This evening, I had to go to my friends’ farm in Essex to take care of their animals while they were out at an unexpected dinner party in Worcester:
Let the dogs in, feed them, and shut them in their kennel. Make sure the chicks in the basement incubator had fresh water. Give the horses hay. Shut the laying hens in their henhouse.
Piece of cake; piece of cake; piece of cake; piece of… Houston, we have a problem.
The chickens didn’t want to go in. Blessedly, they were in their coop, so I didn’t have to try to roust them out of the garden and herd them over to it, but they weren’t having any of this in through the chicken door and let the human drop the flap stuff. Hand gestures and verbal encouragement were disdainfully ignored.
I went to the barn and got some of what my friends had said was guaranteed chicken lure: a handful of Wheat Chex. That got one of the three hens in, leaving two more milling about near and under their chicken door flap. There was no alternative: I had to go in and engage in hand-to-wing combat.
My entry into the coop sent the two rebels scuttling away, then circling back to defy the intruder. I shuffled my feet and, bent almost double, flapped my hands at the recalcitrant avians. That was enough to send the smaller hen inside, clucking indignantly.
The bigger chicken was made of sterner stuff. Even as her companion was retreating, she whirled about to face me in beady-eyed defiance, then charged, brandishing her menacing beak at me. I fended her off and tried to push her through the opening. She ducked away and lunged at me. I grabbed her around the wings and shoved her into the doorway. With a last outraged squawk, in she went, and finally I could unhook the flap and shut the bloody birds in for the night.
“Cage-Free Eggs” – no wonder they cost more.