Chicken Wrangler

I spotted them as soon as we turned out of the driveway, standing in the middle of the road.

"Look, are those turkeys?"

But even as I said it, I knew I was wrong.  They were too small, too upright, their proud tails matching alert heads, making a V-shape of their bodies.  Not turkeys.  Chickens.

They shouldn't have been there.  Where is this mythical land where free-range chickens roam happily through lush fields of green?  Not anywhere around my house.  Here, a free-range chicken is bait for foxes, raccoons, hawks, and dogs.  Chickens have yards with wire tops and coops with doors that close securely.

"Maybe they escaped," I said hopefully.  Wrong again.  We'd stopped to watch them and the truth was obvious - all 5 were young roosters.  My heart sank.  Hens lay eggs, with or without roosters.  In fact, better without them, since roosters have a one-track mind - procreation.  They practice it vigorously, many times a day.  No one needs a rooster, especially hens. These guys had been dumped.

I could leave them to their fate - it wouldn't take more than a day or two.  Or if you prefer happy, Disney endings, they'd wander off toward home. 

If they'd had anyplace to go, they would have gone, but they were there when we returned from town, and our neighbor said they'd been there 4 hours ago.  Defintely lost.  And guess who had an empty chicken coop going to waste?  Me.  Damn it.

Sigh.  There's only one way to catch a chicken - with food.  We set out a dog crate and sprinkled cracked corn inside.  The hungry birds went for it.  We got two, then another one, then came back once night had fallen to easily pluck the last two wary chickens from the bushes where they'd roosted.  I now own 5 useless birds that no one else wants.  Birds that will eventually grow long, sharp spurs and possibly use them against me.  Great.  You can imagine how I feel about the anonymous person who dumped their problem on me and my neighbors because they were too irresponsible to take care of the birds they'd raised.

Here are the handsome mug shots.  My daughter named all five: Lucky, Lucky, Lucky, Lucky, and Lucky.  Because they found me.  I wish I felt more gracious about it.  On the up side, my granddaughter will be thrilled.

End of Summer

My poor neglected blog!

It's been an eventful summer on the farm, mostly due to loss and near-loss.  A couple weeks ago, I lost the last of my chickens.  She let herself out and never came back - same as the one before her.  No trace left.  A Disney ending is looking more unlikely.

This means the chicken coop is now a cat house for Zoe, the little cat who bunked with the chickens.  So I dressed it up for her, going from feathers and hay to wood floors and rugs:

Zoe took one look and fled in terror.  Civilization is a frightening thing when you've lived your first ten years in a barn.  But she came back and gave it a try.  The bale of hay I added in the little room to the right probably helped sway her.

Hay for the horses - that's still a loss, but one I hope to correct this week with some outrageously expensive hay I will pick up myself an hour north of here.  The farmer hesitated when I asked if he'd ever put up that third cutting, which made me think he bought this batch at auction and is selling it to desperate horse owners like me.  I can only hope for a better growing season next year.  Global warming sucks in so many ways.

But this summer's near-loss has a happy ending - Fritz's hoof appears completely healed, to the point where my 30-year-old horse has actually broken into a canter. Several times!

Summer wasn't so bad, after all.

And Then There Was One . . . Maybe

I am down to one chicken.  My adventurous brown Aricauna was gone when I went to the barn yesterday evening.  When she wants back in after one of her escapes, she usually hangs around the stalls, or roosts on top of the chicken yard, waiting for me. 

I looked; no chicken. 

I called; no response to my inviting clucking. 

With growing trepidation I walked around the barn, and searched inside, looking for a mass of brown feathers that would confirm my fears.  No feathers. 

I searched farther afield, looking through the pasture and in the trees behind it, far out of her usual range.  No feathers.  Baffled, I walked the entire hay field next to us, where I have seen a fox take a stolen chicken to eat it, then play with the remains.  But still no feathers. 

This is puzzling, but I've figured it out.   My chicken has gone on a grand chicken-adventure, perhaps getting lost for a time.  One day I will walk out to the coop, and there she'll be, waiting to be let inside.

This is what happens when you watch too many Disney movies.

Meanwhile, the last chicken and Zoe, the chicken coop cat, don't miss their aggressive roommate a bit.  They were sunning themselves in the dirt today.

Free Range Ends

It was only two days after this post that the free range practice came to a tragic end.  I walked out to the barn in the middle of the day to find a scattering of feathers in front of the big doors.  Too many feathers.  More were inside.  Also inside were two confused chickens, instead of three.  The missing chicken was the white Aracauna, the girl who'd been so desperate to live wild and free that she initiated the chicken prison breaks.  I can only hope she enjoyed her brief freedom.

I herded the chickens back to the coop and locked them in.  That evening when I went out to feed the horses, a large raccoon scurried across the top of the stalls.  The murderer, returning to the scene of the crime.

I discovered I had lied - I can lock Zoe out of the chicken coop during the day in order to keep my two remaining hens safe.  She won't like it, but she can wait until evening when I feed the horses to go inside again.  She loses her option to come and go at will, but I keep my chickens.  She knows how to avoid raccoons; they don't.

