I watched one of the hens lay an egg this morning. I don't usually hang around the coop waiting for breakfast to drop, but this is our last older hen, and lately she has decided that if the young hens are going to use her laying boxes, she's defecting to the front porch. There's a box in the porch that has some bedding in it that I had used when I was nursing one of the older hens.
This hen, affectionately dubbed the old lady, leaves the coop as soon as I open it in the morning and heads to the porch. There, she meets Pippin, the watch bunny, who's self-appointed role is to keep any and all chickens off of the porch. His methods are adorable, and quite effective. He plants his head into the fluffy hen bottoms and chases them while they run, flap and squawk their way around the porch trying to get away from the freak with his head up their bums. I'm not sure how the old lady makes it into the porch each morning to lay, but she is determine, and it is possible that her age gives her an advantage. She's smart.
Today, I took pity on her and carried her into the box. While she was getting ready to lay, I busied myself by sweeping bunny plops off of the porch. It never gets old, watching the hens lay. When our foster girls come for a visit and I know a hen is about to lay, I let them know about it. They'll go and stand by the porch watching, and will remain there for quite a while for the privilege of bringing in the latest arrival.
The young hens have begun to lay the most cunning little eggs. Yesterday there were six of them. There are 11 hens, counting the one old lady. I am saving the small eggs up and will make pickled eggs with them, as they are just the right size for it. The eggs will get larger as they continue to lay. They always remind me of Cadbury chocolate eggs, so round and brown and miniature.
It has been a while since I have written about some of the other inhabitants of our furry/feathery home. The kittens are no longer kittens, having grown into large, strapping toms. They are something like 6 or 7 months, and seem large for their age. They are also as sweet as cats come. They are endearingly affectionate with each other, and with the other animals. It is not uncommon to see them together, wrapped around Pippin on the front porch and sleeping when we rise in the morning.
We have been taking care of a young Pomeranian, Toby, since the beginning of August. He was a little crazy when he first came. He had spent a lot of time in a cage, and was desperate to use up his energy and have some adventures. He was so bouncy and eager that Mini was promptly turned off. The chickens ran from him, and the cats eyed him cautiously.
When he first arrived, I pulled him up on my lap and told him that his best bet for a critter friend around here would be Sheldon, one of the kittens. Sheldon is a calm, patient, laid back fellow, and he seemed interested in Toby. In fact, Sheldon is so low key, he would sit on the floor and placidly watch Toby race in convulsive circles around him. The other animals just didn't have the patience or the nerves to deal with Toby. When Toby would wear himself out and curl up on the couch for a sleep, Sheldon would approach him and curl up beside him.
Toby has settled down quite a bit now, and has made friends with almost everybody. Mini is still skeptical, but at least she's not trying to beat him up anymore. At any given moment, Toby can be found pulling a cat around the floor by his tail, or stealing corn cobs from the chickens, or dancing on his hind legs for treats and just utterly charming us all into oblivion. Everyone seems okay with him. He is the same size as the cats, and they have always played roughly with each other so I think when he plays with them, they see him as just another cat. Only his teeth seem to hurt more when he gnaws on their legs, but a quick paw upside the head solves that problem.
We'll miss Toby when he goes home.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Imprisoned Roos and New Mothers
Well, the boys are in lock up. Last week was a little bittersweet. One of the young hens began laying, the smallest, brownest sweet eggs tucked in with the older hens' jumbos.
At the same time, the young roosters took their amorous activities to a new and dangerous level. They started swarming one of the older hens, and actually got so rough with her that she died. I scooped her out from under them a few times, and I wish I had seen how rough they were getting. Up until literally the day before, the older hens put up with very little from the young roos, and could send the pack of them running with a mild charge. I'm not sure what changed.
After the first hen died, the roos started going after the other older hens and Bruce couldn't contend with a pack of 10 - 11 young studs ganging up on his two remaining girls. We had to lock the boys up in the chick pen, and leave all the hens with Bruce in the older coop. I did go into the boys' coop and pick out one more rooster to add to the flock of hens and Bruce. There are 12 hens and 2 roosters now, and it seems to be working well.
I do feel bad for the roosters. They are such a regal, handsome lot. The new coop has screen doors, and the boys stand at the door looking forlornly out at the world. Every once in a while I'll see a young hen at the screen door, peering in at her brothers and perhaps wondering why they can't come out to play. But life goes on.
Today, there were two small eggs in the laying boxes with the big eggs. The girls are starting to lay. Bruce and the new roo (I'm thinking Gaston for a name, but we haven't decided yet) seem to be dividing the hen care without too much fuss. The young hens have taken nicely to Bruce. I think there can often be drama attached to adding a new group of hens to a flock, and especially when they come with a young rooster as well. Allowing them to range freely and get used to each other in an environment when they can come and go as they please has been helpful. The merging of the two groups has been gradual, but we have been able to give them the time and space for it.
For a few nights after the roos were locked into the new coop, the hens had a hard time figuring out that they needed to go to the old coop for bedtime. We had to pluck them out of trees and the shed, off of the lawn tractor and the fences, and off of the window sill of the new coop, where three or four of them would cram together. They are fairly tame, and so it wasn't hard to scoop them up and deposit them into the old coop. Chickens are truly creatures of habit.
I visit the young roos daily, bringing them treats and talking to them, petting them, etc. I think, if it is possible to give them away, I want to be able to offer roos that are socialized and less likely to be unnecessarily aggressive. Even though Bruce can be testy, he is a master protector of the flock and generally only attacks when he feels his girls are threatened. I have to admit, I admire this. His judgment may not always be spot on, but I have numerous memories of watching him stand out in the open, bravely eying a winged predator while his girls were tucked safely under the scaffolding or bushes. Or repeatedly plunging his face into a thorn infested rose bush, plucking blossoms to offer as treats for his girls. What a guy.
