I was not going to let the chickens out for a run, because I was on a roll with the weeding and didn't feel like letting them set the gardening agenda for the rest of the afternoon. I hardened my heart and ignored their shrieks of complaint, but then they came rushing up to me with such imploring expressions when I walked past them on the way to the compost heap that I felt I had to let them out for a quick wander. Hens have a highly developed capacity to want things, or at least to look as though they want them. The first hen I ever met that got me interested in the idea of keeping chickens was at the Ironbridge Museum, many years ago. She was in a run that had been pecked and scratched bare of all vegetation, and was trying to reach a nettle on the outside of the enclosure through the netting. I have rarely seen a creature that seemed to want anything more than that hen wanted the nettle, and I felt obliged to pick a stem and pass it to her.
They have quite a broad emotional range, chickens. They get very excited about food. On those mornings when I take them some boiled potato, either leftovers from our supper the night before or old ones I've cooked up for them specially, they jump up as I drop the potato lumps into the run. Tomatoes are a favourite, if we have any that have gone a little squishy, and leftover rice makes them very happy. They are fans of processed starch, so white rice receives a much more enthusiastic response than porridge oats. They love sunbathing, and will stretch out sensuously on the floor of the run on hot mornings, extending now a wing and now a leg. They are assiduous about dust bathing, but it never looks as much fun as when they're having a good stretch in the sun.
They are nosy animals. Doing any task near their run, it is quite normal to look round and see five beaked faces staring at you, and the Systems Administrator was once busy in the workshop during chicken exercise time and found them lined up outside, looking in through the door, while they regularly visit me when I'm weeding. They're partly there for the worms, but partly to see what's going on. They ignore the robins, perhaps because they are too small, but seem to empathise with other larger birds. The big tabby once despatched a pigeon outside the chicken run and the hens screamed hysterically, whereas a rabbit meeting the same fate left them quite unmoved. Poultry books warn of the dangers of bullying, and how the other chickens will gang up on one that's ill or injured, but when any of ours have been unwell the rest have looked almost sympathetic. At least, they have peered at the sufferer and moved cautiously around them, without showing any signs of aggression.
You can herd chickens in the direction they're minded to go anyway. Try to send one the opposite way to where she wants to go and she will duck and dive like a footballer. They have strong opinions about where they want to visit, once you let them out, and are very reluctant to be diverted or distracted. This has sometimes caused friction between them and me as when, for example, what they wanted was to scratch around in the newly weeded and mulched cyclamen patch. You can shoo a hen half a dozen times off the place where she wants to forage, and she'll be back there every time.
Sometimes one or two will get left behind by the rest of the flock and rush in a panic to catch up, wings flapping madly for extra speed and legs whirring like The Road Runner. Panic comes naturally to chickens, which is reasonable enough in a world where practically everything else wants to eat you. The sight of me walking past in my bee suit was enough to send them all rushing into their house to hide, the first time they saw it, but they soon got used to it. They are quite bright about grasping routines, and know that there's no way they're coming out at eleven in the morning, whereas it is worth making a fuss from mid afternoon onwards. We had one lot that developed a craze for jumping off the conservatory roof and crash landing with much flapping on the lawn, but none of the later generations ever did it again.
Oh, and they do grumpy spectacularly, when broody. A broody hen is one of the grumpiest animals you will ever meet, at least when she is never allowed to keep any eggs. Lift a broody out of the nesting box and put her down on the grass outside so that she can get some air, some sunlight, and some vitamin C, and she will sink to the ground in disbelief, then pick herself up and scream at you. Then scurry round to the pop hole and back into the run, where she will rush up and down, still shrieking. Some broodies are grumpier than others, and will turn round to peck your hands when you lift her off the eggs, while others will just look at you sadly, before sliding back into the nest with a wiggle of the bottom.
One emotion the cats have got off to a fine art and the chickens haven't mastered yet is smug. Chickens don't seem to do smug, but you can tell when they have had a nice day, because after they have gone to roost they burble to each other on their perch before settling down for the night. Tomorrow I am going to an afternoon concert, so the Systems Administrator will have to take a break from the workshop and find something to do in the garden for a couple of hours if the chickens are to come out. It can be inconvenient releasing them, when they are intent on visiting one end of the garden and you are trying to get something finished at the other, but they are enormously entertaining animals to watch. And they do enjoy free ranging for a couple of hours.
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