Hen Chronicles: The joy of scratch

Chickens are talkative critters. Not only do they talk a lot, but they have many different things to say. In recent decades, researchers have documented more than two dozen distinct chicken vocalizations. Anyone who owns chickens is familiar with their various warning sounds, their contented clucking, and the ear-splitting squawks announcing that someone in their midst has just laid an egg.

Our two Rhode Island Reds, Nellie and Hope, aren’t quite as talkative as they once were. For one thing, they’re getting up there, so “the girls” are slowing down in various ways. If they’re still with us come January, they’ll be seven years old by then, which is a far bigger deal for a hen than it would be for a dog or a cat.

No one familiar with chickens would, upon meeting Nellie and Hope, mistake them for the proverbial spring chickens.

Still, Nellie remains more talkative than Hope, and there’s one sound, in particular, that Nellie only makes in one situation. The girls love scratch, which is a mixture of grains that are yummy but apparently not very nutritious. Processing scratch can increase a chicken’s body heat, so some experts recommend forgoing scratch in the summer, when it’s important to protect chickens from overheating.

For these reasons, I only give our hens scratch in small amounts and in cold weather, to help them warm up. So I mixed in some scratch with their regular feed first thing this morning, as I did yesterday as well. The hens must be able to smell scratch from a distance, because on both days Nellie emitted staccato, high-pitched chirps even before I unlatched the coop door to release the girls into the pen.

Nellie always “speaks” this way for scratch, but never for any other reason. Which makes me wonder what else, after all these years, I haven’t heard her say because she didn’t have just the right reason to say it.

Hen Chronicles: Putting the break back in breakfast?

Our two hens decided this morning that it was time to kick things up a notch as far as their breakfast offerings were concerned. Apparently, their diet of pellets and the occasional snack just wasn't cutting it.

So they ate an egg.

When I opened the coop door at dawn to let Nellie and Hope out into the pen, yolk coated their beaks as they busily pecked away at the bedding on the coop’s floor, to find every last yummy bit.

From time to time over the years, our hens have broken an egg on purpose, but that probably wasn’t the case this time around. Nestled in the bedding were the remains of a very soft, thin, rubbery shell. So the egg may well have broken as soon as it was laid, providing a culinary temptation that was too strong for our Rhode Island Reds to resist.

A rubbery shell may stem from a calcium deficiency, but I’ve been giving the hens crushed oyster shells as a dietary supplement, to prevent that. Nellie has been laying normal eggs regularly. As recently as yesterday, in fact. But Hope rarely, if ever, lays nowadays. Perhaps Hope is getting back into the game and is still tuning up the mechanism?

The hens aren’t talking, at least not to me. Maybe it’s time for a coop cam.

Hen Chronicles: Fun with chickens (he said facetiously)

I’ve learned a few things in the course of keeping chickens for seven years. But it wasn’t until this morning that I discovered it’s a bad idea to feed your hens when you have a loose bandage on your hand.

Nellie and Hope, our Rhode Island Reds, eat outside, in a low rectangular pen that’s covered with chicken wire. The only way for a human to conveniently reach into the pen is through a hinged lid that runs across the top, at the north end. But there it was, at the inaccessible south end: a Band-Aid, just inside the chicken wire. I assume it slipped off my finger while I was placing food and water bowls in the north end of the pen and one of the mischievous beasties, having decided it was inedible, carried it over to the south end. For the hell of it.

Of course, the Band-Aid was just far enough from the wire to be unreachable, even with needle nose pliers. So I instructed “the girls” to leave the bandage where it was (like that would do any good), trudged back to the garage, and retrieved a thin garden stake. The Band-Aid was still in place when I got back, so I stuck the stake through the wire. After a few failed attempts, I managed to slowly drag the bandage right up to the enclosure, where I was able to reach in with two fingers and tease it out.

The two witnesses to this delicate maneuver probably found it entertaining. Or so I assume. Although Nellie and Hope paid close attention to my antics, they wore their best poker faces.

Hen Chronicles: Creature discomforts

Our dogs —  Aquinnah, a chocolate lab, and Martha, a pit bull mix — have no direct contact with our chickens, but the two species are well aware of one another. The coop is located at the back end of our relatively large city lot, and in the winter, when it’s often impractical to take the dogs for longer walks, they sometimes make a circuit in the yard that takes them behind the coop.

