I am furious with our chickens, especially the witchy one who just attacked me.
Now that our erstwhile rooster is fulfilling his highest and best destiny (my husband sacrificed and canned the beast the last weekend), the hens are on the march.
I have brought the chickens an apple core as a treat every day of their post-baby chick lives. They have always received it hungrily and fought over it, each ultimately securing a portion. They never complained when I collected whatever eggs they laid. Today was different.
I brought them their apple core and held up the hatch of their hutch to check for eggs. For the first time ever, not one egg was intact. They have sometimes broken an egg but left others intact. Today all the eggs–I could not quite tell whether there had been three or four–were smashed and consumed. Only the shell fragments remained.
As I held up the hatch, one hen leaped onto my arm–these creatures have impressive claws–in an attempt to escape the hutch. I pushed her back and closed and latched the hatch. Then I went in and scrubbed my arm with Bactine. Chickens are incredibly filthy creatures.
It’s actually a negligible casualty, and chickens are far too dull to formulate an intention. I will still bring the hens their apple core, for two more days. We have two apples left, and the storage apples we get in summer taste like paper mâché. There will be no more apples until Fall.
I doubt the chickens will learn any manners by then–though I suppose that’s fair, since I keep removing their eggs.