You can always tell when the hen in question is Plucky.
Plucky is first. That’s how you can tell.
Lucky is last. That’s also how you can tell.
One is darker brown and the other is lighter brown, but I’d be lyin’ if I told you I knew which one was which. First and last, that’s how it is with these two: one hen intrepid; the other, not.
Lucky did fashion herself a cozy nesting spot in the big lavender bush a couple of days ago, and I was happy for her, to see her succeeding with an independent endeavor, because oftentimes Lucky looks lost, behind the curve, in need of luck.
Plucky, meanwhile, is first out the gate, first to feed, first into the little house or garage when I accidentally leave a door open, which let the record show is not often. We don’t want a chicken indoors. They are not indoor animals. Not because they are not lovable. The problem is indiscriminate poop.
Poop is not only a problem. It is also an answer, to the question: what fires up compost like nobody’s business? Poop!
At the very same time, indoor poop: that we can agree is indecorous when applied willy-nilly. Chicken in the house is certainly not the ticket to happy wife/happy life.
Happily, we can and do for the most part abide by such distinctions while also supporting sustainable building technologies incorporating other manures, such as cow patties. Chicken poop, in the meantime, is best invested in compost.