A lot of farmers out here shoot any raccoons that wander into their barn.  Groundhogs and 'possums, too.  I don't.  And I think it's my responsibility, having the larger brain, to find a way to keep my "domestic" animals safe from the native critters without driving them away.  So I'm not looking for revenge.  But damn it, that was my chicken, inside my barn, in the middle of the day when all raccoons should be asleep - a clear violation of the Geneva Accords.  Not cool, Mr. Raccoon.  Don't make me haul out the live trap, because I will relocate your ass far, far away from here.  I've done it before.

Free Range!

My chickens have become escape artists.  It's the cat's fault.

The three hens are in a fenced yard for their protection - foxes and hawks would love to meet them.  But Zoe, the cat who lives in the chicken coop is free to come and go.  The white Aracauna was the first to figure it out - if she's quick enough, she can follow her out the door before it closes.  And then . . . paradise!  Grass, bugs, worms, and a limitless choice of gritty bits of gravel.  If you're a chicken, it doesn't get any better than that.

It started when I saw the Aracauna outside one day, with Zoe nearby, babysitting her friend.  I herded her back to the coop and chalked it up to an accident.  The next morning I learned differently.  The Aracauna waited for me to leave the coop, then charged the open door as I stepped out, making a break for it.  Seriously.  Like, "Out of the way!  Free range chicken coming through!"  And she took off.  It's possible to round up a chicken that wants to go inside because it's time for a drink of water and some cracked corn, but otherwise, forget it.  They run, jump, dodge, and flap, and it might be possible to corner them, but I'm not fond of letting a chicken make me look like an idiot.  She was on her own.

After that, it was a daily group prison break.  But it's not all bad - Zoe stays with them.  Sometimes one of the two stray cats vying for the new barn cat position are with her, too.  Must be part of the job application process.  I worried one day when the chicken-cat group wandered under the fence and into my neighbor's trees, so I called Zoe.  (And brought my camera along.)  She came, and so did her three girls.  I led the way to the coop, then stood back while Zoe pawed the door open and the hens followed her back inside. 

The whole thing is worrisome, because Zoe can't fend off predators.  But it's cute, and it's funny, and there doesn't seem to be much I can do about it without locking Zoe in.  Or out.  Neither is an option, so my free range cat is now accompanied most days by her three free range chickens.

If we make it safely through the summer, they'll stop charging outside when the green grass is gone.

And Then There Were Three

I lost one of my four hens today, a leghorn. 

She was seven years old, as are the other three.  I bought them as chicks, shipped from factory farms at one day old.  It's one of the signs of spring around here, when the back room of the post office  is alive with peeping baby chicks.

Chickens can have long lifespans, like dogs or cats, living 15-20 years.  Those are mostly the specialty or "heritage" breeds.  The factory-bred birds that were developed for egg-laying capabilities produce early and often, and typically die at far younger ages, usually by 4 years.

In 2005 I bought ten hens - five leghorns and five Aricaunas (the ones that lay green eggs.)  Three are left - one leghorn and two Aricaunas.  When they're gone, that's it.  We don't use enough eggs to make it worth the trouble of cleaning the coop and buying grain. 

I laid my little hen's body in the tangled growth in the tree line behind our property, as I have with dozens of others.  Tomorrow she will be gone, not a feather left.  I don't know what takes them, but suspect it's usually raccoons.  Sometimes I prefer to let Nature work without knowing the details.

"I don't get it - they look like worms!"

That Chicken Attitude

You lookin' at me?



                 Huh?

YOU LOOKIN' AT ME?

Autumn Nudity in the Hen House

This is what I saw when I opened the door to the chicken coop this morning.  Looks like a massacre!

Nope, just the stupid fall molting season.  Stupid, because they wait until the first cold weather hits, then go, Oh yeah, I need a new coat for winter.  Then they ditch the old one.  Most of that's from just one chicken, one of the leghorn girls.







This one:

She doesn't look too happy about it, either.  I heard her grumbling, "Damn it, do you have to take my picture when I look like this?"  Then she came over and pecked my camera.  And the buttons on my shirt.  And my knee.  Because you never know when something might be edible.  So I turned over some dirt and let her eat her fill of a chicken delicacy - worms.  Ugh. 

After they pass that cute fluffy chick stage, there is nothing nice about chickens.

You Won't See This in the Store

My four hens share a communal egg nest - their choice.  This is what I found in the nest tonight:

Actually, just the green Aricauna egg and the little one.  The other two are there to show that it's the little Leghorn egg that's a fluke.  A mistake.  And because I had to know, I broke it open:

No yolk.  That's all albumen - the white part.  So it was never a potential chicken.  I'm disappointed.  The thought of tiny little eggs hatching tiny little chickens is just too cute!

Bad Hair Day

Sometimes you just can't do a thing with it...

