The new girls have officially joined the neighborhood. Since arriving in early October at the ripe old age of 10 weeks, the two Lavender Orpingtons and two Splash Marans have spent their days and nights in quarantine -- in the coop and enclosure we affectionately refer to as “The Annex”, separated from the main community by some 20 feet. As I've written before, this segregation is initially a precaution against importing diseases into the larger flock, but over the protracted weeks it becomes, as well, a protective growth sanctuary for the smaller birds. There, secured by both a chicken wire and an electric mesh fence along with an overhung net, they eat and drink and exercise their way into near-adulthood.
It's no Utopia. The enclosed space is adequate, but limited. The coop itself is...shall we say “modest” -- a minimalist shanty compared with the upscale accommodations that await them across the yard, though like children of the Depression they are surely unaware of their privation. It simply is all that they know. The greatest shortcoming of the Annex, I’ve come to realize, is not its minimalist construction but it's orientation. I situated it poorly. A heavy wooden construction, our primary concern when we transported it home was getting it off the truck in one piece. That mission was accomplished with the help of friends, stationing it on the 4 X 4’s I had laid down to rest it slightly off the ground. But we should have rotated it clockwise 45-degrees. As it is, the hatch faces due north -- a Grinch-like aperture for frigid winter winds. I close it up at night, of course, but during the day “in” is as “out.” It's cold.
But the girls, for the most part, have managed it. They are, after all, hardy breeds. And though it won't benefit these winter veterans, somehow this summer I will get the Annex situated more advantageously. As for these girls, they are ready for life on different terms. So it was that last night, along with Mike who had stopped by to help, they made the great migration. This is the second time we have accomplished such a move under cover of darkness. Docile and drowsy, they hardly notice my nervous hands surrounding their feathery warmth, thieving them one-by-one from their humble but familiar environs, shuttling them across the way into the main yard and re-settling them among the older girls who are, themselves, already cuddled in for the night. It is a simple transfer. No chasing. No squawking. No feather rattling and trespassing protestations. Old and new simply spend the night together and wake the next morning as curious but benign neighbors. At least that's the idea. Morning brings its own realities as I learn anew this awakening dawn. Once I lower the ramp and raise the hatch, the coop disgorges its contents in single file. Cautiously, tentatively at the rear of the line, the new girls emerge. There is some jostling at the bottom of the ramp -- a little pecking, a little chest bumping just to insure that the young ones keep in mind their “place” at the “peon” end of the order. But with the help of a few culinary distractions I toss around the yard, the older girls leave the younger ones alone to explore their new neighborhood; and the new day, the new world, has begun.
It's not easy moving in. While the little girls don't have boxes to unpack and furniture to arrange, they do have relationships to forge, social orders to interrupt and rearrange, food and water to locate, and that latent sense of disorientation to overcome. That, and that wistfully lingering memory of home as it use to be......to fade.
Good luck girls. I’ll be watching, and pulling for you. For the most part, however -- like it is for all of us -- the hard part will be up to you.
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