Trials & Tribulations with Nesting Hens
“I think you’ve got a dead chicken here,” one of the volunteer moms announced a few weeks ago, in the
midst of freezing nights and chilly temperatures.
“She’s just setting a nest,” I answered. Yep, right in the middle of the path to DJ’s toolroom, I thought.
“But she’s under a bag. And she’s not moving,” the concerned helper said, peering closer to catch a
glimpse of the hen’s slow breathing.
When sitting on eggs, the mama hens become somnolent, nearly comatose, almost as if they are
hibernating, conserving their fluids and energy to endure 21 days of just sitting. Keeping eggs warm.
Several times I’ve had to look closely myself to make sure the mama is still alive. During the unusually
cold nights, we had propped some paper feed bags over the miserable hen to help insulate her against
drafts.
The next week during morning chores, as I approached our line of grain storage buckets, I noticed a red
chicken plumped on the floor in the passageway, right beside the buckets.
Hmm...I thought. That’s a strange place to choose to set a nest.
I started to move past, and suddenly the hen was flying at me and pecking my lower legs...well, at least
I’m wearing sweat pants, not shorts, I thought. It continued in attack mode. Moving around in an
awkward two-step, I grabbed an empty feed bag to fend off the hen.
“What in the world?” I gasped. Then heard a peep. The vengeful hen was merely a worried mama
defending her young. Apparently, they had hatched out and taken off exploring. I prepared a cage and
managed to shoo the hen and her chicks into it before our cats noticed. I could only find two chicks,
even checking the nest to count eggshells. It’s a wonder I hadn’t stepped on one of them while trying to
avoid the mom.
I find that mama chickens are remarkably ungrateful for efforts to help them protect and take care of
their young, whether still in the egg or running about. Often I try to put out small bowls of feed and
water for the mamas, only to have them peck savagely at me as I try to maneuver them into place.
During the cold spell, one managed to swipe me in a tiny gap where my jacket sleeve had pulled back
from my glove. I stood staring at the drops of blood on my hand (okay, not that many or that bad, but
still!) and wondered why we’d ever traded ducks for chickens.
Then a few days ago, just after I’d helped our little granddaughter Sara into the goat stall to play with
the babies, I heard frantic peeping and squawking in the barnyard. There was another hen with a whole
brood of surprise chicks. Just as I spotted them, an attacking guinea fowl succeeded in driving away the
mom and started after the scattered chicks. I hurled myself through the gate near the barn, yelling,
managing to frighten away the guinea before it got any of the babies. I also succeeded in terrifying poor
Sara, hidden behind barn walls and unable to see what was happening. Behind me, I could hear Sara’s
shrieks as the mama hen swept her babies to safety. The hen had successfully hidden out behind the big
bale in the goat’s hay feeder until they hatched. I got Sara out, brought a cage near to the hay feeder,
and set out chick feed and water. Peering over the wall behind the bale, I could just make out the hen,
setting the old nest with her chicks out of sight under her wings. It was hours before they ventured out
again.
This time I found nine chicks, some bright yellow, others little black ones that remind me irresistibly of
tiny penguins.
It’s not all trials and tribulations.