The Polish hen is wily, and vera vera quick. She found a way to escape through a wee tear in the netting covering an open spot between Mr. Bob’s stall and the one next to it, the one acting as temporary winter quarters for The Hens from Hell.
Usually she kept to the rear of the barn where we store the hay, and she happily laid eggs well-hidden from casual view. She’d be out at first light and then find her way back to join the others for the evening. Day after day. Fine. Whatevah.
Now, the Bobster [aka What About Bob—his racing moniker] hasn’t been keen with his new neighbors, though he’s fine with hanging out at their large pen/hen house area in the field. Not sure what the deal is, but ever since we put the hens next to him he’s been reluctant to stay in the stall.
Again… whatevah. To each his own.
This morning, the witchy hen was oot ‘n aboot in front of the barn, enjoying the warm morning, digging in the dirt and minding her own business. Bob caught a glimpse of her as he passed by the gate, and stopped dead.
I swear, he stared at her for about ten minutes, then *very* slowly, step-by-step, he minced in her direction. I could see her eyeing him up, then moving toward the door, head-bobbing, a wee bit concerned.
Bob’s got his head lowered. I can’t see his face but I know that look—it’s intense. He’s got his herding dog/cutting horse hat on, and he’s on a mission. The hen pauses at the door.
He leans forward.
She sidles into the opening.
I can’t see her now, but Bob’s intent is clear. He’s maneuvering her into the barn deliberately. Gradually they disappear inside, followed by Czar who, along with me, has been watching this carefully.
I debated grabbing the camera and running/hobbling down there but decided against. Next time I looked out, the boys were back in the paddock.
No sign of the black hen.