The Sleeplessness of Negligence Followed By a Morning of Grace

We had been busy after all.  Aware that bad weather was predicted, I had attacked the overgrown grass in the dog run, trimmed a little more in the garden, pulled some extra weeds, restocked the chickens' feed and water, then got busy with some inside business.  By the time Lori got home the sun was setting and dinner yet to prepare.  Shortly thereafter, sated and weary, we stacked dishes in the kitchen sink, took the dogs out one more time and shuffled off to bed.  It wasn't until the storm was erupting in all its violent splendor that I realized I hadn't cooped the chickens.  And admitted with comfortable shame that I wasn't willing to crawl out of bed, dress and venture out into the tornado-warned and rain-drenched thunder and lighting and high winds to see that they were secure.

The main coop, I was confident, would be OK.  It has a long and low profile with a curved silhouette.  Its doors were open and I worried over possible predators, but I hoped the electric fence would provide some insurance; hoped as well that the storm would incentivize their absence as much as it did mine.  And hoped that most of the rain would be kept out.  It was the annex that concerned me.  Stationed nearer the fenceline, I was concerned that it might offer a more proximate temptation for the venturesome hungry.  At a more basic level I was concerned that the high winds could even topple it.  That, and the chicken door opens on the north face, straight into the wind and the rain.  An elevated roost would offer some remove from a soupy floor -- the nesting boxes above even more.  But I fretted about fright and soggy feathers, and cursed my inattention.

When the dogs nudged me awake at their usual pre-light hour, I took them out and then stood sentry in the sunroom waiting for whatever first light might reveal.  As black gave way to gray I could make out the outline of the fence and see that it was still intact.  Nothing had breached the perimeter.  And then movement out of the corner of my eye.  Unconfined, the hens were already out bantering around the chicken yard, busily searching for surfacing worms.  I dared to count and everything tallied.  All seemed well, and like teenagers whose parents are out of town, strutted their emancipation.  They were coming and going as they pleased.  As is common when I'm watching them, I laughed; and sighed with relief.

Later, breakfasted and dressed, I surveyed the condition of the coops.  As I had anticipated, the main coop was fine.  The run was understandably soggy, but the sleeping quarters were high and dry.  My surprise came with the annex.  Not only was it upright, exactly how I had left it, it was, like its fancier neighbor, dry and comfortable.  The feed dispenser and waterer were both empty, as though the two Red Stars had partied through the storm, but other than that all was perfectly in order.  Given my twilight worrying, I almost begrudged them their serenity.  Almost.  I refilled their provisions and penitentially layered in more pine shavings to bolster their bedding.

More storms are in the forecast, and I am happy for any additional rain; but despite last night's happy ending I will be more diligent tonight.  The coop doors will be closed and latched, with the chickens safely bedded and battened down inside.  And with any luck, I will sleep in peace.