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Secret Nests of the Spotty Dotties April 20, 2010
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Greetings Friends of the Farm,

The “last straw” was the cackling that came from the attic in the barn. I looked high into the rafters and saw a high-society Spotty Dottie walking a beam -- with perfect fashion-model composure -- singing her song in celebration of an egg well laid. In total privacy. And how many other eggs resided in the secret nest on high?

I don’t know. I climbed the 14-foot tripod harvest ladder to the partially-floored attic, and hoisted myself onto the plywood floor and scrambled over piles of row cover to search for the nest, but I didn’t find it. It must be in the area where only a few old boards provide human support, and since I didn’t want to wind up crumpled on the dust-bath area below, I didn’t venture there. For the Spotties, of course, so precise of footing, so swift of flight, it was easy for them to outwit me in their secrecy.

It’s as if there aren’t enough makeshift, private nests at a lower altitude that the young white Leghorns with their random flecks of black-pigmented spots could use.

For instance, there is the nest in the bottom of the Curtis Candy metal cabinet that lies prone upon an old market table. The cabinet is supposedly in the process of being spiffed up so we can move it back to the kitchen to hold our new coffee maker. Spring planting interrupted that work, and judging from its age-related scars and wrinkles, rust and rot, perhaps it will just have to be spray painted, but I do sigh at that defeat; I like bare metal. But, in a nod to “retrofitting,” the white Leghorn matron Starlet made a nice nest.

And there is the daily-used hen-made nest in corner of the tool area in the barn. It is cutely accessed through a little “door” in the hay bale wall. Beats climbing over tools.

And there is the laundry shed nest, that the hens can enter through a rotted-out “doorway” on the back of the shed -- useful if I have the official door locked against the neighboring criminals. Boss Chick, however, is always happy to find the big door open, on laundry days, to provide a bit of light for her ascent to the “on deck” position.


There Boss Chick waits somewhat impatiently, but silently, for a Spotty Dottie to do her duty on top the freezer, in the black bus tub nest plumped with larkspur seed buds and accented by a plastic jug of tile glop. Delightful.

They’ve all tired of waiting for the other Spotty Dottie, the one who made the original non-official nest on top of the hay bales in the barn. The one who commandeers it for over an hour. Twice the time needed to lay the egg -- even after laying it, she hangs out a while, screeching at the two or three hens who are in a nervous line, waiting, feeling their eggs begin to move. They don’t want to eject them onto the bales, as they may roll off and splatter on the ground. Of course that would cause an extreme disruption of the line as the hens would immediately fly down to eat the scrambled eggs! I'm sorry, but as you know, their intent to lay eggs is not to raise chicks -- it’s merely a matter of relieving the pressure! But there is a certain primordial pride in laying an egg that gives a modern hen a chance to cackle proudly while deserting it. 

Of course there are about thirty or so nests in the Hen House, many unused. While only some of the nests are favored for this sacred activity, there is an easy explanation for why seven or eight hens will wait and wait for one of the anointed nests to be available. 

Contrarily to what humans think is smart, hens DO want to put all their eggs in one “basket” (nest, in their language). You see, if another, more old-fashioned hen, desires to sit on eggs and hatch them, and if the eggs are one to a nest, all over the place, that hen, who has no hands, and no wheelbarrow, cannot bring all those eggs to her favorite nest. And of course, she can’t sit on each nest for an hour and move to the next and so on. Just impossible. So all the hens agree to lay piles of eggs in each nest and then all the apparently foolish missies, whose maternal instinct has not been bred out, will have their choice of eggs to nurture. This logic makes profound sense to a chicken.  Actually, human hens might take a page out of the Hen House book and designate certain women as official moms and put all the babes onto them. Then they too, like the Spotty Dotties and the Boss Chicks can be career girls with benefits: dust bathing, eating eight hours a day, sun bathing at high noon (Vit D), and generally lolling about. Hmm....I missed out on that boat!

And I’m still left with the dilemma of the out of reach attic nest, that some day or some year, will be found showcasing intact eggs with dried up insides -- egg rattles.  So I am now on a campaign to make it a bit harder for some of these Spotty Dotties to fly up to the rafters. I keep the scissors handy and when a Spotty squats as if mistaking me (ME!!) for Rusty Roo the Rooster, I swipe her up fast and hold her tight and with one hand I spread each wing and with the other I cut off the tips of her flight feathers. Not too deeply, as I want her to be able to maneuver in the official Hen House, but I also want her to flounder in her attempts at reaching new altitudes in the egg-laying realm.


So if you see a lot of white feathers decorating the farm, don’t think a massacre has occurred. It’s just the Spotty Dotties’ wing tips....They will grow back, but by then, I hope they are adjusted to a new favorite nest....in the Hen House. It will certainly make picking all these eggs a swifter job!

Carol Ann
(If we are in danger of becoming a "3rd-world country" this may be the first sign...selling eggs by the pound! Bring your own carton or bring us a lot of them [no styrofoam, please]!! Still a limit of 6 eggs each, despite the Spotty Dotties' industry! Many folks carry them home in a plastic bag...pockets not recommended!)

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