Chicken and Egg - Janice Cole [83]
Afraid of what I’d find when I went back outside, I didn’t want to go alone to look at Roxanne. I dragged my husband, who had been doing his best to deal with a hysterical wife and who really didn’t want to get involved (remember the agreement?). There she was eating, scratching, and pecking the ground like nothing was wrong. Where was the burnt spot? Gone! My husband looked at me strangely. I stumbled over my words as I rushed to explain, “I didn’t imagine it! It was there! Really! A big black spot in the middle of a golden brown chick! Where did it go?” I looked again—she was fine.
Unfortunately, it really happened. But apparently only her outer feathers were burned, and they had either dropped out on their own, or she groomed them out, or one of the other girls helped her. Whatever had happened, the singed feathers were gone, and she seemed none the worse for it. I watched the heat lamp carefully from then on, and joined the chicks in wondering if spring would ever come.
Instead, it continued to get colder. I watched the weather forecasts hourly like a captain about to set sail. Zero degrees tonight? No problem, I relaxed. Ten below? I started getting nervous. Twenty below? I was worried. Minnesota weather forecasters are notorious for predicting worst-case scenarios every day. Thus it seemed that we either had biblical floods, Saharan heat, or hell-freezing cold. I therefore tried not to overreact.
One night we arrived home after ten with the outside temperature dropping toward twenty below, and I had to react. I could not in good conscience leave my tiny hens outside. I didn’t want to be responsible for three frozen chicksicles. My original plan had been to move the chicks into the garage if the outside temps became too severe, but with an uninsulated garage facing into the wind, it was almost as cold in there as it was outside.
I’d purchased a medium-size wire dog kennel with a solid removable floor to transport the chicks, and we hauled it into the house that night. Putting the chicks on the lower level, where the cats slept at night, didn’t seem smart. So I set up the back hall for their use. (My husband wisely didn’t want to deal with the consequence if the hens froze, so he didn’t say a word.) I quickly covered the floor with heavy plastic, lined the kennel with lots of paper, and ran out to grab each chick, one by one. Roxanne came first, and I could see her hunched body visibly relax in the warmth. Cleo gladly joined her. Crazy Lulu stood squawking in the coop, calling for her friends and wondering why she’d been abandoned on this cruel night. Even she didn’t fight as I scooped her up and carried her into the house. The three birds literally cooed like pigeons, they were so happy. I put a blanket partway over their kennel to block the light, and they comfortably slept the night away.
We tiptoed around the house in the morning, hoping not to wake our guests. Their keen ears easily heard us, however, and since they were warm, they were raring to go. It’s a fact that chickens poop all night long, wherever they roost. Therefore, the kennel floor had to be cleaned before I could feed them. It was still dark and extremely cold, and I didn’t want to let them outside. So into the bathroom they went while I cleaned the cage. Bad move! Real bad! Chickens poop wherever they are. I now also had to clean the bathroom. Clean, fed, and watered, the chickens felt ready to roam. No way was I going to let them run through the house. “Forget it,” I told them.
The outside temperature didn’t rise much, and I couldn’t bring myself to throw them back into the cold. So in the house they stayed. I was surprised to find a couple of eggs in the corner of the kennel; they’d created their own nesting spot. The pecking, cooing, and little squabbles kept me company as I worked at my desk. But cleaning up after they spilled their food and water bowl prevented me from finishing my work. I listened to the doomsayer’s daily forecast, and learned the nighttime temps would not be any