My flock of hens is six months old and recently they began flying over their fence to explore the other side. To their delight, there were plenty of enticing places to scratch with their little claw feet. “Clip the Hen’s Wings” was put on my to-do list.
We don’t let them free range because it isn’t safe for them. (dog)
On Friday afternoon half the flock was scratching around in the neighbor’s grassy lawn. After Caleb chased them home, I announced that we would be clipping wings the next morning. He cheered and said he wanted to help.
Early Saturday morning found us, with coats thrown over our pj’s, in the coop with a pair of scissors.
We shut them on one side. Grace threw the rooster out the open window on “our side” and she and Caleb started chicken wrangling. There was such quickness of feet, flurry of wings, and tremendous squawking, it was impossible not to get caught up in the excitement.
No more freedom for you, or you, or any of you.
We have twenty hens. None of them lay yet.
Only one wing needs to be clipped per hen. It makes them unbalanced, poor dears.
Only the feathers are cut, and it doesn’t hurt them a bit.
The most amusing part for me is when a squawking hen stops her noise to watch her feathers fall to the floor.
Once it was clipped, she was thrown out the window into the chicken pen, to recover from the trauma. Eventually, we were down to the last three, the smartest? or dumbest?
They are such soft little birds. Not quite full grown.
I paid my helpers generously, in chicken feathers. “Take as many as you want.”
“I’m going to pin them all
Upon my wall.”
But they ended up as a centerpiece, in a wicker basket on the table.
Everytime I see it, I admire the feathers and feel thankful, for my fun children, and a job well done.