Our two hens and I have what is normally an unchanging early-morning routine. I head out to the coop at dawn, place food and water in the adjacent pen, unlatch the coop door, and greet “the girls” as they scamper down into the pen for breakfast. While they eat, I clean the coop.
Yesterday morning, I had to break with tradition in order to drive my wife Liz from our home in Augusta, Maine, to Portland, so she could catch a train. The schedule required that we leave the house well before sunrise. And because of the distance involved — 60 miles each way — I knew I wouldn’t get back home until long after the rising sun told Nellie and Hope it was time to get up and head outside. They become positively apoplectic if I show up even a few minutes late to release them, bouncing around in the locked coop like deranged inmates. I couldn't leave them in that state for more than an hour while I drove back home.
So I compromised. Before Liz and I left the house at 5 a.m. or so, when it was still quite dark out, I placed food and water in the pen. I then unlatched the coop door, taking pains not to create a ruckus because the hens were still roosting and asleep. I knew that, once I returned home more than two hours laters, Nellie and Hope would be out and about, and possibly none the wiser.
I was half right. Pulling into the driveway about 7:15, I could see that the hens were in the pen, as expected. But when I went out back to greet them and depoop the coop, both hens were somewhat agitated. They weren't clucking but cackling, as chickens do when they're displeased. The most likely explanation was that they knew their day had not begun as it normally does and they were letting me know they resented the change in their routine.
Sorry, girls. The management sincerely apologizes for any inconvenience we may have caused. We hope you enjoy the rest of your stay.
Yesterday morning, I had to break with tradition in order to drive my wife Liz from our home in Augusta, Maine, to Portland, so she could catch a train. The schedule required that we leave the house well before sunrise. And because of the distance involved — 60 miles each way — I knew I wouldn’t get back home until long after the rising sun told Nellie and Hope it was time to get up and head outside. They become positively apoplectic if I show up even a few minutes late to release them, bouncing around in the locked coop like deranged inmates. I couldn't leave them in that state for more than an hour while I drove back home.
So I compromised. Before Liz and I left the house at 5 a.m. or so, when it was still quite dark out, I placed food and water in the pen. I then unlatched the coop door, taking pains not to create a ruckus because the hens were still roosting and asleep. I knew that, once I returned home more than two hours laters, Nellie and Hope would be out and about, and possibly none the wiser.
I was half right. Pulling into the driveway about 7:15, I could see that the hens were in the pen, as expected. But when I went out back to greet them and depoop the coop, both hens were somewhat agitated. They weren't clucking but cackling, as chickens do when they're displeased. The most likely explanation was that they knew their day had not begun as it normally does and they were letting me know they resented the change in their routine.
Sorry, girls. The management sincerely apologizes for any inconvenience we may have caused. We hope you enjoy the rest of your stay.
No comments:
Post a Comment