Yesterday, I was working outside under the relentless Florida sun, my body dripped with sweat, akin to a leaky faucet desperately awaiting the expertise of a plumber. I stood in the front yard, the heat and humidity clinging to me like an unwanted guest.
Out of nowhere, a cacophony of chicken squawks pierced the air. Unusual, considering our usually docile flock. Suspecting it might be the neighbor's rowdy hens, I made my way to the backyard.
As I approached, the clamor grew louder, and it struck me that the source was none other than our own feathered friends, behaving like they'd never done before. My immediate thought? A potential intruder menacing our coop! Without a second thought, I kicked off my flip-flops (a mandatory accessory issues to all Florida natives at birth) and sprinted barefoot toward the coop.
Drawing closer, I realized the commotion originated from inside the coop itself. Panic surged. How had something managed to infiltrate our impregnable chicken fortress? All the other hens were outside, unperturbed, but Sweetie, our resident drama queen, stood in a state of utter distress.
I flung open the coop door, and there she was, in sheer turmoil. Stepping inside, I offered her some solace. Sweetie rushed to the nesting box, diligently tucking those phony ceramic eggs under her. Then, she began pecking at the bedding, tossing it onto her back in a puzzling ritual. She twirled in circles, unable to find comfort.
It dawned on me that Sweetie was on the verge of laying her very first egg. I patted her gently and whispered soothing words before stepping out of the coop. But as soon as I exited, she resumed her uproar! So, there I was, barefoot in the chicken coop, panting, drenched in sweat, held hostage by a mere two-pound chicken.
Finally, Sweetie decided to vacate the coop, leaving me both relieved and baffled. I checked the nesting box, but there were no eggs in sight.
I returned to our house (wishing the AC wasn't still broke) and quenched my thirst with some much-needed water, and about two hours later, my husband returned with a tiny egg in his hand, asking, "I don't think this is one of your ceramic ones, is it?"
And that's the tale of how I played the role of a midwife for our very first chicken egg.
Out of nowhere, a cacophony of chicken squawks pierced the air. Unusual, considering our usually docile flock. Suspecting it might be the neighbor's rowdy hens, I made my way to the backyard.
As I approached, the clamor grew louder, and it struck me that the source was none other than our own feathered friends, behaving like they'd never done before. My immediate thought? A potential intruder menacing our coop! Without a second thought, I kicked off my flip-flops (a mandatory accessory issues to all Florida natives at birth) and sprinted barefoot toward the coop.
Drawing closer, I realized the commotion originated from inside the coop itself. Panic surged. How had something managed to infiltrate our impregnable chicken fortress? All the other hens were outside, unperturbed, but Sweetie, our resident drama queen, stood in a state of utter distress.
I flung open the coop door, and there she was, in sheer turmoil. Stepping inside, I offered her some solace. Sweetie rushed to the nesting box, diligently tucking those phony ceramic eggs under her. Then, she began pecking at the bedding, tossing it onto her back in a puzzling ritual. She twirled in circles, unable to find comfort.
It dawned on me that Sweetie was on the verge of laying her very first egg. I patted her gently and whispered soothing words before stepping out of the coop. But as soon as I exited, she resumed her uproar! So, there I was, barefoot in the chicken coop, panting, drenched in sweat, held hostage by a mere two-pound chicken.
Finally, Sweetie decided to vacate the coop, leaving me both relieved and baffled. I checked the nesting box, but there were no eggs in sight.
I returned to our house (wishing the AC wasn't still broke) and quenched my thirst with some much-needed water, and about two hours later, my husband returned with a tiny egg in his hand, asking, "I don't think this is one of your ceramic ones, is it?"
And that's the tale of how I played the role of a midwife for our very first chicken egg.
congratulations on her first egg!
Congrats on her first egg! 
