The Warden

Four girls and one in the coop hopefully thinking about laying an egg.

One day last week I opened both the chicken coop door and the pen door first thing in the morning. I was thinking they’d go about their usual business: taking turns going in the coop to lay their eggs, eating some scratch and feed, drinking some water, and then head out to find grasshoppers.

When I came back that evening about five, I herded them in from the garden to the pen. I opened the coop to collect the eggs and gasped. No eggs. Not a single egg.

They’d gone off somewhere and made a secret nest.

I walked around to their obvious haunts: the raised bed completely shrouded in asparagus fronds, the old garlic beds that are still somewhat mounded with straw, under the pine tree, back in the deep brush by the pond, even under the oak out front where they’ve been sitting around a lot lately. No eggs. No sign of a nest or eggs.

And so, new plan. They now have to stay in the pen until they lay at least four eggs. Even if I’m not going to be home until five, they have to stay in the pen. If they haven’t laid their eggs, they don’t go out. Today we were taking off at noon for a drive to see a prairie, and there were only two eggs. Sorry girls, and have a nice day.

When I come outside they run up and cluck at me. As I’m headed back to the house in the morning there’s very loud clucking. I’d like to take them on a little “scared straight” trip over to a commercial egg operation. “Look! See how good you have it! I even poured in half a bag of leftover popcorn before I left. You’re not suffering. Your pen is enormous by pen standards. Now get busy!”

And on days when I go out at two or three p.m. and there are four eggs, or even five, and I open the door, they trot out happily and either follow me into the garden or go about the business of finding meat in the prairie, Biggie leading the way.