Since the hens began laying they have gone from quiet pullets to gabby girls. The racket begins in late morning and continues intermittently until around noon, while the laying is going on.
By midday the hubbub has subsided and they go back to their quiet selves, but I can’t help but cringe wondering if a neighbor somewhere is building up a head of steam.
I know the amount of cackling pales in comparison to the din of lawn mowers, leaf blowers, car alarms, yapping dogs, and the like, but it’s the unusual-ness of the sound that makes ears perk up. Suburbanites have become inured to the typical suburban sounds and we tune them out, or at least we know the futility of trying to do something to change them. I worry that the suburban mindset, perhaps subconsciously geared to challenge the atypical, will balk at the noise of hens at laying time and I will get a visit or a dreaded notice from the city.
It’s on my agenda to visit the neighbor closest to, and therefore most likely affected by, the racket. They seem to keep to themselves, however, and I keep putting it off. So who’s the chicken here anyway, huh?
A basket of fresh eggs, a loaf of bread, an explanation, and an invitation to visit the hens is what I plan. Help get me off my tush and over there, folks.
Oh, and please tell me that your hens got quieter after they had been laying for a while . . . ?
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