Two of our hens are Silkie Bantams. That means they are shrimpy. But what they lack in bulk they make up for in downy white fluff. Holding one in my lap lowers my blood pressure ten points. So if I was already calm, I approach the level of a Tibetan monk.
Since the hen pecking incident awhile back, when their sister fell victim, the Silkies returned to sleeping in the dining room. Every morning I carry them outside, either to the pen we call Mossflower, or the smaller cage named Cavern Hole. When my inner fox detector says it is safe, I let them roam the yard. The bigger hens have opinions about this, which they remind me of regularly. The layers get time outside too, but always under supervision, since
they have still not answered the age old question,
"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
When one of the Silkies is in their box, about to lay a small white orb, she is silent. But if I reach near her, she growls. I would not have known that chickens can growl, but she means it.
"I have a beak and I know how to use it."
When the bigger hens are in the nesting box and one of the girls comes in quest of eggs, the response is different. They squawk indignantly, rather like an overpaid actress whose dressing room door has been opened before the show. Ask Aurelle or Hope sometime. They do a spot on imitation.
On Mother's Day a group of women did the readings in church. I chose the one about chickens.
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem... How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under
her wings, but you were not willing! Luke 13
Mothering when your kids clamor to be hovered over is a lot of work, but at least there are no mixed messages. When they start to run the other direction half my energy gets wasted on wondering whether to chase them or let them go. When does it stop being the wings of a mother hen and start being the blades of a
helicopter?