The fascinating aspect of this, at least to me, is how the animals involved react differently to such close encounters of the critter kind.

At 85-pounds, Aquinnah (aka, Quinn) probably looks quite intimidating to our two Rhode Island Reds, Nellie and Hope. And it doesn’t help matters that Quinn, who is leashed, always tries to lunge toward the hens whenever he gets within a few feet of their housing. Invariably, the hens react to these attempted incursions by running up the ramp that leads from the pen to the coop, often with a flapping of wings to give them a bit more propulsion.

It’s another story entirely when Martha makes her rounds. For one thing, she only weights about 40 pounds, maybe less. More importantly, she shows no aggression toward the hens, and only the slightest interest in them. Not surprisingly, then, Nellie and Hope are equally indifferent to her presence in their neighborhood, and go about their business without any of the Chicken Little antics they display when Quinn’s around.

I’ve seen plenty of photos of dogs guarding free-range chickens in what appears to be a perfectly peaceful arrangement. I suppose Martha could have been trained to perform such a role, if our hens were allowed to run free in the partially fenced yard. Quinn, on the other hand, probably would have been stripped of his badge on his first day of work after jumping in to try for a quick snack, policing responsibilities be damned.

Hen Chronicles: Filing a complaint with the front office

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. 

Hen Chronicles: A special bond between two hens?

When my wife wife Liz and I spot either of our two hens in the position “modeled” at left (by a chicken I found on Google), we joke that the hen in question is in “tea cozy mode,” because the posture conjures up images of a teapot cover.

Our Rhode Island Reds, Nellie and Hope, frequently sit like this in their pen and sometimes in the coop, especially on pleasant days that are sunny but not especially hot or humid. It seems to be a relaxed pose, suggesting that the hen is calm and content.

But until this morning, I don’t think I’d ever seen our “girls’ in precisely the same configuration that greeted me when I went outside to do some yard work. Nellie and Hope were both “doing a tea cozy” at the same time, which is not unusual. What caught my eye is that I saw them in profile, sitting face-to-face, completely immobile with their beaks a mere inch or so apart.

I didn’t bother running into the house to grab my camera because I knew “the girls,” who believe humans exist for the sole purpose of feeding them, would jump up expecting a snack as soon as I got close enough to get a shot of them. You’ll have to take my word for it that they looked for all the world like something off the front of a greeting card designed to celebrate friendship.

Whether chickens are capable of love is anybody’s guess. But they certainly can be affectionate, as our duo made clear today. These two routinely sleep wing to wing, even in the warmest weather. Here's a possible explanation. At one time, Nellie and Hope were part of a flock of four hens, but a death in 2015, and another last year, has left them alone with one another. Perhaps that has created a special bond between them.

Hen Chronicles: Wasn't that a mighty storm?

If there’s one thing chickens do not like, in addition to loud, sudden noises, it’s strong winds.

The wind was kicking up such a racket during the night that it woke me up at 3:30 this morning. By the time I went out to release “the girls” from their coop at 5:45 it was still blowing up a storm, so I figured Nellie and Hope would be none too happy.

After I placed their feed and water bowls in the pen, I unlatched the coop door, anticipating protests. Nellie, one of our two Rhode Island Reds, surprised me by cooperating. She headed down the ramp and made a beeline for the food bowl.

But Hope was another matter.

Approaching the open door ever so slowly, she tentatively stuck her head out. Tilting it to one side, she eyed the sky with a wary look before retreating back into the coop. She emerged moments later, only to make a quick about-face and head back inside while I was still removing last night's “deposits” from the pine shavings that blanket the coop floor.

Finally, she went back out yet again, and parked herself next to Nellie in front of the food bowl. Hunger had trumped anxiety. At least for a few minutes.

Hen Chronicles: Spring has sprung on Planet Chicken

Chickens, like humans, are creature of habit. But unlike humans, they are especially inflexible about their bedtime. When dusk begins to settle over our yard, Nellie and Hope, our Rhode Island Reds, abandon their pen and troop up the ramp and into the coop for the night.

Except, occasionally, when spring fever sets in. For chickens, like humans, respond with bursts of enthusiasm to this time of rebirth and renewal.

During the winter months, Nellie and Hope routinely went to bed a bit early, as if giving up on the day. Now, though, they seem determined to savor every last minute of daylight. So they postpone their nocturnal routine until it finally gets dark enough for instinct to demand that they head inside.

