First thing this morning, got the workout done with a 7-mile bilke ride. Still coursing with adrenaline, I decided to attack the overgrown backyard. So with about three hours of weed-pulling, tree-trimming and weed-whacking in front of me, I set up the chicken gate and freed the goils. Of course, Goldie–being in her broody self–had to be encouraged outside against her puffed-feather protests. But once outside, and with a new territory of weeds and wet black dirt to attack, she went to business: kicking up dirt, rolling in newly formed hen-sized craters, eating any unsuspecting weeds that popped up in her sights. (Who needs pigs?) Goal accomplished: why pull weeds when I have avian weed-mowers at my disposal?
After I hauled out the major lawn machinery to attack the overgrown grass, the flock decided to retire to the back forty. Which means behind the garage. I finished up my work, jumped in the pool (partially to remove the victims of my tree-branch cutting excursion from its bottom), and after I felt the heat stroke subside, checked in on the hens. (Side note: Ever stepped on a fresh glob of chicken poo in bare feet?)
All three–even Goldie, who normally makes a mad dash for the coop after only five minutes at ground level–were bunched up in a hen-bomb behind the garage sleeping, heads turned around and tucked in their lush feathers, swan-style. I managed to get a quick photo, but not before Gold and Marge started coming my way.
Finally had to get them back under cover so I could retire to the comfort of my air-conditioning, so I threw a few handfuls of grain and BOSS (black-oil sunflower seeds, for you chicken novices) in the run, and off they scooted. Locked ’em up, headed in. Last I saw, Goldie was grooming her feathers on the outdoor roost. I’m sure that lasted all of ten minutes before Marge said something rude and she high-tailed it back to her imaginary nest.
Hen drama. But a really delightful way to spend a Saturday morning!