The Gang of Six

DAISY AND I FINALLY TURNED onto the farm road at dusk, after a lengthy journey home. Coming out of Virginia on our way to Maryland, we’d been delayed by a huge traffic snarl when someone reported a “mysterious package” thrown out of a car near the Beltway. We spent 45 minutes examining the rear gate of an enormous and very dirty green truck in great detail. The next stop after getting through this major ado about nothing, was to visit my folks.

We munched lunch while Daisy received advanced training from my mother on the subject of not sitting on chairs. Watching the contest of will between a firmly determined, patient woman who has the command voice of an experienced Mom against the stubbornness of an 8 month old beagle was terribly amusing. I called it a draw. We got on the road around 3:30, making the Farm three hours later.

All seemed well, as I unloaded the truck in the approaching darkness. I’d been worried about our six chickens, though. During our absence, they’d been cooped up for four days, during the coldest nights of the year so far, some reaching the low 20’s.

After getting the perishables inside and Daisy watered, I walked through the dark to the chicken coop to check. Armed with a strong flashlight, I swept the light through the coop window and inspected. I saw three motionless hens and Foghorn the rooster sitting atop the nesting boxes, and spotted the dark hen perched as usual in the corner. Blinking eyes confirmed life. The fifth one was on top with Foghorn and the others, but lay prone, head away from me, motionless. No blinks, but then I couldn’t see her head. At first I thought she was lying down to stay warm under the rooster. Then I thought, maybe it was dead.

I went to bed, thinking there wasn’t much I could do till morning. But the memory of that hen nagged at me. At 3AM I awoke, wondering if the chicken's water had frozen and thinking that we'd probably lost the one chicken. At 4AM I pictured the poor hens shivering and freezing down into a slow agonizing death. At 4:30AM I listened to Nancy’s voice in my head, talking about how rooster’s combs get frostbitten and that to avoid necrosis, you have to cut the combs off. At 5AM I resolved to go out at first light, ready to reload warm water to the survivors. I steeled myself for emergency surgery, wondering whether scissors or a knife would be best. Perhaps, I thought, when I get to the coop there might be another dead one or two.

At dawn, I laced my boots and walked out to the coop, feeling both antsy and a bit glum. When I put some feed in the outside dish, I heard a wan, weak-sounding crowing sound from inside. Maybe it was me, but this didn’t sound like the full-blooded screech of a lusty healthy rooster. I opened the coop’s little side door, hoping that one or two iced-up birds would stiffly emerge.

Like an explosion all six came flying out, skreaking* and flapping wings as they raced to the feed dish. Boy, those were some hungry chickens!

I counted carefully. SIX. All accounted for and all clucking and pecking their food like maniacs. Between rapid fire pecks, Foghorn let out a hell of a screech. Guess he was just waking up before.

Relieved, I went inside to see if the water had become solid ice in the waterer. Nope. Not even close. Full of straw as usual, but not frozen. And only half gone. So I swished out the straw and left it.

I’d left a 5 quart pot more than half full of feed, figuring that was more than enough for four days. Nothing wrong with the appetites on these birds – the pot lay empty, half-turned on its side, and full of straw. They’d given that pot the once-over.

Then I checked the nests for eggs. I didn’t expect much. Poor chickens. Perhaps the force of nature had pushed one or two small eggs to appear, but in the cold days and nights of our absence it didn’t seem reasonable that hens on the edge of survival could spend any extra energy making eggs.

Looking into the next boxes, my eyes popped. Those un-dead non-frozen ravenous chickens had been busy and very alive! I collected 20 eggs - that's four for each of the five hens over five days. Given that a hen normally lays one egg every 3-4 days, that's some production!

All is well. But I do think it’s time to get one of those heaters for the chicken water.

Now — what to do with 20 assorted brown and blue-green eggs? Quiche anyone?















The Gang enjoying breakfast this morning



* skreaking is a real word.