My Feminist Hen
By Andrea Peck
I was going to write about hummingbirds today, but we have one shrieking hen who is so dominating that I can no longer think for myself – she has taken over my mind. I try to sleep but she squawks, I try to quiet her with food, but she squawks, I try to lock her in the hen pen, but she squawks. Loudly.
Did I say, loud? I mean LOUD. Like, let's close the doors loud or maybe, let's leave the house, loud.
On Saturday morning she motivated me to leave my coffee, my book, and the squishy confines of my couch and fuchsia-colored comforter. Braving the foggy morning, I took off at a quick jog, my version of a run, and pretended not to live in my own home.
It's driving me up the wall really.
She does have long pauses, like right now. It is late afternoon and she is cadaver quiet. Not a peep. It's the 7 a.m. version of her that really has me on eggshells. Could it be possible that she is planning her playlist for tomorrow?
It all started about a month ago when the sun became an early riser. At first, I did not worry; I simply employed my best tactical maneuver: feeding. I reason, rightly in most cases, that eating hens cannot squawk.
A crack of morning light would push at the night and without fail, I'd hear a low gronk. Glancing at my clock, I noticed a pattern: 6:08 a.m. Despite my pajamas and shlumpy appearance, I'd tromp out to the yard, give the ladies and Queen Hen some breakfast and then run into the house and flop back into bed. There were a few rare occasions where she grew insistent, but it seemed the food placated her on most days.
But, it did not take long for Snowball or Snowcake, whatever her name is, to move beyond petty manipulation. Clearly, this hen is no lay-down. She has taken over the roost and she plays by her own set of rules. One minute you can hear the sound of your own breathing, and the next, there is a stabbing refrain that makes you want to grab your head in agony. Luckily she has not figured out how to stay awake during the night or we'd really have some trouble.
The internet is useless. There seems to be no real solution other than my own plan of converting the coop into a soundproof box and opening the coop at set times. This remedy sounds slightly psychotic, I know, but it is a hair better than what I've seen on Google which harbors very little practical advice and a lot of flowery descriptions of lovely egg-singing and beloved hens with names that rival a rock star.
I'm sorry, my hen has the piercing cackle of a werewolf on fire. She does not sound like a Swiss yodeler, nor can I convince myself that her ear-shattering serenades, which are 20 minutes in length, are enjoyable. She is not laying an egg either. This hen is standing upon the wooden crate we have in the far corner of the coop and yelling at the world. Her tone is strident and vicious and vaguely politically-slanted.
Perhaps that is it. Perhaps she is finished. Through. Kaput. Could it be that my hen is speaking for all downtrodden hens? Does she feel strongly about our egg eating? Perhaps she is fighting against chicken atrocities and egg abduction.
Who knows? I do not claim to know the mind of a hen; I would love to listen with empathy, to hear her plight, but sadly, I cannot.
I'm afraid if I do, she will shatter my eardrums.