I
open the chicken door every morning, and witness the usual feathery
stampede toward freedom. Normally, it’s a scene right out of a
Western movie—150 chickens all trying to funnel through an
16-inch-wide opening that’s maybe 8 inches high. You’d think that
after years of this, they’d have figured out the physics of it all,
but no. It’s a miracle of poultry determination, physics-defying
chaos, and questionable decision-making on everyone’s part.
But this morning. .
. oh, this morning was different.
The first brave
souls headed for the door like it was the Oklahoma Land
Rush—flapping, squawking, and aiming for open space. They were
charging toward freedom, their little chicken hearts racing with the
hope of a day full of dirt baths, scratching, and finding that one
perfect worm. It was all going according to plan. . . until they saw
it. Snow. A vast, unforgiving blanket of cold, white betrayal,
covering their precious dirt.
Suddenly, it was
like someone slammed on the brakes. Beaks down, wings flared, feet
locked in mid-motion. And then came the collective realization: the
ground that had once been so welcoming, so familiar, was now a
different color and covered in snow. The chickens came to a complete
and utter screeching halt. They stared at it with the kind of disdain
usually reserved for soggy bread. And just like that, the land of
opportunity—so close, yet so cold—became their greatest foe.
Unfortunately, the
145 chickens still packed behind them did not get the memo. Oh no.
The ones at the back, who hadn’t even seen the snow yet, were still
fully committed to their mission of freedom. So, what followed wasn’t
a gentle retreat or a graceful understanding of the situation—it
was more like a 150-car pileup on the feathered freeway. The ones at
the front were stuck—wouldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back. The
ones in the rear just kept pushing like, “Move it, lady! I’ve got
scratching to do!” Total chaos. Squawking. Wing flapping. A whole
lot of side-eye. It was like watching a badly choreographed flash mob
where nobody knew the dance—or the reason they were dancing in the
first place. I half expected someone to yell out, “I can’t
breathe! Someone get me my agent!”
In the middle of all
this, Henrietta the Bold, a hen known for being a bit of a daredevil,
decided she would break the chicken traffic jam and try to confront
the snow. She gingerly stepped out onto it (or maybe she was pushed),
stretched a cautious foot forward, and then quickly retracted it like
she had just stepped on hot coals. The disgust in her expression was
palpable. She tiptoed a little further, realized she hated it even
more, then did an about face and tried to head back into the coop.
But of course, that just caused more problems. Now we had a
full-blown two-way traffic jam at the door. The chickens that had
been behind Henrietta were still pushing forward, but now, the ones
trying to get back inside were going in the opposite direction.
Rising levels of chicken indignation ensued.
At this point, I
felt like I was trapped inside a farm-themed version of Jumanji.
Between the squawking, the wing-flapping, and the head bobbing, the
chickens were absolutely losing their minds. Every now and then, I’d
catch the eye of one of them, and I swear I could hear the unspoken
thought: “You
made
this happen, didn’t you?”
I was starting to
wonder if this was just going to be the new normal—an endless loop
of chicken-induced chaos every time I opened the door. What if they
were all permanently frozen in some state of feathered panic? Could
chickens get frostbite on their dignity?
But then, just as I
was about to give up and go back inside, hoping the chickens would
work it out on their own (or figure out how to form a chicken-sized
union to address their grievances), the unthinkable happened. A brave
rooster—one of the older, wiser birds—decided to take a
calculated leap onto the snow. And what did he do? He landed, took
one step, and immediately shook himself off like a wet dog, as if to
say, “See? It’s fine! I’m still alive!”
He strutted about,
his tail feathers swaying with the kind of confidence usually
reserved for the lead role in a Broadway show. And somehow, that one
brave bird turned the tide. Slowly but surely, the others followed
suit, cautiously dipping one foot into the snow, then another, and
finally scattering to their usual spots, scratching and clucking as
if snow had never been their mortal enemy.
And that, folks, is
how Black Monday dawned on the Davis farm.
Moral
of the story?
Snow is a conspiracy. Chickens are dramatic. And doors—no matter
what size—are not meant for mass poultry evacuations. Oh, and
chickens, as it turns out, will always find a way to turn even the
most mundane farm task into a full-blown theatrical production.
Welcome to the farm, where the drama never ends, and neither do the
snowstorms.
And in case you were
wondering... it was only an inch of snow. An inch. All that, for just
one inch.
