Every morning since April 2012, except when I've been out of town, I’ve headed out at dawn to feed and water our chickens. During those six-plus years, our tiny flock has fluctuated in size from four hens to, currently, two.
The last of our three original hens died last year. At the moment, we’re left with Nellie and Hope, Rhode Island Reds that hatched in January 2013. Four months later, we bought them from a hatchery in the midwest, which shipped them out to us — together — via USPS.
Tending to “the girls” first thing in the morning is easier, say, in May than in February. But I like doing it even on the coldest, snowiest Maine mornings. There are several aspects of this routine that I find satisfying, including its predictable regularity, which is immune to whatever fresh hell fills the headlines every day.
I enjoy seeing the hens bounce around impatiently at their coop’s east-side window if they’re already up when I arrive on the scene. If I show up early, I hear them jump down from the roost to the coop floor, where they land with a heavy, reassuring thud.
I enjoy unlatching the coop door and wishing “the girls” a good morning as they emerge from the coop and head down the ramp into the pen. Nellie almost always comes out first, followed, eventually, by sleepyhead Hope. I rub my hand along each hen’s soft, feathered back as she emerges. Nellie likes this just fine; Hope, not so much.
I enjoy watching the hens dig into their feed, usually with ravenous fervor, as soon as they get down to the pen. I especially like seeing Nellie and Hope, who get along very well, chowing down side by side at their bowl when they aren’t pecking at the handful of pellets that I’ve scattered on the ground.
I enjoy the chickens’ varied vocalizations. (Ornithologists have identified more than two dozen distinct chicken calls.) There's the plaintive sound they make when they think I’m taking too long to release them from the coop, the happy cluck-cluck once they’re outside, and the high-pitched chirping with which they great an unexpected treat. The hens utter an apprehensive warning when they spot a bird of prey high overhead, or a neighborhood cat that has wandered too close for their liking.
And I enjoy squatting down to watch “the girls” for a few minutes (even in winter), studying their mannerisms and the patterned beauty of their wing feathers. That’s when I remind myself that although chickens lack the aerial gymnastics of a hummingbird, or the nobility of an eagle, or the predatory skills of a hawk, or the melodious song of a wren, they are lovely, intelligent, individualistic creatures in their own right, not some “lowly” species in the constellation of birds.
Every day at dawn, I get to hang out with the closest living relative of the T. rex. How cool is that?
The last of our three original hens died last year. At the moment, we’re left with Nellie and Hope, Rhode Island Reds that hatched in January 2013. Four months later, we bought them from a hatchery in the midwest, which shipped them out to us — together — via USPS.
Tending to “the girls” first thing in the morning is easier, say, in May than in February. But I like doing it even on the coldest, snowiest Maine mornings. There are several aspects of this routine that I find satisfying, including its predictable regularity, which is immune to whatever fresh hell fills the headlines every day.
I enjoy seeing the hens bounce around impatiently at their coop’s east-side window if they’re already up when I arrive on the scene. If I show up early, I hear them jump down from the roost to the coop floor, where they land with a heavy, reassuring thud.
I enjoy unlatching the coop door and wishing “the girls” a good morning as they emerge from the coop and head down the ramp into the pen. Nellie almost always comes out first, followed, eventually, by sleepyhead Hope. I rub my hand along each hen’s soft, feathered back as she emerges. Nellie likes this just fine; Hope, not so much.
I enjoy watching the hens dig into their feed, usually with ravenous fervor, as soon as they get down to the pen. I especially like seeing Nellie and Hope, who get along very well, chowing down side by side at their bowl when they aren’t pecking at the handful of pellets that I’ve scattered on the ground.
I enjoy the chickens’ varied vocalizations. (Ornithologists have identified more than two dozen distinct chicken calls.) There's the plaintive sound they make when they think I’m taking too long to release them from the coop, the happy cluck-cluck once they’re outside, and the high-pitched chirping with which they great an unexpected treat. The hens utter an apprehensive warning when they spot a bird of prey high overhead, or a neighborhood cat that has wandered too close for their liking.
And I enjoy squatting down to watch “the girls” for a few minutes (even in winter), studying their mannerisms and the patterned beauty of their wing feathers. That’s when I remind myself that although chickens lack the aerial gymnastics of a hummingbird, or the nobility of an eagle, or the predatory skills of a hawk, or the melodious song of a wren, they are lovely, intelligent, individualistic creatures in their own right, not some “lowly” species in the constellation of birds.
Every day at dawn, I get to hang out with the closest living relative of the T. rex. How cool is that?
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