Free-Range Chickens

Tonight as I chased the chickens out of the high branches of a cedar tree and into their cedar-sided, sky-lighted, screen-ventilated coop, Nicholai waited outside the run, whining for a fresh egg. As I stood on the hay-covered ground, clucking and tsk-tsk-ing for the girls, I pulled an egg from a nesting box and tossed it over the fence for him to lap up off the ground. Finally, it was quiet, and the hens made their way down, hopping from high branches to lower branches, and fluttering into their yard. I tossed a bit of feed and some grapes into the coop and they hurried in on their little chicken legs.

This is our fourth generation of chickens, and none previous to this lot has decided to "fly the coop" and take up residence in our evergreen trees. We suspect two influences. The first is the advent of free-range time in the lawn, trees, shrubs, and garden beds. Our old lab, Molly, was dedicated to the eradication of live chickens, and so the flock was confined to the coop and its adjacent run. After Molly passed away, we realized that our pitbull mixes, Nicholai and Isabella, were interested only in eggs, and had no need to chase the chickens themselves. So we started leaving the gate to the run open during the days and the hens began foraging the entire property, pecking and scratching to their delight, and nestling into little dust baths in various spots. In the summer of the second year of their yard privileges, the girls began seeking spots to roost in trees instead of returning to the safe harbor of the coop at night.

Worried about their safety, we initially tried to shoo the hens into the coop. For a few days, this plan succeeded, but soon the hens began to climb higher and higher into the tree, and even to seek refuge in other trees, clearly wishing to spend their nights under the moon and stars. As if inspired by Patrick Henry, their actions seemed to say "Give me liberty, or give me death!" Impressed by their drive for freedom, and outwitted anyway, we left them to roost the nights away tucked into cedar, holly, and dogwood branches, high above our heads.

When fall arrived and the nights lengthened, our worries increased, but the chickens were incorrigible. We'd go out earlier and earlier to try to tempt them or chase them into the hen house. In reply, they found more varied spots around the yard and flew, hopped, and climbed to them earlier each day. On several occasions, Nicholai woke us with an urgent alarm and we all raced out back in slippers and pj's, wielding flashlights, to find chickens a flutter, and a scatter of feathers. All chickens accounted for; I'd ruffle the scruff of Nicholai's neck. "Good dog," I'd say, wondering if the chickens had any idea how close they'd come to biting the dust.

Apparently, they had no idea. They continued to roost in the trees and one by one, the raccoons picked them off till only two remained. They've been content all winter to sleep in the coop again. But in recent days, as the weather warms and the days lengthen, they are taking to the trees again. Tonight, between Nicholai's whining and my coaxing, the girls are safe in the coop for one more night. If the ladies are not careful, the old dog with cancer is going to outlive them.