The Crazy Hen

It’s been a couple weeks now that she’s taken to rooting in the same corner cubby in the chicken coop. When the other ten girls (we used to have 12 total, but lost one around the same time the goats fell victim to a mountain lion when I was in Colorado) go out in the yard to enjoy freedom, dust baths and grazing, she fans herself out to maximum fluff capacity and parks it in the designated egg laying cubby.

There’s no doubt, she’s onto us. She knows we’re after those eggs. Though while assuming the role of the official egg sitter for the flock, she can sit on those eggs till the cows come home- no chicks will ever hatch without a rooster.

I admire her tenacity, I really do. But we have a slight problem. I’m terrified to get near her. When I unlatch the window to expose the cubbies (brilliant coop design credit to my roommate, Sugar), she bristles up her feathers with hate in her eyes and looks at me like she’s about to spit nails. Also, she pecks when you reach under her. For a little hen, she’s pretty intimidating. It’s the crazy look in her eyes that freaks me out. If you ever live in a big city, particularly New York, you learn there’s nothing scarier than someone crazy, because they’re totally unpredictable. That’s how it is with this hen.

Thank goodness Sugar is a firefighter and has way more guts than me. I’ll let her be the hero and get those eggs.