The chickens and I are into routine. They see me come around the side of the house, stop everything and come running to the far end of the chicken run, as close as they can get to me. I chat with them, they squawk and holler, and follow me long the length of the run, to the door. I open the door and they all come bursting out for recess while I go about filling their food containers and changing their water.
Each day it’s the same. They see me, they follow me, they squawk, they shoot out the door like a cannon. And I laugh and go about my chicken business. They have recess, chasing each other, foraging for worms and bugs, eating the surviving winter weeds. It’s all pretty predictable.
That was until it snowed last week. Where I live snow is a rarity. Although this isn’t the hens first winter, they aren’t accustomed to it and didn’t quite know what to do with it. I came around the corner, them squawking at me, me talking to them…and opening the door….them poised for their lunge into recess…and stopping in mid-jump!
SNOW? I couldn’t coax them out. (Now, if it were raining, they’d be happy as clams out in the pouring rain getting drenched, but snow? They weren’t having it!)
Finally Snowflake ventured out…for about 30 seconds. I think she felt obligated. She was named after the stuff after all…