As it began to grow dark one night last week, I could see, looking out from the house, that the pen was empty, supposedly meaning that “the girls” had retired for the night. Heading out to the coop, I prepared to close and latch the door, as I always do at dusk.

But a sudden movement stopped me in my tracks.

Looking every bit like a cartoon character that had sprung to life, Nellie suddenly appeared in the doorway, raced down the ramp at warp speed, and began feverishly pecking away at stray feed pellets on the ground. It reminded me of a child (or maybe an adult, but I won’t name any names) sneaking one last cookie before heading off to bed.

Moments later, Nellie realized it really was too late to be outside, and returned to the coop. My wife, Liz, then had to lift Nellie up to the roost, because it was too dark for her to get up there by herself. Nellie settled in happily next to Hope, and called it a night.

We associate springtime with songbirds, but they aren’t the only winged creatures who appreciate this particular change of seasons.

Hen Chronicles: "Get chickens," they said, "it will be fun!"

“Get some chickens,” owners always say. “They’re easy to take care of,” they insist. “It will be fun!”

We did get some chickens, back in 2012. Three hens. And we’ve had hens ever since; the original trio, then only two chickens, followed later by four, then three, and now two again. Sure enough, they have been easy to care for. Except when they aren’t. And, yes, it has been fun. Except when it isn’t.

Liz and I love Nellie and Hope, who are Rhode Island Reds. Hatched in January 2013, "the girls" arrived together, by mail, in May of that year, having been shipped to Augusta, Maine, by a hatchery in Iowa.

Usually, from day to day and week to week, Nellie and Hope pose no major challenges. But minor problems do present themselves, and with some regularity.

Let’s start with Saturday night. At dusk, when I went out to lock the hens in their coop for the night, Hope was perched on the roost, as expected. But Nellie, who should have been up there as well, was bouncing around on the floor of the coop, desperately trying to get to the roost but unable to do so.

This has happened before. Our theory is that, for whatever reason, Nellie sometimes waits too long to head for the roost, and by then, it's too dark to make the jump. (Chickens are eagle-eyed in the light but they have lousy nighttime vision.) Anyway, we knew the drill. I lifted the coop’s hinged roof and Liz held Nellie over the roost while she lowered her "landing gear."

At dawn on Sunday, Liz and I removed Hope from the coop for her weekly trim, in 10-degree weather. Hope has a spur jutting from the back of her left leg, like you’d find on a rooster but less frequently on a hen. The long spur curves back toward the leg and is constantly growing in length, so we trim the tip of it with a file every Sunday, to keep it blunt and under control. While I held Hope, who is quite calm during this procedure, Liz took aim at the spur with a nail file.

That job done, a surprise presented itself. “The girls” holed themselves up in the coop, instead of racing out to the pen for their breakfast, as they normally do first thing in the morning. Nellie was parked in the nest box (where she eventually laid an egg). And Hope, who never emerges first from the coop, decided to stay put inside until Nellie led the way out into the pen. Once the hens finally "left the building," I was able to clean the now-empty coop.

That’s when I discovered the blood. Bright red drops were scattered over the pine bedding on the coop’s floor. There wasn't a lot of blood, but blood is blood. Obviously, something was wrong.

Who was injured? Where? And why? At first, we figured Liz might have nicked Hope’s leg while filing the spur, but when I held Hope so Liz could examine her, what she saw initially made no sense at all. Hope was, in fact, the injured hen, but Liz found blood on her right foot. The spur is on the other leg.

Upon closer inspection, it turned out Hope had broken a toenail on her right foot. Hence the blood. The bleeding seemed to have stopped by then, but Liz liberally applied cornstarch, a clotting agent, just to play it safe.

“Get some chickens,” owners always say. “They’re easy to take care of,” they insist. “It will be fun!”

Hen Chronicles: The pecking order remains on display

When you have only two chickens, as we do now, the pecking order isn’t very complicated. But that doesn’t make it any less real.

Our Rhode Island Reds, Nellie and Hope, are the same age, the same size and two slightly different shades of the same color. They arrived at our house as pullets on the same day in 2013, in the same shipment from the same hatchery.

But despite such similarities, hens being hens, someone has to be “in charge,” at least ostensibly. That someone is Nellie, although Hope's rebelliousness kicks in from time to time.