At the same time, the young roosters took their amorous activities to a new and dangerous level. They started swarming one of the older hens, and actually got so rough with her that she died. I scooped her out from under them a few times, and I wish I had seen how rough they were getting. Up until literally the day before, the older hens put up with very little from the young roos, and could send the pack of them running with a mild charge. I'm not sure what changed.
After the first hen died, the roos started going after the other older hens and Bruce couldn't contend with a pack of 10 - 11 young studs ganging up on his two remaining girls. We had to lock the boys up in the chick pen, and leave all the hens with Bruce in the older coop. I did go into the boys' coop and pick out one more rooster to add to the flock of hens and Bruce. There are 12 hens and 2 roosters now, and it seems to be working well.
I do feel bad for the roosters. They are such a regal, handsome lot. The new coop has screen doors, and the boys stand at the door looking forlornly out at the world. Every once in a while I'll see a young hen at the screen door, peering in at her brothers and perhaps wondering why they can't come out to play. But life goes on.
Today, there were two small eggs in the laying boxes with the big eggs. The girls are starting to lay. Bruce and the new roo (I'm thinking Gaston for a name, but we haven't decided yet) seem to be dividing the hen care without too much fuss. The young hens have taken nicely to Bruce. I think there can often be drama attached to adding a new group of hens to a flock, and especially when they come with a young rooster as well. Allowing them to range freely and get used to each other in an environment when they can come and go as they please has been helpful. The merging of the two groups has been gradual, but we have been able to give them the time and space for it.
For a few nights after the roos were locked into the new coop, the hens had a hard time figuring out that they needed to go to the old coop for bedtime. We had to pluck them out of trees and the shed, off of the lawn tractor and the fences, and off of the window sill of the new coop, where three or four of them would cram together. They are fairly tame, and so it wasn't hard to scoop them up and deposit them into the old coop. Chickens are truly creatures of habit.
I visit the young roos daily, bringing them treats and talking to them, petting them, etc. I think, if it is possible to give them away, I want to be able to offer roos that are socialized and less likely to be unnecessarily aggressive. Even though Bruce can be testy, he is a master protector of the flock and generally only attacks when he feels his girls are threatened. I have to admit, I admire this. His judgment may not always be spot on, but I have numerous memories of watching him stand out in the open, bravely eying a winged predator while his girls were tucked safely under the scaffolding or bushes. Or repeatedly plunging his face into a thorn infested rose bush, plucking blossoms to offer as treats for his girls. What a guy.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Roo News
Marc has now told me that as long as Bruce, the head honcho roo, is able to stay on top, there should be very little fighting among the young roos. Huh. Why did I think they'd be at each other's throats as soon as the testosterone hit their brains? Apparently if Bruce loses ground and the youngsters see an opening, the battle begins and continues until someone wins and takes over Bruce's place.
Bruce is a young fellow himself, and quite masterful so I don't see why we can't have peace with everyone safe from the stew pot. Wish I had known that before I spent weeks lingering in the coop at bedtime giving "give peace a chance" lectures to the babies.
Bruce is a young fellow himself, and quite masterful so I don't see why we can't have peace with everyone safe from the stew pot. Wish I had known that before I spent weeks lingering in the coop at bedtime giving "give peace a chance" lectures to the babies.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Long over-due update
I must offer sincere apologies to anyone who is reading this blog (and if you are, sincere thanks as well) as I have not updated for quite a while. It has been over a month, which in my chicken years, is close to their entire adolescence. We had multiple computer problems and vacation times and, well, life happened.
The chicks are very close to adulthood now, at approx. 16 weeks. Some internet sources say the hens should be thinking about laying eggs soon, so the rush is on to build boxes. How have we solved the rooster problem? We haven't.
Roughly half of the chicks (We call them "chicks" or the "babies" to distinguish them from the adults) are roosters. They are fine, handsome fellows with interesting personalities and wonderful presence in the yard. They all subjugate themselves to Bruce, the king of the yard, and there hasn't been any fighting. They do indulge in a bit of posturing occasionally, but never around Bruce.
Any conflicts they have are usually caused by their growing awareness of their "romantic" side, and their efforts at figuring out what they're supposed to do with it. When a rooster mounts a hen, he grabs her by the feathers on the back of her neck and climbs on. The baby roosters understand that they are supposed to grab their intended by the back of the neck feathers, but they get a bit confused as to who they are supposed to be grabbing and the grabbing bit seems to be all they know about sex. So they grab the young hens and each other indiscriminately. It is not unusual to see a young hen or roo racing around the lawn with a hapless rooster in tow, clinging desperately to the fleeing sibling's neck feathers and wondering what to do next. Somebody always gets soundly told off. Even if the intended is a hen, and she doesn't jump and run like a startled rabbit, the romantic roo still doesn't know what to do after the initial grabbing.
I have to admit, though, that my boys are more than making up for their confusion in the romance department by their manful efforts at crowing. A few of them have been crowing for over a month now, which I was convinced was wonderfully precocious of them. Like everything else that is sweet and funny about young beings learning to be adults, the roos' first crows are precious. They sound like they are crowing through a kazoo. Bruce usually starts crowing between 4:00 and 5:00 am. Then the kazoo symphony begins in the babies' quarters. I can tell how many are crowing by their distinctive voices. In fact, all the babies went through a nasal, honking stage. They cheeped like babies until they looked almost like adults, and then their voices changed and they began to sound a bit like ducks. Now they are cooing and clucking like grown chickens. Marc doesn't remember the chicks of his youth going through the awkward kazoo stage, but then again he wasn't married to an obsessed woman then.
Usually, by now, we would be seriously thinking about preparing the extra roosters for the oven. As you can tell, I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be. They're not challenging Bruce, nor are they fighting over the hens. The fact is, if they manage to work out some sort of arrangement among themselves that leads to relative peace in the flock, we'll keep them. We don't mind giving them away to people who need a roo for their hens, but none of us feels up to eating them. We've watched with a mixture of pride and dismay as so many of them have developed into handsome, manly roos. I don't know if it is possible for there to be peace in the flock.
