We had much chicken drama this morning.
There are times when having no actual experience with raising chickens may be considered a handicap. Or a blessing. Jury's still out.
We have 5 baby chickens and 5 grown up chickens. The babies are not all babies - two of them are teenagers - but none of them can vote so for the purpose of this post, they are babies. We got two of them and then for reasons known best to the chicken people, waited a few weeks for the next three. I think they were backordered. Or they didn't have our size and the hens had to hatch more. It's complicated.
At any rate, we had two shifts of baby chicken boxes in our livingroom. When it came time to move them out (bigger little ones), we put them in the Tea House, which is an auxiliary coop that neighbors Camp Chicken. All was well.
Yesterday we (Chris. This is all Chris' fault) decided to move the smaller little ones out too. We put them in the Tea House. Lines were drawn. Alliances were formed. The babies hid in a corner.
Chris (this is all Chris' fault) suggested we put the bigger little ones in with the grownups. A pecking order was formed, with the bigger littles firmly at the bottom. All was well until bedtime.
The bigger littles did not go into the coop, so Chris (see above) put them in after the others had gone to bed. He then looked all over the yard for the escaped little littles, found one, lost one, found two, captured one, cornered the other and then discovered all three inside the tea house. They should move to New York and do street corner shell games.
All was well.
I went out at 5am to let them out and make sure they were all alive in case we had to "drive some to summer camp" before the kids woke up.
The larger littles were lying in a pile in the corner of the coop.
There were only two chickens in the tea house.
As I started to pack up the larger ones' stuff for camp, they miraculously came to life and ran out with their new friends. Fakers.
There were still only two chickens in the tea house.
I told Chris, who insisted that there were three in when he closed them up but claimed it was all his fault anyway. I pretended it wasn't. We went back to sleep after we had looked high and low for the third chicken. She had obviously stolen a neighbor's car and driven herself to summer camp.
This is the one who kept squeezing through the fence into Camp Chicken yesterday, where she ran around terrorizing everyone before squeezing back through to the safety of the tea house. She is a firebrand, that one.
Which is why we should not have been surprised when we looked out an hour later to find she'd returned.
This is Trout Towers and we have a chicken with an attitude.