I like to say that, in this part of the country, our thermometres need only read between +30 and -30 Celsius—Reasonable temperatures that won't freeze out a fruit tree or cook an egg before the hen has a chance to lay it. Anything more or less and I think I Almost Lost My Mind. Reminds me of that song, Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid, by those farm boys in the Netherlands; Holland Oats, I think they call themselves.
I'm clearly overheated.
I have a couple hens who have been walking around the coop today, mouths open and wings held out. Poor girls are overheated, too. A henhouse in more southernly climes, I presume, where this heat is more the norm, might be outfitted with fans and situated amongst a few shade trees. Mine has neither.
What I do have is plenty of cool water. So, my Bun-Bun gets a bottle of ice and the hens get a bath.
I wish I had a photo of the process, but as the song goes, There Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens. They actually enjoy it, so I dunk them all, whether they look like they need it or not. Then they can sit and preen rather than fight—I put my broody hen back in with the other gals yesterday and no one seems to be adjusting as well as I had expected.
It must be the heat.
If looks could kill.
She didn't really need the water—her large comb and wattle help to regulate temperature; but I figured she might as well as not.
There was a time when I thrived in this kind of weather. It energized me, actually, and I was just so happy to be warm. That was pre-menopause. Now it zaps any energy I may have laying around and sends me to the cool basement, to my computer, to document the current weather conditions and my chicken-keeping endeavor.
And since I'm bordering on chilly by now, I'll head back into the sunshine and see if anyone in the barnyard is ready for another bath.
Why does a chicken coop have two doors?
If it had four, it would be a sedan.