I have to admit that each night when I go to count them and put them to bed, I stroke each chick and talk softly to them, encouraging them to be good and kind to each other. I even pray, as I close the doors, than they will be peace-full. I do this with then adults too. It may seem silly, but at this very minute, from where I am sitting on the couch, I can see one of the kittens snuggling up with the bunny on the front porch. At the moment, we have 3 dogs here (2 visiting), 2 cats, the rabbit and 25 chickens, and everyone gets along. In fact, one of the visiting dogs is Toby, a hyperactive Pomeranian who promptly irritated everyone in the yard except Sheldon, one of the cats, who made a point of repeatedly approaching Toby until he calmed down enough to be friends and snuggle. Toby has calmed down considerably now and is friends with everyone. So miracles can happen.
I'm counting on it. So are my roos.
The chicks are very close to adulthood now, at approx. 16 weeks. Some internet sources say the hens should be thinking about laying eggs soon, so the rush is on to build boxes. How have we solved the rooster problem? We haven't.
Roughly half of the chicks (We call them "chicks" or the "babies" to distinguish them from the adults) are roosters. They are fine, handsome fellows with interesting personalities and wonderful presence in the yard. They all subjugate themselves to Bruce, the king of the yard, and there hasn't been any fighting. They do indulge in a bit of posturing occasionally, but never around Bruce.
Any conflicts they have are usually caused by their growing awareness of their "romantic" side, and their efforts at figuring out what they're supposed to do with it. When a rooster mounts a hen, he grabs her by the feathers on the back of her neck and climbs on. The baby roosters understand that they are supposed to grab their intended by the back of the neck feathers, but they get a bit confused as to who they are supposed to be grabbing and the grabbing bit seems to be all they know about sex. So they grab the young hens and each other indiscriminately. It is not unusual to see a young hen or roo racing around the lawn with a hapless rooster in tow, clinging desperately to the fleeing sibling's neck feathers and wondering what to do next. Somebody always gets soundly told off. Even if the intended is a hen, and she doesn't jump and run like a startled rabbit, the romantic roo still doesn't know what to do after the initial grabbing.
I have to admit, though, that my boys are more than making up for their confusion in the romance department by their manful efforts at crowing. A few of them have been crowing for over a month now, which I was convinced was wonderfully precocious of them. Like everything else that is sweet and funny about young beings learning to be adults, the roos' first crows are precious. They sound like they are crowing through a kazoo. Bruce usually starts crowing between 4:00 and 5:00 am. Then the kazoo symphony begins in the babies' quarters. I can tell how many are crowing by their distinctive voices. In fact, all the babies went through a nasal, honking stage. They cheeped like babies until they looked almost like adults, and then their voices changed and they began to sound a bit like ducks. Now they are cooing and clucking like grown chickens. Marc doesn't remember the chicks of his youth going through the awkward kazoo stage, but then again he wasn't married to an obsessed woman then.
Usually, by now, we would be seriously thinking about preparing the extra roosters for the oven. As you can tell, I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be. They're not challenging Bruce, nor are they fighting over the hens. The fact is, if they manage to work out some sort of arrangement among themselves that leads to relative peace in the flock, we'll keep them. We don't mind giving them away to people who need a roo for their hens, but none of us feels up to eating them. We've watched with a mixture of pride and dismay as so many of them have developed into handsome, manly roos. I don't know if it is possible for there to be peace in the flock.
I have to admit that each night when I go to count them and put them to bed, I stroke each chick and talk softly to them, encouraging them to be good and kind to each other. I even pray, as I close the doors, than they will be peace-full. I do this with then adults too. It may seem silly, but at this very minute, from where I am sitting on the couch, I can see one of the kittens snuggling up with the bunny on the front porch. At the moment, we have 3 dogs here (2 visiting), 2 cats, the rabbit and 25 chickens, and everyone gets along. In fact, one of the visiting dogs is Toby, a hyperactive Pomeranian who promptly irritated everyone in the yard except Sheldon, one of the cats, who made a point of repeatedly approaching Toby until he calmed down enough to be friends and snuggle. Toby has calmed down considerably now and is friends with everyone. So miracles can happen.
I'm counting on it. So are my roos.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Feather-friend updates
I just came in from outside to avoid yet another thunderstorm. I was sitting at the patio table with Beauty asleep in my lap. She is remarkably tame for a chicken, although she has been petted and fawned over so much I'm certain she is a veritable diva in the chicken coop.
Robin is outside now, and has been for a week. Actually, we let the chicks out too. In the heat of last week, we couldn't justify keeping them in their pen no matter how many fans we could fit in there. Everyone seems to be adapting well. Robin flies well now, and is getting better and better at finding his own food. We know this by how much food he asks us for. He's down to one or two teaspoons of cat food a day in his little dish outside. Every morning when we go out, he's there on the scaffolding by the house waiting for us. His chirp is quite distinctive, as I suppose all birds' chirps are. We are just familiar with his. We feed him, fill his little bath (a plastic ice cream container lid) and let him do his morning ablutions.
A few days ago he seemed to have had an altercation with one of the cats, because his eye was sore and he has a bit of blood on his head. He hung around in the porch most of the day, until I brought him into the house. I thought he needed a day or two to recover, and the air conditioning in the house would be more comfortable for him. I left his cage door open, but he just stayed in his cage and slept. The next day he was fine, thankfully. I'm glad that he knows that he can come back to us if he gets hurt or needs our help. It makes me feel better about leaving him out in the big world. And believe me, for a little robin, it's a huge world!
