When we first began this chicken adventure I did not know what I was getting into. I ordered a small hutch online, without any real understanding of how prey proof it was or how much wing room the average Barred Rock prefers. Gradually, through an unfortunate string of lost birds, we made a coop more suited to our layers' expected standard of
living. Then a friend ordered a fluffy fistful of Silkies and Marans and I couldn't resist.
"I'll take three of each."
Without thinking through the congeniality of two flocks down the road we kept our littles in a box in the dining room under a heat lamp for the autumn months. Eventually we tried to merge the groups with speckled results. But when the polar vortex plunged us into sub zero temperatures I brought the six young ones back
inside.
Their box was definitely more cramped than it had felt when they fit in one hand, and they became more adventuresome about trying to escape. Ben would laugh when he walked through the dining room and saw a black chicken or two flapping around under the table. The twins fetched a second box, which doubled their floor plan, and allowed them to actually turn around. But they still found ways to fly the coop.
One day it was less
that bone cold outside and the girls decided to give them a chance to spread their wings. They opened the back door and plopped them in six inches of snow. The Silkies are only eight inches tall at their foreheads so the deep powder was a shocker. After fifteen minutes of toe tingling fun Hope and Aurelle scooped them back inside.
It was remarkable how much more content they seemed with their limited confinement.
A few days later it
warmed up twenty degrees and we let them sleep in the dormitory with the big hens. But the girls were aghast to witness bullying. The three Marans cuddled as close together as they could in the farthest possible perch from their elders, but Toffee hopped down from her throne, walked over and pecked them hard enough to scare them off the perch. Then she strutted back with a cluck and reclaimed her preferential spot. The Marans huddled on the floor, until Bernie paraded over, pecked them again
until they squawked in pain, then turned on her heel and resumed her roost. In disgust the girls brought the poor mistreated chickens back inside.
After a few days I realized that the Marans had stopped trying to get out of their boxes. Somehow experiencing the scrabble of the henhouse and the frigid weather had made their cramped space seem more luxurious than ever. They peeked at me with big eyes every time I refilled their feed cups. I think they
smiled.
One time I was feeling discontent with how much John helped with chores. I had read somewhere that husbands take out the trash, and felt ornery that the task often fell to me as he raced out the door on Monday mornings. Then he went on a trip. Suddenly I found myself not only slogging through the tasks I always do, I was stuck with his chores too. For a week I did both bed time and bugle call, snow shoving and chauffeuring. I flipped the flap jacks and
washed up afterwards.
When he got home I stopped complaining about my half of the chore list. After a spell of doing his too it felt like a light load.
