The Emancipation of the Hens and Its Consequences

I knew about the law of diminishing returns from my economics class, but never did I expect that it would be applied so brutally as it has been to my little farm.

Piscataway Acres began with a small flock of laying hens in a tall, white coop across the yard on the edge of the woods. Inside the coop, there were several nice egg-laying boxes, floored with pieces of a cut-up exercise mat and softened with straw, meant to reduce the risk of yoke spillage. Out back, behind the coop, the chickens had a sizable pen with plenty of pickings to peck at and a fat log to perch upon. They were happy chickens and order prevailed with eggs being nested, almost without fail, in the designated areas.

But as the pen was gradually pecked clean and no new growth was sprouting, I had a stirring of emotion within my breast of a sympathetic nature. Although I was well aware that chickens were, well, not self-aware, I started to look upon their pen as a prison keeping them away from yonder fields with yonder insects. I started to consider the chicken condition.

Taking my inspiration from Gorbachev, I launched a little perestroika of my own. Little by little, I expanded their freedom. On a nice afternoon, I would open the coop’s front door and leave it open, expecting the old adage of chickens coming home to roost to hold out. Out the chickens would go to explore the yet undiscovered frontier. And then they would come back. On Saturdays, I might leave it open all day. The poultry would venture further. And then they would come back. While all of this was taking place, egg laying proceeded as normal in the coop boxes with only a few rare exceptions being uncovered outside in highly visible places.

About the same time, my chicken ambitions were rising. Bringing in a measly 12 dollars (3 dollars a dozen) a week from sales would not cut it. I had a mortgage to pay. So, along with the expansion of freedom, my mind became set on expanding the flock. I had heard of devices that could produce chicks out of regular eggs laid by chickens, strange Styrofoam boxes wired with electrical cords. So when I got one of those for my birthday, I started casually tossing my extra eggs in there to see what would happen. 21 days later, chips began to fall and chicks began to emerge.

Meanwhile, the chickens outside were undergoing a veritable fall of the Berlin wall. Fences were being uprooted and tossed aside. General, the flock’s noble leader, scratched the dirt from her feet and led the others into the wilds of freedom. Freedom can be anarchic.

By the time I added the new chicks to the flock, the originals had spread throughout the yard. Eggs could still be found easily enough, but not in the most predictable of places. The traditional coop boxes became out of fashion for the chickens and soon eggs were ending up in little nooks of hay and other accommodating spots. I didn’t mind as long as I could find them easily enough. But then they started to lay in other animals’ feeders where a slight pull of gravity could shatter them on the floor or other awkward, somewhat out-of-reach places, like at the very top of my hay storage in the barn’s loft. Still I could find them or at least see evidence of them having existed.

Now it begins to be more difficult. As winter approaches I expect a normal decline in egg production, but not to the extent I have seen. With more and more chickens in my flock, there are fewer and fewer eggs in even the most non-traditional places.

One morning not long ago I groggily waded through the mist on the damp dirt path leading to the barn. I proceeded through the various tasks requiring completion: feeding, watering, cleaning, and dealing with the chaotic behavior of animals resulting from these chores. Finishing up, I left the barn. Chesapeake, one of my pet pigs, followed. But instead of following me to the house, the food-minded fellow darted, wide-eyed, through a little passage in between the chicken coop and the barn, out of sight. He looked like he had somewhere to go, like he had his own errand list. It took me less than a second to dismiss this tangent. After all, what could a pig have to do that was so important?

I mindlessly trudged back up the path to the house, but stopped suddenly, midway. When that pig flew away just then, his eyes were gleaming. I turned around and gazed back at the barn. Nothing stirred. Chesapeake and his brother were out of sight. Did they know something that I didn’t?

I thought of the missing eggs.  The pigs had munched on some fallen ones before. Questioning, I walked back to the barn, behind the coop to scan the woods for any signs of concealed  nesting spots and suspicious piggy behavior. Chesapeake, out in the open now, trotted happily towards me from some unidentified location. He had an innocent look on his face or so it seemed. Yawning, I headed to the house. The case of the missing eggs would have to be left for another day.