My hens come when called. Even if it is a beautiful day. Even if they’ve been stuck in their dirt-floored, boring pen for days and are finally out in the woods, which, if you are a hen, is the absolutely best place on earth, they still come. They flap, they run, they stick their necks out and hightail it.
Well, everyone except Agatha. But, when she finally looks up and realizes that her friends are no longer around, and when she finally hears me calling, she does come. Sweetly and calmly, and is happy to be carried back home.