I’ve got a broody hen. In other words, she wants to be a momma.
This hen in particular sits in a wheelbarrow. Day after day. Night after night. She won’t eat. She won’t drink. And if you go near her, she puts her hackles up and makes a noise that frightens me. I’ve never been harmed by a chicken, and yet I still am frightened. It is an unwarranted fear that I can not explain, especially considering the fact that my hens are darlings. Perhaps it dates back to when I read a children’s book, “Junie B. Jones Has a Peep in her Pocket” and Junie B. was worried that the chickens were going to peck her head into a nub, and she would have to walk around in a pair of overalls with a nub as a head. I’m sure that is it, since that is so very logical.
So day after day, night after night, this yellow chicken sits in a red wheelbarrow hoping beyond hope that the egg she ISN’T sitting on will hatch. Crazy chicken.
It is impossible that she will ever set a nest and have a baby chickie because:
1) there is no rooster here to fertilize her egg, so no matter how long she sets a nest, it will still just be an egg.
2) There is no egg that she is setting since we removed it from underneath her weeks ago, hoping she would be about her business.
No such luck.
Day after day, one of us, (mostly Ash, but sometimes me if I’ve had a shot of whiskey first) will pick up the hissing, pissed off chicken, afraid that her head is going to spin around and start pecking me to a nub and throw her out of the wheelbarrow, so she can get a drink of water and maybe a bite to eat. And as soon as we do, she lets us know she is not a happy chicken. And as soon as she can, she makes a run for the water trough, gets a drink, and before you know it, she is back in her wheelbarrow on her imaginary nest, dreaming of waddling babies.
But if you were ever wondering where the expression “got her feathers ruffled” originated, my belief is it came from an insane broody hen after she was tossed from her wheelbarrow.