I'm in the process of teaching the girls when it it is time for them to go into the coop at night. Boy what a snotty crew! 8pm each evening, I go into the enclosure when the sun is at a specific angle on the horizon, and pick up each one and put her into the coop, shutting the sliding door behind her so she can't dash out and have to be caught again. It's not the most gentle process, but it's necessary. They don't want to go inside, see, and it takes about a week (I hear tell) for them to learn to go in there on their own in the evening.
The two little reds, in particular, go wild. They run laps around me going woowooowoowoowoowoowoowoo, knowing that they're quicker than I am and that it's harder to catch small moving objects than their larger sisters, the australorps. And they start this when I catch the 'lorps, which riles up the buffs so the buffs are doing the same thing, running as quick as their fat plush bodies will allow.
It reminds me of little kids who refuse to go down for a nap, because I can go out to the coop and start the 'nighty-night' routine, where I change the water in the waterer inside, make sure the straw is relatively fresh inside, etc. The girls will be relaxing on their outside perches, eyes closed, and on the bricks around the waterer, eyes closed. Their heads aren't tucked so I know they're not down for the count, but they're slowing down.
Anyway, I go in and tell them it's time for bed and they protest :) *cluck!* NO! I don't want to go to bed! I'm not tired! *cluck!* You can't make me! *cluck!*
The reds act like they had chocolate-frosted sugar bombs which they washed down with espressos. Boing boing boing run run run chirp chirp chirp. And then they go quiet immediately when I finally catch them and stroke their backs before putting them in for the night. Silly.
Last night was no exception. One of the little reds (always the last inside) jumped up on the perch next to the coop door and looked at me, and the door, and me, and the door. Night before last, she jumped onto the ramp and looked at the door, which I opened, and then she tried to make a break for it and I had to grab and shove her inside. Last night I had to grab her from the perch and then put her inside. She knows her sisters are inside and she's outside, and she should probably be inside, too. But she's not quite making the connection that she could go in herself rather than be put there.
the original Fuzzbutt
Lucy got her start in urban farming when she took it upon herself to 'hatch' my radish seedlings, resting her hindquarters on the raised bed every evening and looking like a broody hen. Those were the best radishes I've ever grown, probably because she was eating the insects that would have chomped down their greenery.
the Fuzzbutt Fairy Godmother
Daisy Ernestine is the garden's cheerleader and energy conservation expert. Daisy applies herself, and takes an active role in encouraging the plants to photosynthesize, conserve as much energy as possible, and just r-e-l-a-x.
the Farmer in Training
Sara has had a thing for playing in the dirt since she was little, and her mom maintained large planter boxes and half barrels full of veggies and flowers in the asphalt-paved 'side yard' of the apartment they lived in, eons ago.
the Fuzzbutt in Training
Orange Julius came with the property, as far as we can determine, though he has never hit me up for food and refuses the water I've put out. He has a thing for sleeping on piles of freshly turned dirt, watching the yard and its occupants, and has never raised a paw to the other Fuzzbutts. Despite his diminutive stature, he chases the other neighborhood cats out of the yard.
the Fuzzbutt and Honorary Chicken
Henrietta (aka, Tallulah) spends most of her time either sitting outside the run watching her adopted chicken sisters, or she sleeps nearby. I caught her napping inside the coop a little over a month ago, in fact. She's a very friendly presence in the garden, and takes her job of watching over the feathered girls very seriously.
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