Skinnerbox has turned out to be a brooder hen without parallel. She and another hen set up a command post in a dogloo outside our back porch door where they take turns setting, while the other one attacks/begs for cat food or layer pellets. Skinnerbox, being hand raised, and thereby familiar with the strengths and limitations of humans, frequently draws the job of designated attacker. It is a foolish person who walks by their compound in flip flops. This person will get a pinch, a scratch, a bruise even.
The first two-mommies co-op resulted in a single surviving chick, the others mostly being trampled by Skinnerbox as she rushed outside the dogloo to administer whupass every fifteen seconds or so.
As soon as this chick began to display the drunken teenager gait of a cockerel, Skinnerbox abandoned him to go set another clutch of eggs, with her partner from the previous youth defense collective.
It was this refusal that prompted me to name him Colonel Scott Manson. By the time he makes it to adulthood, Colonel Scott will be just one face in a sea of bastards his mother is steadily filling the yard with.