How backyard hens forced me to not be chicken about winter

I am not a fan of the cold. I'm okay with ski resorts (and après-ski) but you'll never find me strapping on a pair of snowshoes, declaring gleefully that there is fresh powder to march across, or rushing out to build snow-forts with my kids. After eight years of living here, it is clear to all who know me that I am no fan of the lung-freezing Nova Scotian winter. Originally from England, I came to Canada by way of Australia and Las Vegas, so the cold is something I've definitely had to adjust to.

Our flock is part of our family.- Lola Augustine Brown

However, as the owner of a flock of chickens, I have no choice but to get out there and deal with the cold every single day. In fact, the colder it is, the more often I'm forced to get out there and ensure that my birds have water instead of just ice. My chickens rarely need me more than when it is –28, except when I'm trying to beat a hawk off one of them (seriously), and I don't resent them for it one bit.

In practical terms, there isn't much ROI on chickens in the winter. In order to lay eggs consistently, they need 16 hours of sunlight, so in the winter we rarely get more than an egg or two a day from our twelve hens. You're still paying to feed them of course, and they still need mucking out (as in shoveling out mounds of frozen chicken poop, which is never fun and really, really stinky once you get to the not-frozen stuff underneath), so it's a pretty thankless task. On an emotional level though, you get tons back from chickens.

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On the worst days, I need to dig a path through a couple of feet of snow to actually get to the coop, yank open the frozen door to the chicken yard, and pour boiling water over the catch to the coop in order to let the chickens out. I'm greeted by my squawking birds rushing to the hatch, gratefully tumbling out onto the snow to snatch up whatever scraps I've brought out, and some will nuzzle up so I can scratch their back. Chickens are affectionate and sweet, will come when you call and are fun to watch. Our flock is part of our family, as much our pets as the dogs are, and they bring me a lot of joy.

My four year old son, Carmelo, adores the chickens. His favourite is named Fudgelynn, for reasons known only to him, and he hugs her and rocks her, singing her lullabies. Even on the coldest mornings he pulls on his snow boots and coat over his footed pajamas to come out and help me give them scraps and water. The chickens have distinct personalities and Fudgelynn is a sweetheart. They may not be the brightest pets, but they are so much more than just dumb birds.  

Often, by the time the chickens are fed and watered, I'm over the initial shock of the cold and maybe my brain cells are in some kind of cryogenic state, but I start to appreciate the extreme beauty that such cold creates. I take in the way everything sparkles in the frost, how pretty our home looks in the snow and the way the hoar frost on the trees catches the light.

Having chickens gets me out every morning, away from the comfort of the woodstove, and at the end of every day when I really don't want to go anywhere. I am often rewarded with a stunningly glorious sunrise or the kind of starry night worthy of a Van Gogh painting.

Caring for our flock has forced me to embrace winter. Although I doubt I'll ever be gung-ho about the possibility of any kind of fun that involves my nostrils freezing shut, I'm a lot less of a chicken about the cold than I was before I had to tend to my flock.