Nearly Naked

One of the aricauna chickens suddenly dropped her feathers, too.  On the bare spots you can see the hard white shaft of the pinfeathers coming in.  Fortunately it hasn't been too cold this week while the girls are running around without feathers.

Fresh Eggs

I'm not a connoisseur, but I maintain there is no difference in taste between fresh eggs and store-bought eggs.  There is, however, a big difference in color and firmness.  Pretty soon my hens will stop laying eggs for the winter and I'll be buying them at the grocery store, but for now, I have fresh eggs with a deep orange-yellow yolk.  Fresh egg on the left:

Molting, con't.

If you didn't see the post of this hen beginning to molt, check back two postings.  Because this is her this morning, less than two days later.  See that tail?  No?  That's because it isn't there.  Just one feather left.  And we're not done yet!  The temperature will be in the low forties tonight.  She'll be inside, but there's no heat, and oddly, this one has chosen to spend the night huddled next to an open window lately (covered with chicken wire.)  She could also be in a protected, hay-insulated corner, so I guess I shouldn't feel too bad about her choice.

Just for fun, I took another shot of her to catch the deer in the background:

Molting

I always thought nature got this a bit wrong - when the weather starts turning cold, the chickens get naked.  Their feathers drop off as new ones push their way out, and cold weather combined with shorter days seems to be the trigger.  A perfectly good system, except new feathers take a couple weeks to fill in, and in the meantime it's cold outside and the chickens have lost their insulation.  Plus, the chicken yard looks like the scene of a masacre, with all the feathers lying around.

One of my chickens has begun molting.  She looks fluffy compared to the others, and you can already see a bare spot in front of her wing.  Stay tuned - this is only the beginning.

Chicken Zoe

Zoe is a little black cat, a stray who adopted us about seven years ago.  She's very sweet and small, which makes her the perpetual victim if any cat is feeling territorial about the barn.  Years ago she decided the best place to spend the night is the chicken coop.  She's locked in all night and can get a full night's sleep without looking over her shoulder.  At first it was just in the winter, when she would sit on the shelf where the chickens slept, cuddling up with them for warmth - the only time she even acknowledged their presence.  Gradually she started showing up year round, waiting to be let in when I close the coop up for the night, then let out each morning when I feed the chickens.  I made a shelf by one of the windows so she can catch a breeze and watch the yard.  Since our nights have turned chilly, she's taken to curling up in the nesting box in the warm corner where the hens lay their eggs.  If I forget and leave an egg in there at night, she'll just lay on top of it like a chicken.  She never breaks one.  The hens won't lay anywhere else, so until she gets up in the morning, they can't lay eggs.  No one seems to mind, so neither do I.  This is Zoe in the nesting box this morning:

Eggs

It all looks so neat in the grocery store - cartons of eggs in small, medium, large, and extra large.  You might think they come from similarly sized chickens:  Petite-sized hens laying cute little eggs.  Plus-sized matronly hens laying jumbo-sized eggs.

Not so, back at the coop.

Chickens are pretty lousy at quality control.  A hen will give you a dozen beautiful large eggs, then pop out a half-sized runt.  But hey, everyone's entitled to an off day.  Sometimes even a way-off, really bad day, when a shell just sounds like too much work and the hen says hell with it, a thin membrane is gonna have to do it.  And of course, a membrane doesn't do it, and your fingers poke right into the goopy center.  For obvious reasons, I don't have a picture of those.  But the photo below shows eggs from standard-sized hens of the same age.  The two on the right would go in the "small" carton.  The two on the left are medium to large.  The one at the top center is extra large.  And the one at the bottom center...well, as I'm sure the chicken said, "Ouch!"

Chickens and Dinosaurs

Let me tell you the one good thing about chickens:  Eggs.  Fresh eggs make the store-bought ones look anemic by comparison.  That said...
We first started keeping chickens when my kids were in 4-H and wanted to show them.  If the phrase "showing chickens" sounds ridiculous to you, let me tell you, I'm right there with you.  No one should have to spend a half hour scrubbing chicken feet with a toothbrush and Palmolive detergent on the chance that a judge might give them a blue ribbon.  So not worth it.

And do the chickens appreciate this pampering?  No, they do not.  I love animals.  I take good care of my chickens.  But honestly, chickens are dirty, mean birds.  They will turn on the weakest among them and drive them away or kill them.  Having your eyes pecked out is not a pretty way to go.  Most have no mothering instinct and couldn't care less about the eggs they lay.

But still, there's those lovely fresh eggs.  Meet my girls:

I have four hens - two leghorns and two Araucanas.  No roosters.  Roosters have long spurs on their legs, and are not afraid to use them.  They live for one thing - sex.  Every 10 or fifteen minutes they are looking for a hen to rape.  5-10 hens per rooster is a good ratio in order to keep the guy from wearing out the hens.  Take it from a romance novelist, this is not the character profile of a hero.

Scientists say the only living descendants of dinosaurs today are birds.  Want proof?  Take a look at the two Araucanas in the picture below and tell me they don't remind you of those raptors in Jurasic Park.