The Game of Thrones Coop, or, How to Work Too Hard

Like a lot of you, in the early months of the pandemic, I got chicks. Three little puff balls from the feed store, one black, one white, one reddish. For a time, they lived in a big cardboard box, with a heat lamp to keep them warm. They would need a coop, I realized.

I got busy building one and challenged myself with making it entirely from scrap supplies that I had kicking around the back side of the house.

This would be a crème de la crème coop. A foul fortress.

I have some construction experience from years past. (After I got divorced, as a single mom to three young sons, I discovered I could make more money swinging a hammer than wielding a pen as a journalist.) You could say I probably, possibly had enough experience to execute this utopian chicken villa plan.

First, I dug deep holes for four, 4 x 4 posts and tamped them solidly into the ground. Then, with plywood and strapping, I built a floor and walls. I used a closet dowel rod for a roosting pole and built a shelf with dividers in case my hens didn’t want to lay on the mezzanine. Why I had a sheet of plexiglass stashed at the backside of the house, I’m not sure. But with it, my darlings would have a lovely view of the yard.

I had one hinge. It was galvanized and nine inches across. I built a 10-inch door (big enough to use the hinge) and a ramp with raised wooden ridges for ease of entry. A sheet metal roof, with thoughtful overhangs for snow and shade, sealed the deal. The coop, like Winterfell in Game of Thrones, was ready to host the ladies and keep out all persona non grata.

Come spring, with warmer days and nights, the young’uns settled in.

Come fall, I decided to put my house on the market and move 40 miles west. Like a lot of you, I may not have fully appreciated its swift sale and the associated fast-moving moving process, with dogs, horses, furniture, pictures, silverware, and the pandemic chickens and their colossal coop.

My friend, Mark, volunteered to help move it. I think this is something he regretted immediately. But Mark is a good friend.

Rather than dig up the 4 x 4 posts, I sawed them off at dirt level. We noted that it was still quite heavy and cumbersome. Imagine hefting a king-sized, 250-pound futon with sharp edges. Given the uneven, gravelly terrain, no dolly could help. We muscled it into my horse trailer, with talk of “ain’t never doin’ this again.”

Ah, but it would be done again. Because of closing dates and home inspections and the finer details of moving oneself and one’s trappings, Mark and I unloaded it at his house, then loaded it back into the trailer to what we assumed was its final destination, my new home.

For four years, the chickens enjoyed the coop. This year, we welcome a few more chickens to the villa. A free-to-a-good-home duck joined them. All was well in the kingdom.

All was well until coyotes discovered and ate a hen who had inadvertently been closed out of the coop by a house sitter. We got on their route. Eventually, audaciously, the coyotes took to day-hunting my hens.

The decision was made to move them to the city. In the city, they would be safe with my son’s hens. But, alas, the city coop – one of those flimsy, prefabricated (30-pound) shacks – was too small for all the birds.

“You can have my coop!” I offered.

Was it frugality or sympathy for the proud builder (me) that led my son to say, “Okay”? I’m not sure.

On a Sunday afternoon, the coop caper began. Its movers were strong in number (three of us) but varyingly handicapped; I was nursing a broken wrist, my son had broken ribs and his shoulder in July, and his wife was (still is) six months pregnant.

With great, coordinated effort and screams to the toddler: “this will kill you if it falls on you!” we tipped it precariously into the truck bed and strapped it down for the 20-mile ride. On its 4 x 4 legs, it was wobbly in the wind. We drove slowly, with the flashers on. I felt a little like Jed Clampett: “…So they loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly. Hills, that is. Swimming pools. Movie stars.”

In the fading light, I backed to their backyard fencing. Only fifty feet to go! We measured the width of the coop and the width of the backyard gate. Hooray, it fits. But then we noted the metal roof and its thoughtful overhangs.

Given our handicaps and its weight, simply hoisting the coop over the fence was not an option. The kitchen table was brought to the yard and set in line with the truck bed. Inch by inch, we strenuously shuffled the coop through the gate and watched with relief as the wide roof floated over the top of the fence.

Only forty feet to go!

It was dark. Without a place to call home, the hens paced back and forth, clucking with what I interpreted as angst. We donned headlamps and grunted the coop across the lawn and into place. My daughter-in-law opened the door and helped the bewildered hens to their new, old abode.

High fives and beverages!

Under a moonless, rainy sky, I headed to the truck. “I’m going to miss that coop,” I said to my son. “Maybe next summer, we could move it back.”