I sometimes feel a bit sorry for our chickens. They have plenty of space, good things to eat, cozy egg boxes and all that, but I can see their dinosaur souls when I look into their eyes, and I’m sorry that they’re so small these days. It’s a good thing for me, since I can tell they’d be happy to eat me if they were large enough, but I imagine it’s frustrating to carry such ferocious genetic memories and find yourself so much reduced in power.
It’s gratifying to give them our gingerbread houses once the structures have been picked clean of candy and frosting. I like to imagine that our hens enjoy this sudden change in scale.
I’ve learned that I need to bring in a human demolition crew to break the gingerbread walls into beak-friendly pieces, though. We let our hens enjoy a good stomp around the homes, then crush everything up for them when they get bored.