Miss Ginger continues to dance in the leaves under the oaks. She's made friends with the gang of young toms who hang out at Farview. I watch from the deck as she runs to join them as they work their way through the big piles I've raked down the slope. She and the turkeys scratch away, then back up and look down to see if they've uncovered any goodies. It's a kind of minuet step to music only they can hear.
Ginger may be a little bird-brain, but she's a pretty fast learner. On days when I don't need milk for my customer or to make cheese, I stop off and fill the bowls in the chicken pen. Chickens love milk and the flock mills around my feet, waiting for me to pour. It only took a few times for Ginger to realize she was missing out on the good stuff when she was outside looking in. Now she peeks around the corner to see if I'm heading to the coop or the house when I come back from the barn. If I turn toward the gate, she is immediately on my heels and follows me in. After getting her slurp, she's out on the loose again. Bess isn't needed to herd Ginger in at night. Ginger is waiting. One of the commands that Bessie Anne follows ("Come" isn't one of them) is "Leave it." She'll drop to the ground while I get the treats and watches as Ginger trots in after me.
Not all hens have such a distinct personality. When one stands out as Ginger does, a special bond forms. I just love Ginger.