Chicken Chore Chaos: When the Hens Became My Bosses
I used to think I was in charge of my little farm. After all, I bought the land, built the coop, and fed the chickens. In theory, that should make me the boss. But let me tell you something I’ve learned the hard way—when you own chickens, they actually own you. My hens have managed to turn every simple morning chore into a full-blown comedy sketch, starring me as the clueless farmhand and them as the feathered CEOs barking orders.
The chaos starts the moment I open the coop door. I like to think of it as “morning roll call,” but the hens treat it more like a high-stakes meeting. They march out with all the authority of a boardroom full of executives, squawking and clucking in unison like they’re running through an agenda. Henrietta, the loudest of the bunch, is basically the chairwoman of the coop. She positions herself right in front of me, flaps her wings, and demands breakfast like she’s been waiting all night for me to clock in.
Breakfast, of course, can never be just “scatter some feed and walk away.” Oh no. These hens have preferences. Some days they want corn, other days scratch grain, and sometimes they act like I’ve personally insulted them by not providing kitchen scraps. One morning, I dared to show up with nothing but pellets. The look Henrietta gave me could’ve soured milk. Meanwhile, Clucky—my resident diva—turned her beak up, strutted away, and made a big scene out of refusing food. Imagine a spoiled teenager rolling her eyes at dinner. That’s Clucky.
Then there’s the water situation. You’d think refilling a waterer would be straightforward. Wrong. Chickens have a sixth sense for sabotaging fresh water. The moment I clean it, one of them decides it’s the perfect time to hop up and kick a little dirt in there, like they’re testing the janitor’s patience. Last week, I caught Ginger, my smallest hen, using the waterer as her personal footbath. And the others just stood around watching, like they were judging my cleaning skills.
Collecting eggs is another daily debacle. Technically, this should be the most rewarding part—beautiful fresh eggs tucked neatly into nesting boxes. But these hens like to keep me humble. Some lay in the boxes, sure, but others treat the whole farm like an Easter egg hunt. I’ve found eggs under hay bales, behind flower pots, even inside my wheelbarrow. And woe to me if I try to collect while they’re still sitting. Henrietta once pecked my hand so hard I nearly dropped the whole basket. I swear she muttered something about “workers’ rights” while glaring at me.
By mid-morning, I’m usually covered in feathers, feed dust, and the faint scent of chicken poop—definitely not the glamorous farm life I imagined. But as ridiculous as it is, I’ve grown to love their bossy little ways. They may keep me on my toes, but they also keep me laughing. Each day is unpredictable, messy, and just a little bit chaotic—but it’s also full of personality and charm.
So yes, I thought I was the boss. I thought I was running this farm. But the truth is, I just work here. The hens run the show, and I’m lucky if they let me clock out at all.
