Remembering the chicken dance of last night, I went out to check on the progression towards the coop well before sundown. Sure enough, a group of 6 were trying fruitlessly to get into the hen yard from the pasture through the fence, which was still well blocked with ice, despite the lovely warm day we had. They can't be held to blame, their wee chicken brains are used to being able to have free access just there, and it flummoxes them when no opening is available where it has been reliably there for them their entire lives.
I thought quick and got some scratch grains, and lured the hens towards the gate into the back yard. 5 came willingly. One flat refused. I tried to herd her, but herding hens on ice is a fools game. The evening was rather lovely, the dogs had been fed and exercised, so I sat on the deck steps to just be still and watch the evening gather in around me. It was peaceful. The hens I had managed to get into the yard tucked themselves into the coop. The goats and donkeys were gathered around the hay rack enjoying supper, and the wayward hen was pacing, back and forth, from where the door should be, to the hay rack. She kept passing the Christmas tree where everyone had tried to roost last night, and I figured that soon enough she would hop in, and game on, I'd nab her. Well, this chicken must have better night vision than the rest, because well past the time that I could see her pacing form, she was still out there, going back and forth. I was getting cold and wanted to put on my comfy clothes and grab a cup of tea, so I strapped on my head lamp and went out to see if I could talk some sense into her. She dove under the donkeys legs, she wedged between the goats, all the places I could not snatch her. Then she somehow forced her plump body through the fence and into the back yard. This was actually a good thing. The footing is a little flatter there, and it's closer to the coop. I turned off every outside light that might possibly be aiding her as she eluded me, but she still kept about 10 chicken steps ahead of me.
Every wise chicken owner has a nice net to catch wayward birds, and I have one, but I am not sure where it is. I'm blaming my husband, because it's convenient and he's not here to defend himself. Oh how I was wishing for that net. I kept following the dumb cluck as she meandered over the yard, and almost had her, twice, but there is not a lot to grab on a chicken. They are all round edges, curves and sleek feathers. No handle anywhere, unless you manage to grab a leg or neck, and those parts sometimes break so I wasn't going for them. The game was getting old. I peeled my coat off, gasping as the chilling air hit my thin shirt, and tossed it over her. The slippery nylon fabric slid right off, but she did pause a moment, perplexed by the new plot twist. I tossed again, and again, as she waddled over the ice. Finally, in a particularly dark corner, she hesitated, trying to wedge through the fence back into the pasture, I flung my coat in a last, desperate, attempt and this time the hood mercifully fell over her face and I had her! I felt like doing the kind of dance football players do when they make a touchdown. I had a happy fantasy of holding the bird aloft in victory, doing a happy dance, then SMASHING her to the ground. No, that was a bad thought. I resisted. But as I snatched the hefty hen and tucked her under my arm, I realized just which bird it was. It was the screamer!
Once again she let loose with a tirade of ear splitting shrieks. Like last night, I tried to soothe, comfort and shush her, but every attempt cranked up the volume. I moved fast, climbed into the coop and planted her on a roost. The second her feet hit the post she became silent. I think she's plotting tomorrow nights chase.
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