Sweet Dreams -- Once Safely Inside

The rule in the chicken yard is much the same as was the rule in the front yard when I was a young child:  when it gets dark, go inside.  Routinely the chickens comply, as did I despite occasional protestations.  As daylight wanes the chickens' circle of ranging gets tighter and tighter, eventually confining themselves within the bounds of the wire enclosure of the run; and ultimately, as the sun dips below the western horizon, up the ramp and inside the coop.  All that's left for me is closing and latching the doors to insure their nocturnal safety. 

That's pretty much the only rule:  when it's dark, climb up inside and go to bed.  And with the residents of the two main coops it happens nightly like clockwork.  Dark?  Dormant and done.  I am officially off duty.  Twenty-one laying hens safely in for the night.  But things are never really that simple.  A close reader of these pages might recall that we have twenty-three hens in all.  There are, in other words, these other two.

Just for review, our poultry real estate is made up of one large, quarter-acre chicken yard with two main coops, plus a separate enclosure, much smaller, where the "annex" houses new arrivals until they can safely be added to the larger flock.  This sequestration is partly to prevent the introduction of diseases to the flock that might inadvertently be brought in by the new girls, and partly to allow the younger ones to gain enough body size to hold their own with the big girls.  Depending on the age of the new arrivals, the annex might be home for as little as a month for quarantining, or several months for maturation.  The current residents -- two Buff Brahmas we brought home in June at six-weeks of age -- are perhaps a week or two away from the big transition into the larger neighborhood. 

In the meantime, however, they have developed a bad habit. They don't go to bed.  Well, maybe that's not technically true.  They settle down and nestle close to each other as though for the night, but not inside.  Within the fence but just outside the coop door is a wire-enclosed run on top of which these two adolescents have taken to roosting.  Every evening for the past few weeks, as dusk begins to settle, the two hop up onto the corner of the run as though to enjoy the colors of the setting sun. 

And then just remain there. 

When I come out after dark to close everyone in for the night I make my way through the main yard, lowering hatches, raising ramps, latching doors.  And then I cross over to the annex.  Sure enough, there they are:  perched on the corner of the run, waiting for me to tuck them in.  If during the day they are skittish, averse to human presence, at night they willingly allow me to pick them up and place them inside the coop whose door I gently lower before returning inside.  "Willingly," I stated, but I daresay they like it.  Like toddlers who have squawked all day, resisting your every impulse and instruction only to fall limply and contentedly asleep on your shoulder at night, these two seem to have fallen into the habit of a bedtime story and a goodnight prayer and hug. 

They are breaking all the rules, of course, and I scold them for their flagrant breech of conduct and willfully putting themselves at risk.  Who knows how they will behave when they join the rest of the flock later this month?  I suspect they will learn from their neighbors and dutifully get in line. 

But in the meantime I notice that I am smiling as I make my way back inside, the tactile memory of the soft, warm feathers fresh in my fingers.  And I suspect I will come to miss this annoyingly tender "extra step," their willing submission, and their simple trust that I will come.

Good night girls.