© Another Day in the Country
In early February of this year, one of my hens got the grand idea into her head of setting. I tried to discourage her by refusing to leave any eggs in her nest; but she would not be dissuaded. In fact, she grew so insistent that she got belligerent when I tried to take her eggs, pecking hard enough to draw blood on my hand and clucking her disfavor until I was the one who recanted and said, “All right, go ahead, SET you idiotic hen. What you don’t understand is that those eggs aren’t even fertile.”
She fixed me with one of her beady yellow eyes and said, “Then do something about it.”
I called my neighbors and begged for fresh, fertilized eggs. Out of this gargantuan effort on all our parts, we got three chicks — one rooster and two hens who were joined with 12 adopted little girl chicks in due time. Ironically, I knew the heritage of the adopted chicks and I could trace the lineage of the rooster and one hen, but the second little hen was altogether different from the others and I knew that she had come from one of my neighbors.
I called her Brown Betty and watched her with anticipation. She was a pretty thing with slate gray feathers and a golden iridescent ruff on her head and shoulders. Her red comb was large and lopped fashionably to one side like a jaunty hat. Other than Reggie, her brother nest mate with all together different heritage, Brown Betty is the only one so far in the henhouse to be named — the rest of the chickens look pretty much alike and they just blend anonymously into the flock.
Brown Betty is different. Sometimes, it isn’t easy being different.
Brown Betty seemed to spend a lot of time in the nest boxes, rarely coming down to the floor to eat and soon took up the habit of clucking like an old broody hen. “You’re too young for this, Betty,” I scolded her. “You can’t possibly be ready to set.” When I cleaned out the nest boxes and put in fresh hay, Betty went berserk. She didn’t like what I had done and promptly kicked all the hay out of all the nests so that the hens were having to lay their eggs on bare wood. “What’s with you Betty?” I asked. You are making a real mess.”
I’m not sure when war was declared in the henhouse; but it started but right about this time I discovered that everyone seemed to be picking on Betty — we’re talking serious bites, drawing blood. “No wonder you stay in the nest boxes,” I said to Betty, “It’s protection. Is it Reggie who is doing this to you? If it is, say the word, and he’ll be noodle soup.” Betty was quiet, but the next morning when I came to feed the chickens, I opened the door to the henhouse and Betty flew right past me — she wasn’t staying in the nest boxes any longer, she wanted freedom.
“Good idea, Betty” I told her. “You can just do grasshopper duty all day long and in the evening I’ll put you back in. We’ll give your head a chance to heal.”
We’ve been doing this for several days now. I feel like a U.N. peacekeeper. Betty is in a quandary. While she doesn’t want to be in the henhouse, she’s not sure where to lay her egg every day. When it’s time, she paces by the door to the chicken house and carries on cackling until I came out and let her in. She goes straight to the nest boxes, deposits her egg and is ready to leave again.
Being on call to a hen that is low in the pecking order is definitely time consuming — it’s like trying to rescue Afghanistan.
I forgot to put her in night before last and found her on the roof of the chicken coop — she didn’t realize that she was sitting up there like cake on a platter for the local owls. In the dark of night I got on a ladder, talked her into perching on the bristles of my broom instead of the roof and brought her safely down. Last night I forgot again and found her sitting on the feed bins beside the chicken house. If peace doesn’t get restored soon in the henhouse, she’ll be fox bait.
It’s another day in the country. I wish I could say that I’ve learned how to restore world peace from watching my chickens, but I haven’t. I’ve thought of sending Reggie and any other fighting hens off to Iraq to work out their issues. Right there the metaphor falls flat.
Meanwhile, Betty’s in the backyard — happily running around on grasshopper duty. So far as the egg-laying business goes, I feel like a nurse in the delivery room, waiting for any sign of action.