There is a hen sitting on eggs high aloft a stack of hay
bales in my barn. I do not want, nor do I need, any more chickens. This very
same hen and I had a go-round last summer over this very same issue. Each night
I would find her tucked inside one of our laying boxes or nestled amongst the
hay, quietly sitting on the latest egg. And each night she would shriek with
fury when I lifted her off her egg and put her in the hen house with the other
less maternal hens.
She is a Buff Orpington. “Buffies,” as we call them, are a
gentle, quiet breed with beautiful rich golden feathers and soft downy
“pantaloons” that give them a plump, mother hen kind of look. This particular
hen is determined. I saw it in her eyes the first night I lifted her off her
eggs a few weeks ago. Chickens are not the smartest of God’s creatures, nor do
they necessarily have the capacity for scheming, but I am beginning to believe
they do dream. This hen dreams of being a mother. And mothers are a determined
sort.
