Watching Richard From an Upstairs Window

He's standing by the side of the coop, still, watching, like a parent dropping their child off at school for the first time, observing from afar how they're being treated by the others, wondering if they'll be safe now, not wanting to be overly protective and not wanting to be overly callous either and simply leave. The geese are all motion nearby, nibbling grass, stretching their wings after a night of being crammed up in their own enclosure. When he goes to pet them soon, they'll skitter away, untrusting. I can imagine their squeaky complaints. It's raining, our third day of rain; it's supposed to abate tomorrow, and he's standing our their getting sopped, no rain gear, the bottom of his pant legs brushing the ground and slowly darkening up with moisture. He makes several false starts to the other coop to let our laying hens out, but stops, watching still. I love this silent view point, just watching him, still. Nothing much going on, just the morning, a rainy morning at 5:30 or so, me dry and waking up, looking out our upstairs bathroom window and him down below, wet and going about his morning duties.

I hear him down in the kitchen now. The door from the mudroom squeaked open a moment ago as I was writing this. Things must be fine. I hear him start up the fire. He's a major pyro from way back, he enjoys it, he's good at it. And the morning could use it, there's a bit of a chill. There always seems to be a bit of a chill in our place. I can smell the smoke now, there's a hint of cedar in it, it's pleasant. The rain's picking up, I can hear its thrum on the metal roof. There's the dull thump of cabinets and the small plates coming out. He must be feeding the cats before coming back up.

He put Anita (formerly "Spike") out with the other older hens and roosters last night. We'd been told that introducing them in this way when the others are sleepy and sedate is the best way to avoid the worst of "pecking order" trauma. Richard had balked at this suggestion a week or so ago and had brought Anita out in broad daylight and tossed her into the pen. Good thing Anita was quick. They were all over her, roosters AND hens. We've since found out that the hens are nastier toward newbys than the roosters. The harassment was so bad and constant that we had to rescue her and let her stay in her posh surroundings in the utility room, alone and spoiled, for a week or so longer. Last night was it, though. With a "toughen up big baby" attitude made famous by his mother Frieda, Richard took a screaming Anita out to the coop again, this time placed among the sleeping and perched flock per instructions, and left her there. He was up at 5:30 to check on her and make sure she was fine; that's when I spied him out the window.

Richard is up the stairs and back in bed, fading back to sleep, as he gives me an update:

"She's fine. She screams which draws their attention. She's quick enough, though, she can get away from them. But then when they lose interest in her and their attention goes elsewhere, she's still in a panic and starts screaming again which draws their attention back to her. It's crazy."

'Where is she now?'

"Underneath the coop. I hope she doesn't starve to death down there. I'm going back to sleep now."

Richard makes announcements like that when he's going to sleep so I won't continue talking to him.

So I watch him fall back asleep beneath the light coming in our bedroom window.