 minutes after the snow began to fall was a show of efficiency on my part, especially because it was still dark out. But as far as our three hens were concerned, my arrival came 15 minutes too late.
Snow, Nellie and Hope hate the snow. They positively despise it. Loath it. Fear it. Cannot comprehend it. They will go to extraordinary lengths to avoid it, probably because I almost always prevent any of it from getting into the pen. It is, to them, an alien force.
I’ve seen photos of chickens traipsing through the snow, looking for all the world like intrepid explorers unfazed by the white stuff under their feet. But not our trio.
They’re spoiled rotten.
Thanks to my quick arrival on the scene last Wednesday, there was very little snow in the pen when I opened the coop door at dawn to let “the girls” out. Just a dusting, really. And such a light dusting that tiny bits of soil remained visible, as if moths had eaten away at the snowy blanket.
None of which mattered to our hens. All three of them peered out at the pen. All three of them squawked in protest. And all three of them refused to set foot on the ramp that leads from the coop to the ground below.
I’ve seen such behavior before, so I knew the hens could not be cajoled into coming out. The only thing to do was to leave their food and water in the pen until hunger and thirst won out. Or until I caved in. Whichever came first.
I went back to the house, from which I can see the pen and the coop. An hour later, none of the hens had emerged. Two hours passed. Then three. Finally, just as I was about to move the feed and water bowls into the coop, “the girls” mustered enough courage to venture forth. They greedily gobbled up a goodly amount of feed, quenched their thirst and, of course, returned to the henhouse.
Snow has been with us for close to five years now; Nellie and Hope, for almost four years. So they probably aren’t going to change their attitude toward snow now, after having avoided it so well for so many winters. I suppose my next performance evaluation will give me a failing grade in the “keeping snow out of the pen” department. A repeat occurrence and I may even lose my job.
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