on neighborly social distancing

Thud! Judd and I had just settled into our recliners in the living room. That strange sound had come from outside the kitchen window.

“What in the world was that?” I leaned forward, my eyes scanning the dining area to the kitchen. What I saw caused me to giggle and jump from my chair.

Our neighbor’s chickens have not heard of social distancing. Every morning for weeks they had been coming across the brome field to accompany me in my morning chores of feeding two chickens, two ducks, a goat, and a donkey. And then, they gravitate to the bird feeder.

Judd feeds the birds, and ever since our grandson, Hezekiah, has taken to bird-watching in a very serious manner, Judd has become more heavily invested in that bird-feeder. And he did not consider feeding chickens as part of the deal.

It became a ritual: every time he saw the chickens under his bird feeder pecking away at the kernels that had fallen to the ground, he would run out and chase them away . . . only for them to return as soon as he disappeared into the house.

The familiar scene became entertainment for our grandchildren who could watch from their large dining room window across the road while they completed their homeschool assignments.

At last, Judd decided it would take more than just chasing them from the bird feeder. With great resolve, he would shout, wave his arms, and chase them all the way across the brome field to their own chicken pen. It worked.

However, several days later, two of the hens, a Barred Rock and a rusty Americana, began to venture back to our yard, mostly hanging out with my chickens from across the fence. Within days, they became aware that I lived in this house, I brought grain from this house, and I fed chickens.

The scene that had brought a smile to my face was directly outside my kitchen window. Stretching to see inside were four beady-eyed chicken heads perched on two scrawny necks. The hens were sitting on the back of the porch swing, balancing like trapeze artists, and peeking in the kitchen window looking for that “lady-who-feeds-chickens.”

I thought they were cute; Judd did not. Running out the door Judd pursued those poor friendly chickens across the yard. The Americano ran to the donkey pen and flew up into a tree. The Barred Rock ran home.

The next morning, I found the Americano in the pen with my chickens. It did not take many days for the Barred Rock to join her sister in her new environment. They had finally figured out how to safely get fed by the lady-who-feeds-chickens without getting chased by the man-who-feeds-birds.