The chicks are something like nine weeks now, almost indistinguishable from the older chickens but for their size. One of the white chicks, obviously a rooster, has been trying to crow. It is the most preciously funny thing. He literally sounds like he is crowing through a kazoo. It's not the effect he is going for, I am sure, but he'll get the hang of it. I think nine weeks may be quite young for a roo to be crowing, so he has lots of time to perfect his technique. As I wrote before, the chicks are now free-range. They wander around the lawn chasing butterflies and eating bugs and just generally exploring. They tend to stick together, and every once in a while a group of them will dash across the lawn in a fluttery panic. It's never easy to tell what sets them off. Personally I think the kittens are having a bit of fun with them. The chicks are quite attached to Marc and I, and when they see me in the morning they all come rushing over to huddle around my legs, cheeping and fluttering and pecking affectionately at my legs. One time they followed me to the car, all 21 of them, and would have piled in if given the least bit of encouragement.
Bruce the rooster has been quite testy with the chicks, and they have learned to run to either Marc or I and hide behind us when he is on a rampage. He is pretty rough with them. At first, Marc encouraged me to let them be, as Bruce was merely establishing his leadership over them. It soon became apparent that he was doing more than that. He was attacking them with no provocation at all, and hurting them. They were terrified, the precious babies. They would squeak and cry and huddle in the corner of their coop to evade him, to no avail. Finally we threw animal wisdom to the wind and began to swoop in to the rescue.
One time, Bruce had Beauty cornered in the coop. When Beauty saw Marc approaching, she scooted out of the coop and ran to him, Bruce in tow. Marc reached down and Beauty jumped into his hands, buried her face in the crook of his folded arm and whimpered. Marc's heart melted. The only thing nicer than being able to care for and protect these wonderful creatures is knowing that they trust us to do so and freely avail themselves of our care.
Robin is outside now, and has been for a week. Actually, we let the chicks out too. In the heat of last week, we couldn't justify keeping them in their pen no matter how many fans we could fit in there. Everyone seems to be adapting well. Robin flies well now, and is getting better and better at finding his own food. We know this by how much food he asks us for. He's down to one or two teaspoons of cat food a day in his little dish outside. Every morning when we go out, he's there on the scaffolding by the house waiting for us. His chirp is quite distinctive, as I suppose all birds' chirps are. We are just familiar with his. We feed him, fill his little bath (a plastic ice cream container lid) and let him do his morning ablutions.
A few days ago he seemed to have had an altercation with one of the cats, because his eye was sore and he has a bit of blood on his head. He hung around in the porch most of the day, until I brought him into the house. I thought he needed a day or two to recover, and the air conditioning in the house would be more comfortable for him. I left his cage door open, but he just stayed in his cage and slept. The next day he was fine, thankfully. I'm glad that he knows that he can come back to us if he gets hurt or needs our help. It makes me feel better about leaving him out in the big world. And believe me, for a little robin, it's a huge world!
The chicks are something like nine weeks now, almost indistinguishable from the older chickens but for their size. One of the white chicks, obviously a rooster, has been trying to crow. It is the most preciously funny thing. He literally sounds like he is crowing through a kazoo. It's not the effect he is going for, I am sure, but he'll get the hang of it. I think nine weeks may be quite young for a roo to be crowing, so he has lots of time to perfect his technique. As I wrote before, the chicks are now free-range. They wander around the lawn chasing butterflies and eating bugs and just generally exploring. They tend to stick together, and every once in a while a group of them will dash across the lawn in a fluttery panic. It's never easy to tell what sets them off. Personally I think the kittens are having a bit of fun with them. The chicks are quite attached to Marc and I, and when they see me in the morning they all come rushing over to huddle around my legs, cheeping and fluttering and pecking affectionately at my legs. One time they followed me to the car, all 21 of them, and would have piled in if given the least bit of encouragement.
Bruce the rooster has been quite testy with the chicks, and they have learned to run to either Marc or I and hide behind us when he is on a rampage. He is pretty rough with them. At first, Marc encouraged me to let them be, as Bruce was merely establishing his leadership over them. It soon became apparent that he was doing more than that. He was attacking them with no provocation at all, and hurting them. They were terrified, the precious babies. They would squeak and cry and huddle in the corner of their coop to evade him, to no avail. Finally we threw animal wisdom to the wind and began to swoop in to the rescue.
One time, Bruce had Beauty cornered in the coop. When Beauty saw Marc approaching, she scooted out of the coop and ran to him, Bruce in tow. Marc reached down and Beauty jumped into his hands, buried her face in the crook of his folded arm and whimpered. Marc's heart melted. The only thing nicer than being able to care for and protect these wonderful creatures is knowing that they trust us to do so and freely avail themselves of our care.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Robin in the House!
It has been over two weeks since I last posted, which would have the chicks at almost 7 weeks. They are looking more and more like chickens every day, and less like babies. Beauty is still lovely, and is developing fluffy feathers around her face, making her appear quite cheeky and interesting. The screen doors are up, and I go into the coop on a regular basis just to say hello. They pull on my hair and peck at my clothes, and are in general very curious. I still have no clue which ones are roosters and which are hens, although most of the white ones have prominent (and quite handsomely red) crests and so Marc says that's a sign of maleness.
Having the chicks outside in their own pen has not left our home bereft of fine feathered friends, though. A couple of weeks ago Marc rescued a baby robin from one of the kittens. After a bit of inevitable research, (Thank You, God, for informed family and friends and the internet!) we have learned that robins essentially toss their babies out of the nest and finish teaching the flying/worm-eating/cat-avoiding skills from the ground. Robin is in a cage in our living room, living on all the worms, flies, berries and cat food that he can eat. He flies freely in the house for several hours a day, just to get the hang of it, and is improving. Apparently picking worms up with one's beak and tossing them back is a learned skill. He has been doing the baby robin, gaped mouth thing, and is only now starting to pick up bits of food and berries to eat. Worms will be a challenge, what with the slimy length and all the wiggling.
