Earlier this winter, my girls were in trouble. When their combs faded from their usual red to a sickly pinkish-gray, I blamed the weather. It’s been a cold winter…much colder than usual…and two of my chickens are South American. I did what I could to winterize the henhouse, taking solace in the fact that their appetites were good. A couple of days later though, I found Pat, the “mother hen”, parading around naked from the wings down. Something was very wrong.

An internet search suggested mites or lice or some other microscopic vermin had invaded the henhouse. Several chemicals I couldn’t pronounce, much less afford, were suggested as treatment. I thought about the shaker can of Sevin dust sitting on a shelf in my utility room. When I was a kid, my mother used it to treat our dogs for fleas and they all turned out okay. It was worth a shot.

For the next two weeks I “winged it”. I dusted their roosts, the floor of their house and, despite their best efforts to the contrary, under their wings. Fortunately, Pat’s feathers seemed to reappear overnight, as temperatures at that time hovered around zero. Other than that, though, I saw little change. Their combs remained colorless.

Worrying would do no good. I resigned myself to the fact that I had done the best I could do, imagined for just a moment how distasteful the whole burying-a-dead-chicken-thing could be, and sent up a silent prayer to whoever might have been listening.

My dogs woke me early this morning. It wasn’t even seven am. Just a few minutes into our usual coffee/cuddle time, I realized the sky was brightening. The sun looked warm but I wasn’t fooled. I pulled my ugly, orange “chicken” coat on over my robe and set out towards the henhouse. As is their custom, all three dogs accompanied me to the gate before breaking off to chase each other around the perimeter of the fence, wreaking havoc with the azaleas.

As I approached the henhouse, I was greeted by the “thud”, “thud”, “thud” of chickens jumping from roost to floor in anticipation of my visit. A widening arc of light preceded me into the space, revealing a flurry of feathers moving chaotically in front of the door. The girls were eager to be outdoors. I followed them out and dumped a scoop of scratch over the side of their pen. Soon all four heads were bobbing in stereotypical fashion. And, that’s when I saw it. All four combs were red. No, not just red. They were a brilliant red, a gorgeous red, a healthy and happy red.

Filled with relief, I went back inside to clean house while they finished breakfast. As I reached down to grab a handful of straw, the ever-brightening morning light revealed an egg in a corner of the nesting box. It’s pale, pinkish-brown color told me it was courtesy of Pat. Only healthy hens lay eggs. Pat was going to be okay.

This morning, for the first time since November, I ate an egg that was in a chicken in my backyard yesterday. Forget that silly old groundhog. My girls tell me Spring is just around the corner!