- Mar 25, 2007
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I just brought my neighbors half a dozen eggs and a dog biscuit. Hooray for good neighbors.
I have this one bratty Buttercup hen who hates being my chicken, basically. Very unsocialized, don't know why--she was treated the same as all my other chickens, and my other Buttercups are reasonably tolerant of handling and fairly tame, as tame as any flighty Mediterranean chicken gets. Not this one, she refuses to be handled and attempts to escape at the least opportunity. All the other chickens realize that food, liquid water, and shelter is in the barn. This one, dumb as a rock, will attempt to forage for herself in the frozen Massachusetts hinterlands where there isn't any liquid water for miles and the only food is neighbors' bird feeders, for which she will have to fight angry cardinals, crows and jays.
She's gotten out before and managed to avoid predation, and moved back into the barn only after several weeks of coaxing with fresh corn and scratch, in the driest part of the year when she must have been near to perishing of thirst. Even then, she only deigned to roost in the rafters, not in the chicken room.
After Charlie's incident with the rooster on Weds., I thought I had better move all the chickens securely into the chicken room proper. DH was tasked with catching the Buttercup pair and moving them. He got the Buttercup roo. The girl, OTOH, evaded him.
Today, Charlie did his doorbell act, and it's my neighbor telling me that my chicken is in their yard, could I please collect her. I chased her a bit out of a tree, then out of a clump of bushes, and then their dog managed to chase her around the house (without biting her--Charlie, take note, this is how it's done). She tried to duck into a gap in the rock wall that was just a tiny bit too small for her, and got stuck like a cork in a bottle. Grabbed her by the legs and popped her out, completely fine, without having lost a feather. She immediately started squawking so loud I'm sure they thought I was wringing her neck, but that's the noise she usually makes when any human attempts to touch her. Put her into the chicken room, and she quieted right down, looking astonished to see all the other chickens. I suppose she's feeling a little Cinderella right now, having been a lone hen for so long that she is not used to society ladies, but no doubt her favorite roo will be glad to have his best girl back.
Thank goodness for my nice neighbors.
I have this one bratty Buttercup hen who hates being my chicken, basically. Very unsocialized, don't know why--she was treated the same as all my other chickens, and my other Buttercups are reasonably tolerant of handling and fairly tame, as tame as any flighty Mediterranean chicken gets. Not this one, she refuses to be handled and attempts to escape at the least opportunity. All the other chickens realize that food, liquid water, and shelter is in the barn. This one, dumb as a rock, will attempt to forage for herself in the frozen Massachusetts hinterlands where there isn't any liquid water for miles and the only food is neighbors' bird feeders, for which she will have to fight angry cardinals, crows and jays.
She's gotten out before and managed to avoid predation, and moved back into the barn only after several weeks of coaxing with fresh corn and scratch, in the driest part of the year when she must have been near to perishing of thirst. Even then, she only deigned to roost in the rafters, not in the chicken room.
After Charlie's incident with the rooster on Weds., I thought I had better move all the chickens securely into the chicken room proper. DH was tasked with catching the Buttercup pair and moving them. He got the Buttercup roo. The girl, OTOH, evaded him.
Today, Charlie did his doorbell act, and it's my neighbor telling me that my chicken is in their yard, could I please collect her. I chased her a bit out of a tree, then out of a clump of bushes, and then their dog managed to chase her around the house (without biting her--Charlie, take note, this is how it's done). She tried to duck into a gap in the rock wall that was just a tiny bit too small for her, and got stuck like a cork in a bottle. Grabbed her by the legs and popped her out, completely fine, without having lost a feather. She immediately started squawking so loud I'm sure they thought I was wringing her neck, but that's the noise she usually makes when any human attempts to touch her. Put her into the chicken room, and she quieted right down, looking astonished to see all the other chickens. I suppose she's feeling a little Cinderella right now, having been a lone hen for so long that she is not used to society ladies, but no doubt her favorite roo will be glad to have his best girl back.
Thank goodness for my nice neighbors.