The cats are interested in him, and of course would turn him into a cat toy in an instant if given the chance. He is adorably brave and charges them, gaping and clicking his beak threateningly. They laugh, poke each other and say, "Hey, bro, watch this!" before they knock him, squeaking in frustration, off his feet. I try to keep Robin and the kittens apart, but I allow the odd supervised confrontation because I don't want Robin to feel safe around the cats. The dog, on the other hand, is pure benignity. Robin has even landed on her back and gone for a ride. He also rides on heads, shoulders and hands. And he poops. A lot. He won't be with us for long, though, and it is amazing what one can tolerate for short periods of time. Today we are starting training on picking up and eating worms. Finding the worms is Grace's job. This week, somehow, I will have to teach him to find worms in the dirt, although I think instincts might kick in. Last week we had a huge worm, much too big for Robin to eat in one bite. I had to cut the thing in 3 parts. Ew. Like, seriously.
So, the chicks are doing well, the rooster is calming down and the hens are as devoted as ever to their Prince Charming. Mini is ever so forbearing and only snarls occasionally at whatever creature happens to be playing with her tail at the time. The kittens are rambunctious and amusing and silly and lovable. Robin is growing brighter and smarter than ever. Pippin has been on antibiotics, and for a week endured eye and nose drops and a painful disinfecting of a large ulcer in his mouth. He also got his hind leg caught in the front porch door and was left stuck in the door for close to five minutes before we noticed. Poor little mister. He limped for a half hour. For a rabbit, he's toughness personified!
People-wise, Gracie spent four days in New York City on a school trip and had a wonderful time. Marc is doing well, busy as ever and I am feeling well and occupied with critter care and Bible study, among other things. Including being pooped on in ever so many ways. Fun, fun, fun. :S
Having the chicks outside in their own pen has not left our home bereft of fine feathered friends, though. A couple of weeks ago Marc rescued a baby robin from one of the kittens. After a bit of inevitable research, (Thank You, God, for informed family and friends and the internet!) we have learned that robins essentially toss their babies out of the nest and finish teaching the flying/worm-eating/cat-avoiding skills from the ground. Robin is in a cage in our living room, living on all the worms, flies, berries and cat food that he can eat. He flies freely in the house for several hours a day, just to get the hang of it, and is improving. Apparently picking worms up with one's beak and tossing them back is a learned skill. He has been doing the baby robin, gaped mouth thing, and is only now starting to pick up bits of food and berries to eat. Worms will be a challenge, what with the slimy length and all the wiggling.
The cats are interested in him, and of course would turn him into a cat toy in an instant if given the chance. He is adorably brave and charges them, gaping and clicking his beak threateningly. They laugh, poke each other and say, "Hey, bro, watch this!" before they knock him, squeaking in frustration, off his feet. I try to keep Robin and the kittens apart, but I allow the odd supervised confrontation because I don't want Robin to feel safe around the cats. The dog, on the other hand, is pure benignity. Robin has even landed on her back and gone for a ride. He also rides on heads, shoulders and hands. And he poops. A lot. He won't be with us for long, though, and it is amazing what one can tolerate for short periods of time. Today we are starting training on picking up and eating worms. Finding the worms is Grace's job. This week, somehow, I will have to teach him to find worms in the dirt, although I think instincts might kick in. Last week we had a huge worm, much too big for Robin to eat in one bite. I had to cut the thing in 3 parts. Ew. Like, seriously.
So, the chicks are doing well, the rooster is calming down and the hens are as devoted as ever to their Prince Charming. Mini is ever so forbearing and only snarls occasionally at whatever creature happens to be playing with her tail at the time. The kittens are rambunctious and amusing and silly and lovable. Robin is growing brighter and smarter than ever. Pippin has been on antibiotics, and for a week endured eye and nose drops and a painful disinfecting of a large ulcer in his mouth. He also got his hind leg caught in the front porch door and was left stuck in the door for close to five minutes before we noticed. Poor little mister. He limped for a half hour. For a rabbit, he's toughness personified!
People-wise, Gracie spent four days in New York City on a school trip and had a wonderful time. Marc is doing well, busy as ever and I am feeling well and occupied with critter care and Bible study, among other things. Including being pooped on in ever so many ways. Fun, fun, fun. :S
Friday, June 11, 2010
Reporting live from the scene of the new chick coop!
I am posting this installment of The Chicken Diaries from a lawn chair in the new chicken coop, with 21 chicks fluttering about me. Actually, 20 chicks are fluttering about, and Beauty is sitting on my arm reading every word I write. Why am I doing this here? Because I can. And this is actually quite a comfortable place to be.
Marc finished the little coop on Tuesday. He's still working on building a screen door for the coop, so that the chicks can get air during the dog days of summer. It has been noted, quite wryly by Grace, that the chicks are getting a nicer door than we have in the house. Life can be cruel sometimes.
The chicks are very happy here. When we put them in, they immediately began running about, stretching and flapping their wings and chest bumping each other. They had been getting crowded in their small pen in the house, and were so funny to watch once they had room to do whatever it is that chicks do when they have lots of room. The pen is about 8 x 6 ft, snuggly walled with plywood and careful designed to keep the babies in and the weasels out. We brought their heat-lit dome in along with their food and water dishes. When we left them on Tuesday night, they did cry, though. Marc stayed behind to listen and heard them cheeping hysterically and flocking at the door. They had been used to us being around all the time, and missed us. I visited them right away the next morning and they had adjusted, although they were happy to see me. At first, when I came in, I would sit in the bedding with them and they would flock to me, climbing on my legs, pecking at my feet,hair etc. Now, the bedding is getting a bit poopy, so I brought in a lawn chair. Beauty, my little Americauna, immediately flies to my lap every time I come in. She wanders about on me for a few moments and then snuggles down in the crook of my arms and goes to sleep. Some of the other chicks will also fly up to my lap, but they are more curious and less relaxed. It is actually quite warm and comfy in here.