A case in point. For some reason, Nellie decided recently that she doesn’t like to eat from my hand anymore. She’ll wolf down whatever Liz holds out for her, but she snubs me. Hope, though, enjoys pecking at any palm full of pellets, regardless of who happens to be at the other end.

So there I was one day this week, leaning low over the pen to let the hens (or hen) reach my open hand. Predictably, Nellie stood by and watched while Hope chowed down on the pellets I was holding. After a couple minutes of this, Nellie reached into my palm, grabbed one pellet and swallowed it. She then quickly turned aside and gave Hope a sudden (but harmless) peck of disapproval.

Nellie’s authoritarian message seemed clear: I’m the boss, and if I don’t want something, you shouldn’t either.  But that probably won't deter Hope the next time around.

Hen Chronicles: How snow-phobic hens cope with white stuff

Maybe we didn’t raise them properly.

Nellie and Hope, our Rhode Island Reds, are almost five years old. They’re full-grown. They’ve survived several winters, including sub-zero temperatures. Hope even has a spur on the back of her left leg, something that is much more common in roosters than hens.

So these two shouldn’t be terrified of the snow. But they are.

I’ve seen photos online of free-range chickens braving snow-covered yards. often in single file as they venture forth. But our hens are not free-range. We live in an urban area, and only part of our yard is fenced, so roaming chickens would soon become dead chickens.

In addition to their coop, which is elevated (providing open space for them underneath), Nellie and Hope also have an attached, wire-covered pen. That's where I place their food and water bowls, and where they spend most of their daylight hours unless the weather fails to cooperate. It's not a walk-in pen, so there's no easy way to remove snow from it. As a result, I always keep an eagle eye on the forecast, so I can cover the pen with a tarp (or tarps, if need be) when snow is in the offing.

Last night’s forecast said nothing about snow, so I left the pen uncovered overnight. When I went out to release and feed the hens at dawn, I found a dusting of snow in the pen. Yes, it was only a dusting, but I knew from past experience how “the girls” would react. Short version: not well.

Even though I brushed off the ramp leading from the coop to the pen, Nellie and Hope refused to come out. I postponed my morning ritual of cleaning the coop, went back to the house, and had breakfast. Thirty minutes later, the hens remained in the coop, which I was now determined to clean, hens or no hens.

Our coop has a hinged roof, which I prop open with a long stick for the daily poop scooping. So there was a theoretical risk that “the girls” might fly out if I cleaned the coop while they were still inside. (Yes, chickens can fly. No, not very well.) I figured the sight of snow would keep the hens grounded.

Sure enough, when I lifted the roof and leaned into the coop to scoop poop, Nellie and Hope watched me as I talked to them. But they showed no interest in either flying out into the yard or walking out into their pen. My chores complete, I lowered the roof and resisted the temptation to move the food and water bowls from the pen to the coop.

But here’s something else I’ve learned from experience. If Nellie and Hope are still holed up by mid-morning, I’ll cave in. Guaranteed. 

Hen Chronicles: Ignoring the hen who cried "wolf"

Hope, a four-year-old Rhode Island Red, has always been the most timid hen in our flock. Snow and Nellie take it in stride when I run my hand over their backs as they emerge from the coop each morning, but Hope reacts to this gesture by backing into the coop.

So what happened shortly after “the girls” ran out into the pen at dawn today came as no surprise. While Snow and Nellie gathered round the feed bowl to wolf down as much food as possible as quickly as possible, Hope stood several feet away, peering at the sky. Suddenly, a blue jay swooped down and over the pen, only 10 feet or so above Hope’s head.

The jay immediately flew off to points unknown. But Hope reacted to this turn of events with what I assume is an alarm call: a single long, high-pitched, shrill note that I’ve heard before, but not very often. And the reaction from Snow and Nellie? They continued munching away without so much as a momentary break in the action, even though they obviously heard Hope’s warning.

It was as if the two of them said to themselves: “There she goes again, screaming that the sky is falling.”

Hen Chronicles: Fast and furious, death comes for a cricket

I know chickens have excellent daytime eyesight — better than humans, according to the experts —  but it’s easy to take it for granted if you grow accustomed to dealing with these birds on a daily basis.

At least until a suicidal cricket hops into the pen.

That’s just what happened shortly after dawn this morning when Snow, Nellie and Hope were out in the pen, pecking away at their feed. The hens spotted the cricket even before it made its fateful decision, while it was stationary right outside the pen, just beyond their reach. All three hens immediately zeroed in on the bug, desperately trying to get at it through the chicken wire, but without success.

