Flew The Coop!

I came home from the Women's March on Saturday tired, stiff, ready for a cup of tea and time to reflect on this very unusual day.  I glanced at the coop and my plans had changed.  I saw one Americauna chicken outside the coop and she was crying loudly.  Her feathers were wet and she was crying.  I decide that as long as I was dressed for the weather, I might as well spend some time cleaning the coop and making everything nice for my future egg layers.  When I got out there I saw that not only that one Americauna had left the coop but also a Cuckoo Maran and another Americauna.  The other two were more quiet.  How did they fly the coop?  I saw that a hole, once caused by a warming light and I will never use that again, and blocked by a thick leather mitten, had lost it's mitten.  So three chickens escaped from a hole above the door that is 3.5 inches wide and four inches long.  It had to be a tight squeeze to get out of there. I believe they stood on the top of the food dish before flying the coop.  So I, cool chicken rancher that I profess to be, am all casual about it.  I open the door.  All the chickens can leave the coop if they want to.  Only Chickenson Caruso, my old and learned Buff Orpington takes me up on my offer.  I scrape out 3 huge buckets of chicken manure and add to my compost piles.  Wow.  Pungent.  I fill the food bucket (to entice the four loose chickens back in).  Three of them go in, lead by the senior Chickenson Caruso, the open door but the loud and crying Americauna (shown on top of the run above) does not go in.  She thinks that if she keeps walking by the run and crying suddenly a door will appear and she can go home. Although her choice has not worked for 200 times, she thinks the next time will be different.  I add a bunch of fresh wood chips to the coop. Really, the coop hasn't been this clean and fresh since November.  The loud and crying Americauna continues to pace back and forth, back and forth.  She is the very definition of insanity.  I try to encourage her past her usual route toward the open door.  She wants nothing to do with that.  She is so upset.  Still crying she continues to pace even though she has to step over my booted foot. So I pick her up and put her in the run.  She is not happy.  Not happy doesn't describe her outrage.  She is crying bloody murder.  I lower her gently into the run.  She continues to cry even though she got what she wanted.  In thirty seconds her cries decrease in volume and after a full minute she stops crying. Golly, chicken drama!