Christmas was uneventful in what my wife Liz likes to call Henlandia, the coop and pen where our two Rhode Island Reds, Nellie and Hope, live. The deep freeze that we are experiencing now in Maine had not yet set in, and although we had a snowstorm on Dec. 25, “the girls” went about their business as usual that day.
Two days later, though, things changed, at least for Nellie. When I trudged out to the coop at dusk on Dec. 27 to lock the hens in for the night, Hope was alone on the roost, which is where the hens sleep. An agitated Nellie was wandering around on the floor beneath Hope, gazing up at the roost but seemingly unable to hop onto it. A short time later, I found her sitting in one of the nest boxes, so Liz removed her and lifted her onto the roost, where she settled in for the night beside Hope. It was obvious that’s where she desperately wanted to be.
The same thing happened again on Thursday, Dec. 28, and the following night as well. I worried that this odd behavior marked the onset of some disease, or that Nellie had injured a foot or a leg, preventing her from making the nightly jump to the roost.
I have to digress here to note that, because the weather has been so abominably cold of late — 18 below at dawn today — I’ve fully encased the hens’ outdoor pen in tarps, except where it abuts the coop. The top, sides and front of the wood and wire pen are covered by tarps day and night, to shield the hens from the wind while they are outside during the day and, to some extent, warm things up a bit as well.
In the past, I’ve only used tarps when it snows, rains or is extremely windy, but this marks the first time we’ve had such brutal weather since we began keeping chickens in 2012. New conditions call for new responses. Blanketing the pen like this makes it quite dark, but even in this weather, the hens do not want to be cooped up during the day. This gives Nellie and Hope the chance to escape the confines of the coop and stretch their legs.
No, that wasn’t a tangent. Here’s how all this ties together. By Saturday, Dec. 30, it warmed up just enough during the day to remove one tarp from the front of the pen, allowing the sun to shine in for a few hours. That night, I had yet to replace that tarp when I put the hens to bed. So the pen, and the entrance to the coop, were still open to the waning light. Lo and behold, Nellie had joined Hope on the roost, and without an assist from Liz. I removed that tarp again yesterday, and Nellie joined Hope on the roost again last night.
We finally knew what had happened, although Liz had suspected the truth for a day or two. Chickens have excellent eyesight. Better than humans, in fact. But only in the light. Like us, they are essentially blind in the dark. With the pen darkened by tarps, the coop, too, got darker than usual faster than usual, and that prevented Nellie from getting up onto the roost. Maybe Hope’s eyesight is a bit stronger than Nellie’s, or perhaps Nellie waited just a bit too long to deal with the failing light of the coop. Either way, removing one tarp from the pen before bedtime let just enough light into the coop just long enough to solve the problem.
Sometimes, baffling mysteries have simple explanations, as Sherlock Holmes would be the first to admit.
Two days later, though, things changed, at least for Nellie. When I trudged out to the coop at dusk on Dec. 27 to lock the hens in for the night, Hope was alone on the roost, which is where the hens sleep. An agitated Nellie was wandering around on the floor beneath Hope, gazing up at the roost but seemingly unable to hop onto it. A short time later, I found her sitting in one of the nest boxes, so Liz removed her and lifted her onto the roost, where she settled in for the night beside Hope. It was obvious that’s where she desperately wanted to be.
The same thing happened again on Thursday, Dec. 28, and the following night as well. I worried that this odd behavior marked the onset of some disease, or that Nellie had injured a foot or a leg, preventing her from making the nightly jump to the roost.
I have to digress here to note that, because the weather has been so abominably cold of late — 18 below at dawn today — I’ve fully encased the hens’ outdoor pen in tarps, except where it abuts the coop. The top, sides and front of the wood and wire pen are covered by tarps day and night, to shield the hens from the wind while they are outside during the day and, to some extent, warm things up a bit as well.
In the past, I’ve only used tarps when it snows, rains or is extremely windy, but this marks the first time we’ve had such brutal weather since we began keeping chickens in 2012. New conditions call for new responses. Blanketing the pen like this makes it quite dark, but even in this weather, the hens do not want to be cooped up during the day. This gives Nellie and Hope the chance to escape the confines of the coop and stretch their legs.
No, that wasn’t a tangent. Here’s how all this ties together. By Saturday, Dec. 30, it warmed up just enough during the day to remove one tarp from the front of the pen, allowing the sun to shine in for a few hours. That night, I had yet to replace that tarp when I put the hens to bed. So the pen, and the entrance to the coop, were still open to the waning light. Lo and behold, Nellie had joined Hope on the roost, and without an assist from Liz. I removed that tarp again yesterday, and Nellie joined Hope on the roost again last night.
We finally knew what had happened, although Liz had suspected the truth for a day or two. Chickens have excellent eyesight. Better than humans, in fact. But only in the light. Like us, they are essentially blind in the dark. With the pen darkened by tarps, the coop, too, got darker than usual faster than usual, and that prevented Nellie from getting up onto the roost. Maybe Hope’s eyesight is a bit stronger than Nellie’s, or perhaps Nellie waited just a bit too long to deal with the failing light of the coop. Either way, removing one tarp from the pen before bedtime let just enough light into the coop just long enough to solve the problem.
Sometimes, baffling mysteries have simple explanations, as Sherlock Holmes would be the first to admit.
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