With a cluck cluck here

I adore my chickens. Ok, I adore them for the most part. That they were darling chicks once upon a time helps. They rely on me to care for them; I suppose that helps too.

Chickens are many wonderful things, but they are not that bright. Such as the hen who prefers to eat paint chips off of the coop rather than the scratch I put out for them. They defecate in their water, tip it over, unplug it so that it freezes in the winter. They decimate my corn crop. They take dirtbaths in my bulb garden.

Chickens do have their instincts, which amazed me at first. Such as how they automatically knew where the corn was. They have their own thermostats that tell them it is ok to go out in 25 degree weather, but not 15 degree weather. They know to go to their house at dusk.

They also know that if the ground is white, they don't want to go out. If they can see the straw they love to push out of their coop, they will venture out for a stroll, which is how we ended up in the situation at hand. I have seen them walk through snow before, and chicken tracks in the snow are rather funny to see. When they decided to leave their house that day, I knew it was going to snow, but did not worry. They know where home is.

I realized it had started to snow, and rather hard. I donned my coop coat and boots to go shut their door. Murphy's law says if you wear your good coat, you WILL get manure on it. I approach the coop and realize it is too quiet. They are not in their house. Several inches of snow have accumulated on the ground. I check the garage. No chickens.

They are huddled on the front porch, looking quite pathetic. Some are standing on one foot. Some have little piles of snow forming on their backs. They look at me and start to cluck. I feel like the worst chicken parent ever.

I scooped a hen under each arm and hauled them out to the coop. They did not struggle. I imagine the brighter, non paint chip eating chickens realized I was helping them. I was not wearing a hat or gloves since I did not plan on being outside all that long. I was able to get five of the seven into the coop without a problem. I was down to Randy the Rooster and the Stupid One (that eats paint). Neither wanted me to pick them up.

I was cold. They were cold. I gently nudged them off the porch, figuring the snow would increase their cooperation. Ha! I am chasing them toward the coop with little success. I finally manage to snatch up the hen. I see my boys watching me from the window, laughing wildly. I mutter to her sweet nothings about stews and potpies as I haul her to the coop.

Randy, who once followed me all over the yard and had no idea he was a chicken, now wanted no part of me touching him. We zigged and zagged across the yard until finally he ran into the coop. I was a tad furious, out of breath, and cold. I stomped back into the house. I had spent 30 minutes herding seven chickens back to their coop.

Chickens, like children, are a labor of love. They are definitely work. There will always be moments that you wonder if the cost-benefit ratio is worth it.

A few days later, the snow blew off of the porch to reveal at least 15 piles of chicken poop. I won't repeat what Hubby said, but it was akin to my sweet nothings involving brining and charcoal grills.