Scarlett.

Chickens. Scarlett in particular. This group of three hens that we bought from Watson's farm were named correctly, that's for sure. I named the red hen Scarlett, and in keeping with the "Gone With the Wind" theme, I named the other two Mammy and Prissy. Their names seem to fit them--- Prissy is a thin and energetic black-feathered hen who holds her head up high as she prances around the yard, following me wherever I go. And Mammy, with her black/brown/white feathers-- she looks like she's wearing an apron around her wide middle, and she stays close to Scarlett as they walk around the yard. Audrey, the last-hen-standing from the original group of chickens, is sometimes the leader of the hens, and sometimes a follower of Scarlett.

Yesterday, I went out to the coop at about 5:30 with their "good-night, see-you-in-the-morning" bread and vegetable scraps. As always, Prissy was the first to hear me calling the hens and she came running across the yard to be first in line for the bedtime treats. Mammy was right behind her, followed by Audrey and Scarlett. That bird has a mind of her own... Scarlett takes her time, never runs or walks in a straight line, but takes the longest way possible to get from Point A to Point B in that yard. While Scarlett was dawdling around the backyard deck, Gatsby walked to the arbor near the coop and just sat there. The three other chickens were already in the coop with me, and when Scarlett got near to the arbor and saw Gatsby there, she wouldn't walk past that cat by herself. I called out to Gatsby and he walked over to me, but that still didn't satisfy Scarlett and she turned herself around and walked back out into the yard. Are you kidding me, Scarlett?! It's time for the coop!

I tossed the bread and lettuce bits to the hens already in the coop, closed the gate, and took off to gather up Scarlett and steer her towards the coop. Trouble was, I was wearing a heavy shawl that I sometimes toss over my shoulders when it's cold, rather than putting on my coat-- which I am getting tired of wearing day after day in this godforsaken never-ending string of cool evenings. As the wind was blowing, so was my shawl, and I swear that the flapping flying ends of the shawl scared Scarlett. I don't know what I must have looked like to her, but she took off running around to the front of the house. The two of us circled the house twice, with Scarlett trying to hide underneath the back steps, the front steps-- whatever little spot she could find, she would get herself in there and then run out the other side. It's a good long way around the entire house, and Scarlett was getting tired because she was slowing down as she went around the corners.

What I really needed was a fishing net, the long-handled kind that Mr. Watson uses to catch the chickens at his farm. The closest thing I had was a crab-net, which I knew wouldn't work but I got it out of the garage anyway. I also went into the house to get my husband's help-- I figured we could both walk towards Scarlett from a different direction, and get her to walk towards the coop. Fat chance. The only thing that did was send Scarlett underneath the guest cottage. And there she stayed. She must have gone under the very center of the cottage because we couldn't even find her with a flashlight.

We came back into the house, thinking that Scarlett would come out of there and get herself into the coop with the others, and as soon as it got dark, I could just close the gate and that would be that. I had opened the gate of the coop-- the three other hens were sitting quietly on the roosting bar, but they were wide awake and probably wondering what all the fuss was about. Go, Scarlett, go! Free Scarlett! Free Scarlett!

Half an hour later, just as it was getting dark, I went back out to the coop. Three hens still on the roosting bar, all with their eyes closed. Not a sign of Scarlett, who was probably sleeping by that time in her hidden spot underneath the cottage. I couldn't leave the coop open.... any raccoon or bobcat or coyote could just walk in there and take his pick of the hens. One? Two? I'll take all three! I locked the coop, called out to Scarlett and told her she was on her own for the night, and all the way back to the house, I was saying "Damn chickens... don't know what's best for them.... sleeping under the cottage and what's Scarlett going to do if a raccoon smells her under there?"

And when I shut the kitchen door, I shut Scarlett out of my mind for the night. After the losses in the first group of hens that we had last year, I've learned not to get too attached to those birds. And it worked. I slept just fine, not worrying about that silly red hen underneath the cottage.

First thing this morning, though, I looked out the kitchen window--- and there was Scarlett. Just standing in the courtyard by the coop, looking straight at me as I stood there shaking my head and saying out loud what a lucky hen she was last night, not to have been taken away by a hungry coyote or raccoon and turned into a late-night chicken dinner. I went outside to open the gate of the coop and let the other chickens out, and Scarlett ran away from me. I made sure to put my coat on, not the long shawl, but she still ran away-- not forgiving me for the twice-around-the-house chase of last night.

When I went outside after lunchtime to check the nesting boxes for eggs, Scarlett was right there with the other hens, waiting for bits of bread and lettuce. Apparently, she has forgiven my sins against her red-feathered self. I have a new strategy for tonight, and all other nights, though. I don't intend to go out into the yard and gather up the hens and have them follow me into the coop before we have our own dinner. From now on, the hens can just take themselves into the coop, get up on the roosting bar when they're good and ready, and I will go out there just before dark and lock up the gate.

That must have made a ridiculous picture last night-- a red hen running in front of me around and around the house as I went hurrying after it, with my long pink shawl blowing in the wind and scaring the egg yolk out of that poor bird.