No one wants to be woken up at 5.30 on a sunday morning. No one. Unfortunately, Margot doesn't seem to understand this. So, yesterday morning, at this ungodly hour, she decided to go off on a mad bokking session. Just for a laugh, Doris and Kiki joined in. The ever tolerant husband and I shot up the bed, looked at each other and both said 'Birds!'. Much scrambling around for dressing gowns followed, all the while the decidedly shrill dawn chorus continued. Thundering down the stairs, I tried to prepare myself for foxy carnage. Having the coop on grass is not conductive to peace of mind, and I am paranoid.
I managed to unlock the door, and flew outside with my heart in my mouth. There was no fox. Or any sign of digging. What there was, were three extremely pleased with themselves gobby hens. They stopped 'singing' and lined up by the run door. I glared at them. They stared back. I turned my back on the little madams and went back to bed.
However, I couldn't get back to sleep. I lay there cringing, waiting for them to start up their unholy warbling again. All day, I half expected a furious hammering on the front door where I would find an extremely unhappy neighbour. I wouldn't blame them. Strangely, the day passed without interruption. This didn't make me complacent.
Hens gently bokking is a lovely sound, but squawking, gobby, banshee hens are not music to the ears. With a resigned sigh, I covered the 'window' in to the convent with a bin bag and resolved to close the pop hole until a reasonable time. At 7.30 last night, the chooks put themselves to bed. At 8pm, I locked them in.
I spent an anxious night, hoping and praying that they would stay quiet in the dark coop. At 7.15 this morning, I let them out. They ambled blearily in to the light and tucked in to their breakfast. The first bok wasn't heard until 9.30. So, from now on, my girls are under house arrest until a decent time of day.
And yes, I do feel guilty.