My wife Liz and I are coming up on seven years of chicken keeping, all of them here in central Maine, yet I still fret over how “the girls” will fare when the temperature drops to zero, or lower.
I know, from experience and from my reading, that chickens, like other species of birds, are adapted to coping with winter weather. If they are well-feathered and well-fed, and if they have a dry coop that shelters them from the wind and the snow, they should do just fine. In fact, experts say it’s more difficult to protect chickens from the worst summer heat than from winter’s chill.
Still, we think of our chickens as pets. No responsible pet owner would leave a cat or a dog outside in single-digit temps. Of course, birds are different, and technically, the hens aren't outside. Yet I find myself making periodic adjustments to the coop as I try to give Nellie and Hope, our Rhode Island Reds, a bit of an edge.
We don’t have a large walk-in coop attached to the house or garage, but rather a small, freestanding coop that’s only big enough for four chickens. (We have two right now.) The coop is not heated, because of the fire risk and the theory that heating a coop makes it difficult for chickens to adjust to outdoor temperatures during the day.
The interior of the coop isn’t insulated, but I compensate for that by stacking large bags of leaves against the exterior. I add extra bedding to the coop when it’s especially cold, to better insulate the floor, which is elevated about a foot off the ground. And I cover the metal roof with saddle blankets.
The thing that frustrates me the most is that chickens need ventilation, even at night. Otherwise, they run the risk of developing frostbite and respiratory problems if moisture builds up inside from their breathing and bodily functions. So I almost always leave a sliding window at least partially open overnight, ignoring my natural instinct to make the coop airtight on the coldest nights.
The last thing I saw when I locked the girls in last night, as the temperature outside continued its slide to an eventual low of four degrees, was the two hens snuggled up, wing to wing on the roost, sharing their body heat as they settled in. They always look comfortable and content in that setting (open window notwithstanding). Which reassures me — somewhat — that I’ve done right by them.
I know, from experience and from my reading, that chickens, like other species of birds, are adapted to coping with winter weather. If they are well-feathered and well-fed, and if they have a dry coop that shelters them from the wind and the snow, they should do just fine. In fact, experts say it’s more difficult to protect chickens from the worst summer heat than from winter’s chill.
Still, we think of our chickens as pets. No responsible pet owner would leave a cat or a dog outside in single-digit temps. Of course, birds are different, and technically, the hens aren't outside. Yet I find myself making periodic adjustments to the coop as I try to give Nellie and Hope, our Rhode Island Reds, a bit of an edge.
We don’t have a large walk-in coop attached to the house or garage, but rather a small, freestanding coop that’s only big enough for four chickens. (We have two right now.) The coop is not heated, because of the fire risk and the theory that heating a coop makes it difficult for chickens to adjust to outdoor temperatures during the day.
The interior of the coop isn’t insulated, but I compensate for that by stacking large bags of leaves against the exterior. I add extra bedding to the coop when it’s especially cold, to better insulate the floor, which is elevated about a foot off the ground. And I cover the metal roof with saddle blankets.
The thing that frustrates me the most is that chickens need ventilation, even at night. Otherwise, they run the risk of developing frostbite and respiratory problems if moisture builds up inside from their breathing and bodily functions. So I almost always leave a sliding window at least partially open overnight, ignoring my natural instinct to make the coop airtight on the coldest nights.
The last thing I saw when I locked the girls in last night, as the temperature outside continued its slide to an eventual low of four degrees, was the two hens snuggled up, wing to wing on the roost, sharing their body heat as they settled in. They always look comfortable and content in that setting (open window notwithstanding). Which reassures me — somewhat — that I’ve done right by them.
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