When I went out early, still dark, this morning to turn the chickens out, Skippy was still sitting on the perch in the same spot he was last night. This was a good thing. The girls must have been kind to him (more likely, they ignored him). I opened the gate at the end of the chicken run and let them continue to roost.
Later, I saw the girls in the front yard, but no Skippy. I figured he was having some alone time in the back yard or checking on Riley in the garage. When I still didn't see him after 9:30, I thought I should go check on him. No sign of him in the back yard. No Skippy in the chicken run. I opened the hen house and found my baby on the floor by himself. The flap to the run was open, but he was having none of that. Bless his heart, he is scared of the ramp. I picked him up and carried him outside and put him down. Like a two year old that wants to be held, he stood in front of me and wouldn't let me walk. Then, he started hmm-hmmming. I had no choice but to pick him up and carry him.
In the basement, I filled his dish with cracked corn and chicken food. He ate some but kept his eye on me. When done with my few chores down there, I carried him upstairs and took him out on the front porch where he could see the girls. Before I could get back inside, he had run around in front of me to the front door. As I type, he is sitting under my chair in the kitchen.
Whatever happened in the hen house last night must have been traumatic. Bless his heart! It must have scared the cock-a-doodle-doo out of him because he is only making whimpery chicken noises.
Is there such thing as a chicken whisperer?
A cool Humboldt Fog rolls in. . . . . . . . .
9 hours ago