Miss Broody Update

 

Hen riled up—making her warning call again

I thought it would take forever…but Miss Broody finally decided to leave the nest!

Every single one of our Buff Orpington chickens has been broody at some point or another. The broody stage of our other hens would generally last about 21 days, which I understand is pretty typical. Miss Broody retreated to the coop on the first warm spring day, around mid-April, and finally emerged from the broody stage last Monday—over seven weeks, which must be a record!

But…there were extenuating circumstances…

Around the three-week mark—around the time we would expect the broody stage to be over—her only remaining chicken chum, Little Miss Britches, was killed by a bobcat. I think at that point, Miss Broody was done with the great outdoors.

Every day, I would take her off the nest, and bring her out of the coop. I’d put some feed right under her nose, and for a minute or two, she’d peck at it. But then, she’d run straight back inside the coop.

Certain that the bobcat was an ongoing threat, I started putting her out in the grass, keeping my eye on her from the garden at all times. She would actually eat a little clover, and again, peck at the whole grains in the feed, and in between pecks, look around fearfully. All in all, though, she consumed very little food.

I think the real problem is that she’s been lonesome. Maybe she’s even had hen depression.

But I’m also inclined to think that being outside in the light for several weeks, surrounded by rich spring grass, finally worked its magic. When I looked across the yard Monday morning, and saw the vivid splash of blond roosting on the big maple stump, I thought, she’s baaaack!

But she’s still not laying.  

I wonder if she ever will. I’ve been checking the nest every day, only to be disappointed. It could be that laying hens need other hens around to keep their egg-producing hormones up to speed. And I can see Miss Broody is still anxious—while eating, she still looks around constantly for threats. 

Yesterday evening, she was making her buck-buck-buck-bu-GAH! warning call when the neighbor cat was in the vicinity. A frightened hen is not much of a layer.

Our nearest neighbors, Alan and Gretchen, who sold us our flock, are also down to one hen—the bobcat has really made the rounds around here. The hen is still laying, but Alan reports that she’s eating her eggs—very dysfunctional chicken behavior. She’s likely lonely too.

So, keeping only one hen has its problems. The thing is, I realized with our most recent flock of hens—nearly decimated by wildlife—is that once you start keeping laying  hens, your girls are the heart of your homestead.

Now that we’re down to just the one, nervous girl, I feel that hole on our place. In our hearts.

Hens' Recovery

 

Hens being hens again!

I thought they would stay in their coop forever.

After a red-tailed hawk killed one of our three hens (see February 24 post) the remaining two spent their days huddled in the coop, hardly eating or drinking.

The girls were obviously very traumatized. They’d not only stopped laying eggs, they had stopped acting like hens.

It seemed like they were fading away…and I was afraid they would eventually succumb to starvation.

After 10 days, the hens began leaving the coop just once or twice a day for a few minutes and peck listlessly at their feeder, like they’d lost their appetites. They wouldn’t even go on the side of the pen closest to their yard—and certainly nowhere near the pen door, several feet from where the other hen had died.

Even when John and I visited their pen, to coax them out into the world again, they weren’t interested. Then the day came when, accompanied by John and me, the two hens very slowly ventured into their yard.

They pecked at a few blades of grass—but eating like they had before: a couple of pecks, then lifting their heads to look around.

Clearly, the girls still didn’t feel safe. I wondered if they’d eat and explore the way they used to. And if they'd ever lay eggs again.

They still weren’t engaging in normal hen behavior: taking dust baths or scratching. I decided, let’s mix things up a little—shake the girls out of this funk!

Next to their yard, there’s a narrow area between the outside of their fence and one of our woodsheds. It’s chock full of weeds and big clumps of grass. I figured, surely in such a confined space, they could let down their guard. And if that juicy green grass doesn’t get them scratching, nothing will.

So John and I herded them into this small space, closed them in with a length of steer wire, and hovered again. They did seem to like the grass, and gave it a few pecks. Then they wanted OUT.

“Girls, give it a chance,” I coaxed them. “Just a few more minutes?”

Oh, no. The girls continued to pace the short length of wire, making distressed sounds. I didn’t want them to get re-traumatized, so John and I let them out. They made a beeline for the coop.

I said to John, "I guess our experiment failed." 

Or had it?

The next few days, the two girls began to spend more time outside the coop. When I came into the pen to feed them, I could tell they’d been eating more. Then one day, I saw signs they’d been dust bathing! 

The next day, when I came to see them, the hens ventured into their yard without too much coaxing. They pecked at some grass, and actually started to scratch a little. Yay! They were finally back on track!

Then…a large bird flew over our place.

Immediately, they looked skyward, then the bird made a Caw. Those girls scuttled right back into the pen. "C’mon girls," I told them, "it’s only a raven, you’re okay. It’s not even that close!" But they wouldn’t come out again.

Another day or two went by, and the girls were starting to spend most of their days in their pen. Not in the coop. I could see more signs of dust-bathing. And they had found their appetites again. John and I gave them another chance to come out into the yard, and they pecked at the dirt and even scratched a little.

Then, low and behold, three weeks and a day since the attack, I found an egg in one of the nests!

Since that first egg, nine days ago, the girls seem eager to get out in their yard again. They’re scratching with gusto, and even climbing up on the old maple stump—all happy hen behaviors. And judging from all the droppings in their pen, they eating normally again. Maybe making up for lost time.

And we’ve gotten five more eggs!

We still can’t let the hens out in their yard unsupervised. The hawk attack came without warning—the big raptor hadn’t first made an exploratory pass over the yard or anything. Just boom!—attack. So John and I can’t trust this bird won’t try again.

I regret the girls can’t go back to free-ranging all day, and get the light and scratching time they need, which makes them happy.

Still, for me, this experience was a lesson in hen-keeping. Our girls, it seemed, needed to recover in their own good time. Not according to humans’ timeframe or expectations.

It’s how nature works, isn’t it? Everything happens when the time is right…and not before. By the way, Happy Spring!