
Ethel in the nesting box
About two months ago now, I walked out to the chook house one morning to find that overnight one of our chickens had transformed into a growling, rabid beast.
She’d taken command of the nesting box, and every time I went near her she let out a threatening growl, puffed herself up, and tried to bite me.
It was Ethel, one of the two Light Sussex chickens that Rick refers to as ‘the fat English ladies.’
“Ethel,” I said. “You’re a chicken, not a dog. Stop that.”
She growled again. It was clearly some kind of identity crisis. I scratched my head. What do you do when your chicken thinks she’s a dog?
Then it dawned on me. This was worse than an identity crisis. This was the day I’d been dreading.
We had our first broody chicken on our hands.
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