About a year and half ago I became a mother hen.
I wasn't expecting it to happen.
It just sort of hit me one day while I was out in the yard working on what has since become dubbed the Chicken Cottage...
We had, with much coaxing from our three children, purchased some sweet baby chicks from a local feed store, and were attempting to construct a coop for them before they outgrew their indoor nursery accommodations... aka an old aquarium tank sitting on our kitchen counter.
When the chicks were big enough, we started bringing them out with us while we worked to let them get used to the outdoors. They loved it, and we loved having them with us.
And that's when it happened... I became a mother hen. Every time I squatted down to fit a board or take a measurement, all four babies would run and gather beneath me in a little cluster of peeping fluff.
If I sat down to take a break, they gathered in my lap for a quick chick-nap. And if there was a noise or a motion that scared them, they ran to me, peeping and flapping for my shelter.
I knew within a day, these little chickens would never be dinner.
Not that the kids would have allowed it, anyway...
That's the chicken named Jack, after Jack Sparrow, of course.
She doesn't mind the masculine connotation. I promise.
Anyway, my mother hen instinct has led me to many things I might not have expected in life. Like hosing chicken poop off my lawn furniture, defending a beautiful but ill planned picnic of fresh cut fruit from a swarm of hungry, fruit-loving birds...
And who can forget the Great Chicken Rescue during the heaviest downpour of this decade...
But as their first year turned into their second, my constant watches and bedtime chick-checks slowly eased off. My girls were gaining their independence.
Eventually, we began leaving the cottage door open, allowing them to come and go as they please between the yard and the coop.
Maybe this is reckless, but we don't live out in the wild. We live smack-dab in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. You tend to get a sense of security inside a big six foot privacy fence. A sense that the world lives on the outside, and the only things on the inside are what you put there. So when I found evidence of an uninvited guest in the hen box...
(the little side section on the coop where they have their nests for laying)
Well, it felt like a home invasion. I was shocked that our yard could be privy to the unknown.
Then the so called love of my life informed me, "Oh yeah, the chickens haven't been sleeping inside. They've been roosting over there, by the back door of the garage."
That's when I noticed the evidence of chickens roosting on a stack of lawn chairs on the back stoop.
I'm a bad mother hen.
Not only were my girls unprotected from the elements these cold winter nights... but something had taken over the hen house.
A very bad mother hen.
We cleaned out the hen box and went right back to tucking the girls in at night.
Locked up tight.
So tonight when I was getting that pirate-loving cutie-pie in the picture above ready for bed and I heard the girls clucking away in alarm outside, I threw on my coat and ran out into the 15 degree night armed only with a flashlight to see what was the matter.
I was expecting to find the neighbors cat lurking about... or maybe a six foot fence jumping chihuahua, perhaps. This is a neighborhood after all. I was not expecting a possum.
Or is that opossum...
I've never been close enough to one to ask before.
But there it was. Its larger than I expected eyes shining in my flashlight. Its pointy little nose pointing right at me. Its bigger than I ever imagined body standing just a few feet away. Much bigger.
Much.
He froze, as I hear possums do, and for some reason I froze, too.
And we just stood there. Staring at each other.
I didn't even think to ask him why his species seems to have dropped their o as of late.
Or maybe that's a regional thing?
Anyway, we both appeared to be waiting for the other to move, and I, for the first time in my life, was the one with more patience. The thing's expression eventually turned from worry to boredom and he let me win our game of possum, sidestepping over to the cottage to tug hear and there at the wire, testing for an entrance while never taking his big, shiny eyes off my face.
I was soon brave enough to shout for my husband.
Pick on me all you want. That possum was terrifyingly confident.
The back door opened behind me with a flood of people and dogs, and I don't really know how it all happened after that, but I managed to get everyone back inside while insisting that no one harm the creature that lumbered off on a lazy path into the shadows of the fence.
It wasn't until everyone was settled back inside, and bedtime back on track, that I realized scaring him off is not the same as getting rid of him. The thing was set up with food, water, and warm, cozy bedding for God knows how long. One strange appearance from a woman with a flashlight, is not likely to tip the scales.
So here I am, back to constant vigilance and nighttime chick-checks. Posting myself by the window and peering out at every cluck.
Who knew adding a few birds to the backyard would turn into a second motherhood?
I didn't.