The dog and the kittens have been in to check the place out. The kittens are curious, but careful. They sit together in the corner and watch intently. Marc calls it "kitten t.v". Mini comes in because we are here. She is only interested in what is going on with the chicks when they are alarmed. It's a part of the whole "protector of the land" thing. Seems that one can be protective of creatures without caring one whit whether or not they have pooped that day or if they are enjoying their new habitation. Who knew?
One of the funniest things that the chicks do is the tippy-toe chest bump challenge thing. They bounce up to each other, rise up on the very tips of their toes, stretch their scrawny little necks as long as they go and bump into each other. It looks like some sort of challenge, and is very amusing. Stretched out, they are about 10 inches long now. I still cannot imagine how they fit into eggs just four weeks ago. They are in the pre-teen gawky stage now, although Beauty is lovely, with lush black, red and gold feathers and just enough fluff about her face to make her look soft and inviting. Her loveliest feature is her eyes, which are lined in black with a lovely Cleopatra flair.
I'm becoming quite attached to Beauty. Which is a bit worrying. We lost one of our hens a couple of days ago when she got caught in the disk-er in the field. Once the chickens are loose, there are so many dangers to watch out for. I want them to be free, though. It makes them so happy, and for a chicken, a happy, short life is better than a miserable, long life.
Anyway, I'm pretty sure I'm about to be pooped on any minute now, so I'm heading back into the house. Oops. Too late.
:)
Marc finished the little coop on Tuesday. He's still working on building a screen door for the coop, so that the chicks can get air during the dog days of summer. It has been noted, quite wryly by Grace, that the chicks are getting a nicer door than we have in the house. Life can be cruel sometimes.
The chicks are very happy here. When we put them in, they immediately began running about, stretching and flapping their wings and chest bumping each other. They had been getting crowded in their small pen in the house, and were so funny to watch once they had room to do whatever it is that chicks do when they have lots of room. The pen is about 8 x 6 ft, snuggly walled with plywood and careful designed to keep the babies in and the weasels out. We brought their heat-lit dome in along with their food and water dishes. When we left them on Tuesday night, they did cry, though. Marc stayed behind to listen and heard them cheeping hysterically and flocking at the door. They had been used to us being around all the time, and missed us. I visited them right away the next morning and they had adjusted, although they were happy to see me. At first, when I came in, I would sit in the bedding with them and they would flock to me, climbing on my legs, pecking at my feet,hair etc. Now, the bedding is getting a bit poopy, so I brought in a lawn chair. Beauty, my little Americauna, immediately flies to my lap every time I come in. She wanders about on me for a few moments and then snuggles down in the crook of my arms and goes to sleep. Some of the other chicks will also fly up to my lap, but they are more curious and less relaxed. It is actually quite warm and comfy in here.
The dog and the kittens have been in to check the place out. The kittens are curious, but careful. They sit together in the corner and watch intently. Marc calls it "kitten t.v". Mini comes in because we are here. She is only interested in what is going on with the chicks when they are alarmed. It's a part of the whole "protector of the land" thing. Seems that one can be protective of creatures without caring one whit whether or not they have pooped that day or if they are enjoying their new habitation. Who knew?
One of the funniest things that the chicks do is the tippy-toe chest bump challenge thing. They bounce up to each other, rise up on the very tips of their toes, stretch their scrawny little necks as long as they go and bump into each other. It looks like some sort of challenge, and is very amusing. Stretched out, they are about 10 inches long now. I still cannot imagine how they fit into eggs just four weeks ago. They are in the pre-teen gawky stage now, although Beauty is lovely, with lush black, red and gold feathers and just enough fluff about her face to make her look soft and inviting. Her loveliest feature is her eyes, which are lined in black with a lovely Cleopatra flair.
I'm becoming quite attached to Beauty. Which is a bit worrying. We lost one of our hens a couple of days ago when she got caught in the disk-er in the field. Once the chickens are loose, there are so many dangers to watch out for. I want them to be free, though. It makes them so happy, and for a chicken, a happy, short life is better than a miserable, long life.
Anyway, I'm pretty sure I'm about to be pooped on any minute now, so I'm heading back into the house. Oops. Too late.
:)
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The natives are restless!
Yesterday, our chicks were three weeks old. It is hard to believe that these gawky, 3/4 feather, 1/4 fluff little guys were tiny balls of pure fluff only three weeks ago. They are still in the pen in the dining area of my small downstairs. They still cheep like babies, which is endearing. Many have them have taken to perching on the walls of the cardboard pen. Occasionally one falls off on the wrong side and ends up on the floor outside of the pen, either squawking hysterically and wandering dumbly about as if in a daze. Either way, it freaks them out. The world is still too big for them. Staring out at it from the safety of the pen wall seems to be about all that they can handle. Now. By this time next week, they'll probably be nesting on the dining room chairs and leaving little poopy surprises in our shoes.
And yes, the house does carry a hint of eau de chicken coop about it. Except for yesterday, when it smelled enchantingly of boeuf bourguignon. But still, as rabid as I am about cleaning out the pen, one can't deny that there are 20 chickens living in my house. I am not complaining though. Marc has been helping a dear friend who is alone and really needs the help, fixing her water pump in her little house and making sure she has what she needs. It has been a longer job than he thought it would, but it has given him an opportunity to spend time talking to her, and she has really needed the encouragement that he brings. I so love the fact that he does this kind of thing. He truly is a man after my own heart. The coop will get done when the coop gets done and in the meantime, we get to enjoy the novelty of the chicks and keep the windows open at all times.
