My chickens hate me. Or not.
It all started out so innocently. The Red-headed Stranger and I were at a big box farm supply store in another town. It was spring, but a little later on, so the tiny fluffy chicks had grown out into gawky chickzillas with ugly feather sprouts instead of fuzz.
But they were on sale half price, so I took the last six pullets home with me. I carefully raised them by hand in the spare bedroom in a stock tank with a heat lamp. Before long they were in the stock tank on the porch. Then they were free ranging in our yard at our secluded home. We locked them up at night to keep them safe from coyotes, dogs and raccoons.
They were like big pets. Each had her own name, taken from the female leads of Downton Abbey. Mary, Sybil, Edith, Violet, Cora and Isobel. They came running when I called and would eagerly take tidbits from my hand.
But then I returned to the Republican and was working more hours, no longer handling the girls each and every day. For a long time they continued to provide with five or six eggs per day, but as the days got shorter, and they protested against being penned up, that slowed to a trickle and then a total stop.
And they got flighty, too. After one terrible night when a racoon ate one – I think it was Isobel – they were basket cases, flying and squawking at the least provocation. They would no longer eat from my hand and hardly ate at all. And they took to biting my shoes, especially the crocs, like they were taking aim at my toes or something.
But since the night of the racoon, when they started getting caged at night again, they have slowly come around. Probably because I handle them every day now.
They still bite at me, but go after my rings instead of my toes. And they come when I call. Usually they will eat from my hand and like the old days, let me cuddle and talk to them.
I think it might be to get me off my guard so that when they are close enough, they can go for my eyes. They are huffy when I egg shame them, tell them how lazy and worthless they are, that I have to buy eggs and laying mash. The nerve!
But soon enough the days will warm and lengthen and they will start laying again. And if not, I will slip down to Tractor Supply and replenish the ranks with new pullets. I think I will name them after the ladies of 1883. Maybe they will be made of tougher stuff than the current girls. On the other hand, they might have more creative ways to attack me.