I thought that was the end of that, but instead of hopping away from the pen, the cricket hopped into it. What followed was an impressive demonstration (but fatal for the cricket) of eye-beak coordination. The hens fell upon the cricket instantly, and in unison. Once that happened, the little six-legged critter was a dead cricket hopping. Briefly. Very briefly. The only consolation, from the cricket’s point of view, is that death came quickly. And from the hens' perspective? Let's just say nothing went to waste.

Hen Chronicles: The hills are alive with the sound of . . music?

Unlike roosters, hens don’t usually make a racket. They tend to go about their business fairly quietly, clucking gently unless something frightens them enough to send them into sky-is-falling mode.

There is one predictable exception to this pattern of good behavior, however. When a hen lays an egg, there is a good chance that she or her confederates will launch into a prolonged rendition of what Liz and I call the egg song. At these times, the “singer” (or singers) honks loudly like a deranged goose, but with a chicken accent. It’s an abrasive, even unpleasant sound that might make the listener wonder why anyone would think keeping chickens is a good idea.

This happened one day last week, but with one significant twist. When the egg song shattered the morning calm and continued for several minutes, I went out to the coop thinking I would find two of our three hens in the pen and the third one in the nest box, either laying an egg or recovering from the experience.

Instead, all three hens were outside and, surprisingly, there was no egg to be found. So although the egg song is most commonly associated with laying, that obviously isn’t always the case. For some unknown reason, the hills were alive with the sound of "music" that morning, and although the cause remains a mystery, I’m quite sure it had nothing to do with raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens.

Hen Chronicles: A few tasty treats on a steamy July afternoon

Chickens don’t especially like hot, sunny weather, and our trio is no exception. Snow, Nellie and Hope tend to hide in the shade under the raised coop when the mercury tops 80 degrees, even though their outdoor run is shaded by an old patio umbrella. But, gluttonous little beasties that they are, they will emerge for treats, no matter how tropical the weather.

That was the case at 2:30 this afternoon, when “the girls” ran out from under the coop with alacrity as I approached, eager to see what was to be had. First, I placed some plain organic yogurt in their feed bowl, which they gobbled down with such speed that they splashed it all over their beaks and faces.

The next course consisted of freshly picked lettuce and kale from our gardens, followed, finally, by a few of our own strawberries and raspberries. The latter had them zigzagging around the pen at top speed, trying to grab as many berries as possible before the competition could "steal" them.

Our hens cannot free range on our city lot, which is not fully fenced in. Even if it were, they would quickly decimate the lawn and the gardens if allowed to scratch and peck at will, sampling whatever goodies caught their fancy. So they may not have what a chicken would view as the perfect life. But it ain't bad.

Hen Chronicles: Another screwup could cost me my job!

When I got out to the coop this morning to let “the girls” out and feed them, our hens were aggrieved. They were squawking and bouncing and pecking at the big window on the east side of the coop, obviously appalled by my incompetence.

Checking my watch after I placed the food and water bowls in the pen, I saw that it was 5:37, so the source of their consternation was apparent. I had arrived on the scene a full five minutes later than usual. Maybe even six minutes. Worst-case scenario: seven minutes behind schedule.

The way Snow, Nellie and Hope see it, I should be on hand as soon as they wake up. Or, better yet, while they’re just on the verge of rousing themselves with the rising sun. That way, breakfast will await them as soon as they hop down from the roost. No pesky delays. No huffing and puffing over the indignity of it all.

I wouldn’t be surprised to find a sign tacked to the coop later today. Help wanted. Inquire within. If there’s one thing the hens will not tolerate, it’s this kind of ineptitude from the staff.

Hen Chronicles: Laying is Job One, even during coop cleanup

I dread giving the chicken coop a thorough cleaning, which I do twice a year, but not because it’s a dusty, wet, messy job. I clean four cats' litter boxes and scoop poop from the coop every morning, so I'm no stranger to messy jobs.

The thing is, I just hate having to lock our three hens outside while I remove all of the bedding from the coop, scrape off any fossilized deposits, scrub the floor and spray the interior walls with a water-and-vinegar solution, wipe the floor with rags to remove any excess liquid, and then wait for everything to dry out before adding fresh bedding and reopening the coop. But like it or not, yesterday was the day. The whole shebang took a good 90 minutes or more from start to finish.