I am grateful that the rest of the animals seem to pose no threat to the chicks when one of them unwittingly escapes. The kittens just watch them from afar. I suspect there was a bit of swatting a chick around at some point, but the sheer hysteria that resulted proved to be a deterrent. Mini, the dog, just sighs, rolls her eyes and goes upstairs. The last thing that she is interested in is another small, stupid creature that she has to keep from becoming hawk food. Bunny, should he ever be in contact with a chick, will no doubt try to get lucky.
Sadly, the only creatures about that we really need to be concerned about will be the other chickens. I hear there is a whole procedure to introducing new chickens into the flock. Otherwise, it can get rough. Apparently, one way to introduce new hens is the put the hen into the coop at night, while everyone else is asleep. The next morning, when they wake up, they'll just assume the new girl was always there. That's one way to put the chicken's famed lack of brain power to good use. Wonder if they'd notice 20 new chickens...?
And yes, the house does carry a hint of eau de chicken coop about it. Except for yesterday, when it smelled enchantingly of boeuf bourguignon. But still, as rabid as I am about cleaning out the pen, one can't deny that there are 20 chickens living in my house. I am not complaining though. Marc has been helping a dear friend who is alone and really needs the help, fixing her water pump in her little house and making sure she has what she needs. It has been a longer job than he thought it would, but it has given him an opportunity to spend time talking to her, and she has really needed the encouragement that he brings. I so love the fact that he does this kind of thing. He truly is a man after my own heart. The coop will get done when the coop gets done and in the meantime, we get to enjoy the novelty of the chicks and keep the windows open at all times.
I am grateful that the rest of the animals seem to pose no threat to the chicks when one of them unwittingly escapes. The kittens just watch them from afar. I suspect there was a bit of swatting a chick around at some point, but the sheer hysteria that resulted proved to be a deterrent. Mini, the dog, just sighs, rolls her eyes and goes upstairs. The last thing that she is interested in is another small, stupid creature that she has to keep from becoming hawk food. Bunny, should he ever be in contact with a chick, will no doubt try to get lucky.
Sadly, the only creatures about that we really need to be concerned about will be the other chickens. I hear there is a whole procedure to introducing new chickens into the flock. Otherwise, it can get rough. Apparently, one way to introduce new hens is the put the hen into the coop at night, while everyone else is asleep. The next morning, when they wake up, they'll just assume the new girl was always there. That's one way to put the chicken's famed lack of brain power to good use. Wonder if they'd notice 20 new chickens...?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Coop delays, a tumbling kitten and a roughed up bunny...
Well, our twenty little chicks have gleefully entered the bald eagle stage, with their little heads being the only places where they still have fluff and their bodies are covered in lovely, albeit in some places short and funny-looking, feathers. This morning I was upstairs preparing for a bath and I heard a frantic distress cheep from below. One of the chicks had flown the coop, and his bravery left him as soon as he hit linoleum. He fairly ran into my hand when I came to rescue him. Sweet, that between freedom in the vast domain of my tiny downstairs (kitten-ridden as it is) and capture by Queen Gigantor (that'd be me), I am the lesser evil.
Marc is still working on the coop, but his travail has been interrupted several times this week by doctor's appointments and distress calls from friends. I know it is a bit of a pain having the chicks in the house, and the smell demands frequent cleanings (always more stressful on the chicks than on me), and there have been a few show-downs between kittens and chicks, the outcomes of which could be debatable had they been allowed to continue. The kittens are just kittenish enough to be easily spooked by flapping wings and hysterical squawking. I really appreciate Marc's willingness to spend time helping people who need it, though. There are a few older ladies who have been having plumbing and housing problems, and Marc is good at that kind of thing. I love that about him. I'd do it myself if I could. So, the chicks remain in the house, and my Beauty watches t.v with me every night. I cover his eyes during the rough bits, don't worry.
Sawyer, the kitten, fell out of the tree on Tuesday night. He was 20 feet up, and did several flips on the way down. He hit the ground on his feet, but winded himself, panting and limping for a few moments afterward. In the end, he was okay, but man alive, it is not a relaxing thing to watch two kittens play in a tree. They egg each other on to greater heights, so very proud of their bravado without a thought to the anxiety-ridden momma watching from below. Beasts. When my previous cat, Frodo, was a kitten, I remember being surprised at how clumsy he was. He was forever falling down stairs, running into doors and walls, skidding into chairs, feet and water dishes. It must be the smallness of the house. There's room to get going, but no room to stop. The kittens are like that too. They're like newbie skaters, using the boards to come to crashing halts. Only the kittens speed about at full tilt. The crashes are magnificent.
My sister came with her kids a few weeks ago, and she was cautioning the boys to be careful with the kittens. They're just babies, she said. They may be just babies, but with all the body slamming, stair tossing, face slugging, head butting, and just general smashing they're doing, they're either made of rubber or wonderfully padded....somewhere.
I am doing very well, physically. My bladder is being exuberantly kind to me, which is good because if a bladder is going to do anything exuberantly, it's best that it do it kindly. Of course, I am experiencing a bit of menstrual misery, which is another post for another blog (The Menstrual Diaries?), but frankly, who cares?
Everyone else is doing well. The seven chickens that remain in my little flock are all healthy and busy de-worming/bugging/weeding the perimeter. Bunny had to have his two bottom teeth taken out again, as they were loose and causing him misery, but he was immediately rejuvenated afterward. He doesn't even flinch when we have to do anything with his teeth, which is good because it gives me convulsions and there's no need for everyone to suffer. He also has infected eyes...again. And a cut, infected lip. I'm telling you, if he'd stop trying to rough up the rooster, he'd probably be in better shape. But he wouldn't be nearly as happy. I doctor him up several times a day. Drops in the eyes, Vet RX on the sides of his little nose for the snuffles, antibiotic cream for the sore inside his lip and a spray of peroxide for the sore on the outside of his lip. But, like I said, he's happy.
The dog, bless her heart, continues to be patient. Scooby snaxs help a lot.
