Chicken in a box

(Google image.  I tried to find a visual for you but most 'chicken-in-a-box' enquiries came back with the Kentucky Fried type...)

My little hen, Timora (okay, Emily...My daughter's hen Timora), wandered about the house this morning, Albert in her wake, shopping for an egg laying place.  She explored and rejected the hearth, the pantry (it was cleaned and all recycling taken out yesterday, so no good hidey-holes), the knee hole in the desk at my feet, the dog bed (see next blog for explanation), the stairs. Finally, she wandered out into the' lanai/Florida room/screened room thing' to the Tiki bar.  Remembering her old comfy spot, she decided to check out the second shelf. 

Now, if you have never seen a hen contemplate jumping up or onto something, you probably need an explanation.  They don't just hop up like a dog or cat.  They ponder, discuss, dither, loooook (which involves a stretched out neck with the head tipped every which way), take a step or two and then back off, all the while clucking, gabbling and commenting.  It is cute and curious, but enough to drive me crazy sometimes.  Well, okay, they're chickens, what else have they got to do but savor the experience?  Then, they lower themselves as if to jump up, and just hunker there, motionless for a few seconds.  Stand up, hunker.  Looook.  Talk.  Hunker.  

Then, suddenly, they fling themselves up with a dramatic fluttering of wings and a surprised scream, as if it came as a shock to decide to actually do this after twenty minutes of preparation.  Once on the shelf, they will comment vociferously, fluff, loooook, and cautiously, raising one. foot. at. a. time, make slow forward progress.  All in all, a very determined, carefully choreographed event.

Which is what Timora intended to do.  But didn't quite complete.  You see, she miscalculated after all that reconnoitering and missed the shelf, landing head first in a nearly empty short case of beer cans.  Well, she tried to get out, but the 4x8 inch box held her fast deep within its depth.  She blended in so darkly, I would have never known if I hadn't seen it and heard the struggle. Strangely, after a brief flapping whereby she righted herself to head up, she quit resisting and just sat there, accepting her fate.  Her little black eyes glittered in the shadow of the beer box.  

I wanted a picture of this!  I grabbed my camera, found the battery dead, forgot I have another camera, and finally went to her rescue.  Albert seemed okay with his wife trapped in a box.  Probably thought it was some girl-egg-laying thing, like cramps to a human husband.  But, when I went to get Timora out, she squawked and he freaked.  He zoomed around my ankles, flapping and swearing, determined to save her from her rescuer.  Sigh.  Albert, save it, for cryin' out loud.

Fighting him and her simultaneously, I extracted Timora from the box.  Ungrateful to the end, Albert pecked her and shooed her outside, bitching incessantly at me over his shoulder.  Fine, I say, go somewhere else to lay your egg.  Somewhere I don't have to listen to you, clean up your crap, leave my computer to rescue your ass, and get bitched out in the process.  Jeez.