Snow, Nellie and Hope did not approve of this ritual. They never do, partly because they aren't big fans of change. And if they're ready to lay while the coop is temporarily closed to all traffic, they can’t get to their nest boxes, which are in the coop. That means they have to “hold it,” which I believe they can do for a short while, or drop their cargo outside, in the pen or under the raised coop.

Either way, once the coop has been reopened, I have to stage a one-man egg hunt outside, to find out if any of the hens was desperate enough to embrace a change in venue while the nest boxes were off-limits. I came up empty-handed during yesterday’s search, which was a good thing. In the past, the hens have been known to lay in inaccessible spots when denied access to their boxes, forcing me to jury-rig a retrieval gizmo that lets me reach and role a wayward egg without breaking it.

Trust me. That's easier said than done. We're not talking hard-boiled eggs here.

Hen Chronicles: In the end, hunger trumps all, including fear

I used a weed whacker near the henhouse yesterday afternoon, which sent our three hens scurrying out of the pen to hide in their "safe zone" under the elevated coop. Soon, though, they realized that this cleanup operation was propelling countless bits of cut grass and other vegetation through the chicken wire and into the pen.

That discovery obviously called for an immediate reevaluation. On Planet Chicken, there's no fear too great to risk passing up a tasty snack.

Snow, Nellie and Hope quickly emerged from beneath the coop. Suddenly oblivious to the sound of the weed whacker, they began munching merrily until they had gobbled up all of the green stuff. Priorities have to be set in life. As far as "the girls" are concerned, voracious appetites always top the list.

Hen Chronicles: It's not a cock-a-doodle-do, but it's close

Chickens don't really have a lot of bad habits. They fly into a panic at the slightest provocation, but only momentarily. And they can be indiscriminate about where they poop, but the same can be said about dogs, once they are outside. Litter boxes are not an option.

All in all, though, our three hens are well-behaved. My only complaint? Sometimes, I wish they didn't have such a slavish devotion to the rising sun. Dawn breaks, and "the girls" wake up. Instantly. Fully. Completely. They want out. Now. And they want their breakfast. Immediately.

I headed out the back door at 5:40 this morning, yet even that was too late for Snow, Nellie and Hope. As soon as I stepped off the deck en route tot the garage, where their feed is stored, I could hear the hens squawking, even though their coop is at the far back end of our good-sized lot. When I reached the coop moments later, with food and water bowls in hand, all three hens were stationed at the east-side window, bellyaching to beat the band and pecking feverishly at the window in a noisy, desperate bid to get out.

Unlike roosters, hens don't crow, of course. But at 5:40 in the morning, a squawking hen is loud. She is shrill. And she definitely is disturbing the peace. Multiply that by three.

It's a good thing we have tolerant neighbors. And that the cacophany come to an abrupt end as soon as I open the coop door.

Hen Chronicles: The early chicken gets the worm (sometimes)

In the course of a year, our henhouse sinks into the soil a wee bit. So in the spring, we raise each corner of the coop and the pen and I stick something underneath it -- a small piece of lumber, a flat rock or a compacted mound of dirt. This assures that the coop’s wooden supports and the pen’s wooden frame will rest on, not in, the ground. At least for a while.

This task is complicated by the fact that I’ve laid hardware cloth on the ground right outside the coop and the pen, to help prevent predators from digging their way in. The hardware cloth is topped with bricks, to hold it in place. Before I could elevate the coop and the pen yesterday, I had to remove these outside "fortifications."

Our three hens paid close attention to all of this, of course. Chickens are inquisitive, and they’re always in search of tasty creepy-crawlies. So you can imagine their glee when, beneath brick after brick, I found dozens of worms. I tossed a few into the pen, where they were quickly gobbled up, but many more remained just outside the chicken wire, within plain sight of the eagle-eyed Snow, Nellie and Hope.

Chickens cannot see much of anything at night, but they have excellent eyesight during the day; better than ours in some ways. The hens hopped and bounced excitedly as they scrutinized this edible bounty just beyond their reach. I didn’t give them too many worms, though. Everything in moderation is a good rule of thumb when it comes to such delicacies. Although "the girls" had their share, they certainly didn't have their fill.

If hens can experience angst, I think I saw it on display yesterday, as escape-minded worms slithered into the ground.