Bed-time Buffoonery

Chickens are stupid, no doubt about it, but they are also very entertaining. And, I am surprised to say, quite endearing in a pointy-beaked, beady-eyed, huge-legged sort of way. For someone with a deeply entrenched feather-phobia, and an impressively over-reactive startle response to anything that flaps within touching distance, I am overjoyed to say that I like our chickens.

Having initially watched them from a safe distance (and intended that things should stay that way), I found myself called into service on the evening following their first day of freedom, when it became clear that getting them all back into their cosy little house was not a one-man job.

As the sun set and all the other village birds headedoff to bed, our small-brained friends realised it was time to head for overnight safety. Unfortunately, one chicken (the first out of the house in the morning, and the unquestioned leader of the pack) decided that our smart little chicken house on the prairie was no suitable abode for a wild young hen like her. Oh no. She was a wild bird of the woods and she was damn-well gonna do what wild birds do and roost natural-like in a tree. Or on a picnic table. Or a balcony. Or anything, basically, that was UP.

We watched with amusement as the darkness grew deeper, and Naughty Chicken (as she has already become known) clucked around the garden, eyeing up attractive high places, and attempted flutter-thrash-crash-bang flying antics to get into them. After numerous failed attempts and possibly painful, heavy landings, she eventually perched herself precariously half way up a medium sized, Christmas-tree-like conifer in the middle of the garden, the branch swaying ominously under her far-too-heavy-for-such-a-small-branch weight. Songs about French Hens and Christmas ran through my head, pointlessly.

Amusing as it was, Naughty Chicken's behaviour had unsettled the rest of the troop, who stood about like newly-arrived visitors at a deserted foreign train station, not sure whether to head for the direction marked Exit, or follow the only other passenger up the escalator in the opposite direction. By now, the gloaming had transformed itself into proper dark, and we noticed that we had not very cleverly placed the hen house smack in the centre of the pool of orange created by the (very annoying) street light in the road opposite our house. "Should we move it, d'ya think?" I queried? Simon's look needed no verbal accompaniment. He had already slipped into man-of-action mode, and was heading off down into the garden to Sort This Out.

He confidently approached the swaying Christmas tree, grabbed Naughty Chicken like a Sunday joint, and stuffed her into the hen house as if it was an oven (which after the day's heat, it probably was), slamming the door behind her. The other chickens took note, and headed jerkily away. The problem became obvious. How to open the door to get the other chickens in, without letting the miscreant escape? Clearly more than one pair of hands were required, and the only other ones around happened to be mine.

So, donning boots to protect against toe-pecking and accidental feather-touching-skin events, I approached the scene with caution and a big stick, with which to 'coax' the chickens in the desired direction, and prevent unwanted exits from the house, while the door was open.

After another twenty minutes of loud clucking, fluttering, chicken-running, and multiple incidents of hands (Simon's) grabbing/missing/catching flapping bundles of feather and beak, the remaining three hens were safely consigned to their designated sleeping quarters, for another long, hot, night. Inside, they became silent instantly. Perhaps tomorrow they will know where to go at bed-time.