I have not had a good year with my chicken flock. I have lost a couple of hens to old age, two full sets of eggs in the incubator yielded exactly three chicks, all of whom died, and my broody hens have the same batting average, although their mortality rate is far lower than mine.
They have managed to hatch four chicks, and it seems that they may all be females. Three chicks are mixed bred barred rock and one is purebred Buff Orpington. And while that makes for a pretty bird, golly, that thing is dumb. D-U-M, dumb.
Chickens are not well known for their intelligence, but this one is setting a record. Until we ratcheted down the size of the fence squares, it steadfastly refused to stay inside the safety zone where passing cats could not feast on it. It only survived by luck. Its sibling has found out how to access the night perch to cuddle up under Mama Hen, but not little goldilocks. It huddles in a corner, cheeping piteously until it either falls asleep or I seize it and tuck it under her wing.
Each morning when I open the coop it and its litter mate spring through the door and head for the feed trough. Except after two or three steps, it forgets where the food is and stops to get its bearings, usually directly under my feet.
And in spite of the fact that I have been there every day of its ignorant little life, provide its sustenance daily and handle it regularly, it remains terrified of me. The rest of the flock will, for the most part, eat from my hand, allow petting and carrying around, and quiet conversations. Not this little fool. If I look at it too long or get too close (unless it has stopped under my feet) it dissolves in hysteria akin to the sky falling.
I guess I should count myself lucky we haven’t had any hail at our house, or at least not since this ignoramus was hatched, because it would surely have croaked, lacking the sense it takes to go inside out of the weather. But maybe I am being too harsh on the little idiot.
After all, it is a birdbrain.