Hot in the hen house

Chickens are very adaptable sorts. We drove back to 90s-hot South Carolina with the hens in mid-July, and they immediately returned to their summer routines. How do they survive the scorch? When I have writing days at home, I walk out back many times a day to check on their water, see if they're panting. (They are generally open-mouth panting mid-day.) Sometimes I use the galvanized trough to create shade, lean it onto their run. The hen house has a tin roof to reflect the sun and give them some relief - but they usually only go in there at night. The sunflowers and lantana and muscadine vine make shade. Their feathers protect them. Still, like a mother hen, I want to know they aren't too hot. I turn on the sprinkler. And I check back again in a little while.

Photo: Rupert under the grapevine.

Cabin life

Some observations from our two-week stay in Maine with three young hens:

They haven't figured how to walk down to the lake and drink, so we keep their water dish full. They happily file into the pet carrier at night to sleep. They "free range" and never go far from the cabin, maybe 25 feet or so. One morning they flew up to the cabin roof and sat there until lunch. They will eat the crumble feed we bought up here, but spend most of the time scratching the ground to get to the bugs under the pine needles and twigs. We sit outside with them in the mornings to watch out for the eagles that hunt the lake. Every day or two I give them one of the sunflower heads I brought back from SC, and they peck through it. They like to hop up and sit on the wooden steps. Sparky watches them like a shepherd.

(Photo: dinnertime around the cabin. That's our friend John and his hefty plate of lobster.)

Two people, one dog, three hens

On July 1st we packed the station wagon and drove north to the little cabin in Maine. Sparky lounges in the back seat, and the hens are along too. I think some of our friends imagine some sort of "Beverly Hillbillies" scene with an open jalopy and the chickens in a wooden crate on top. What's really going on is that we put the three hens in an old cat carrier lined with newspaper and cedar chips, fitted with hanging stainless bowls of water and pellets. They are in the far back of the wagon, and they don't seem to mind the ride. Every time we open the hatch, I tell them what good laying hens they'll be, but there hasn't been an egg yet.