Marc is still working on the coop, but his travail has been interrupted several times this week by doctor's appointments and distress calls from friends. I know it is a bit of a pain having the chicks in the house, and the smell demands frequent cleanings (always more stressful on the chicks than on me), and there have been a few show-downs between kittens and chicks, the outcomes of which could be debatable had they been allowed to continue. The kittens are just kittenish enough to be easily spooked by flapping wings and hysterical squawking. I really appreciate Marc's willingness to spend time helping people who need it, though. There are a few older ladies who have been having plumbing and housing problems, and Marc is good at that kind of thing. I love that about him. I'd do it myself if I could. So, the chicks remain in the house, and my Beauty watches t.v with me every night. I cover his eyes during the rough bits, don't worry.
Sawyer, the kitten, fell out of the tree on Tuesday night. He was 20 feet up, and did several flips on the way down. He hit the ground on his feet, but winded himself, panting and limping for a few moments afterward. In the end, he was okay, but man alive, it is not a relaxing thing to watch two kittens play in a tree. They egg each other on to greater heights, so very proud of their bravado without a thought to the anxiety-ridden momma watching from below. Beasts. When my previous cat, Frodo, was a kitten, I remember being surprised at how clumsy he was. He was forever falling down stairs, running into doors and walls, skidding into chairs, feet and water dishes. It must be the smallness of the house. There's room to get going, but no room to stop. The kittens are like that too. They're like newbie skaters, using the boards to come to crashing halts. Only the kittens speed about at full tilt. The crashes are magnificent.
My sister came with her kids a few weeks ago, and she was cautioning the boys to be careful with the kittens. They're just babies, she said. They may be just babies, but with all the body slamming, stair tossing, face slugging, head butting, and just general smashing they're doing, they're either made of rubber or wonderfully padded....somewhere.
I am doing very well, physically. My bladder is being exuberantly kind to me, which is good because if a bladder is going to do anything exuberantly, it's best that it do it kindly. Of course, I am experiencing a bit of menstrual misery, which is another post for another blog (The Menstrual Diaries?), but frankly, who cares?
Everyone else is doing well. The seven chickens that remain in my little flock are all healthy and busy de-worming/bugging/weeding the perimeter. Bunny had to have his two bottom teeth taken out again, as they were loose and causing him misery, but he was immediately rejuvenated afterward. He doesn't even flinch when we have to do anything with his teeth, which is good because it gives me convulsions and there's no need for everyone to suffer. He also has infected eyes...again. And a cut, infected lip. I'm telling you, if he'd stop trying to rough up the rooster, he'd probably be in better shape. But he wouldn't be nearly as happy. I doctor him up several times a day. Drops in the eyes, Vet RX on the sides of his little nose for the snuffles, antibiotic cream for the sore inside his lip and a spray of peroxide for the sore on the outside of his lip. But, like I said, he's happy.
The dog, bless her heart, continues to be patient. Scooby snaxs help a lot.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Come, kittens! Come, kittens!
This morning, I found one of the chicks perched on the top of the pen. Clearly it's time to get their new coop ready and move them. Otherwise, I may wake up one morning to a chick nesting in my hair. It's hard to believe they are only two weeks old. For the past two weeks, we have been putting the kittens in the bathroom for the night because we didn't want them making an impromptu visit to the pen. They've been fairly content with the arrangement, as when I make my multiple nightly visits they are always curled up together and seem happy to see me, but not overly eager to escape. For the past two nights, they have been left out in the house at night. To be honest, the chicks are outgrowing the kittens, and at this point if a kitten did end up in the pen, the chaos created by 20 hysterical, wing-flapping, high pitched cheeping, body slamming chicks would send the poor little fellow crawling up the wall and out in a blink of an eye.
Most evenings I take a walk down our lane. I like to take as many animals with me as a possible. There is no question about the dog. If I so much as walk out the front door after supper she convulsively leaps to her feet and barrels down the lane in anticipation. Of course, there's no helping the droopy disappointment if I'm just heading out to the lawn chair with a book. The bunny goes where the dog does. He's reluctant, but dedicated. He does have a tendency to wuss out on the way home though, flopping over in the middle of the lane and refusing to move. He hates being carried, so the threat of being tucked under my arm usually gets him going again.
The kittens are another matter altogether. My last cat, Frodo, (bless his wandering heart) went with us for every walk, from the time he was 7 weeks old. Even at that young age, when he got tired he hated being carried and kept insisting he could make it on his own. Sheldon and Sawyer have no interest in walks, and prefer wrestling in the dirt under the porch, chasing butterflies and throwing each other down the front steps. I tried carrying them partway down the lane and then putting them down, hoping they'd follow. Instead, they wrestled in the dirt, chased butterflies and threw each other into the ditch, there being no stairs handy. I then tried carrying one of them while the other one stood forlornly in the lane trying to decide exactly how much he really needed his brother, after all. We had a bit of success with this method, as it turns out they are pretty attached to each other, and once trotting along beside us, they seemed to enjoy themselves.
Last night I just took Sheldon with me. Sawyer was sound asleep on the couch, and I couldn't bear to disturb him. Just kidding. My alternate choice of activity last night, had the walk not panned out, would have been flicking his whiskers to see how long it would take him to wake up. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what they say about the easily amused...
Anyway, I took Sheldon with me, carried him part of the way down the lane and then put him down and kept walking. He turned to head back, saw how far it was, chased a bug into the edge of the lane, beat up a few blades of grass, saw I had moved on, sat down on the lane and cried. Then he followed. I didn't go the entire way down the lane, as I unexpectedly needed a potty break and the farmers were working the adjoining fields. The trees by the side of the lane don't provide that much privacy. Besides, bunny started flopping over sooner than usual, probably due to a slow recovery from the intense heat that we've been having. Mini the dog had already done 3 trips up and down the lane to my 1/2, so she was okay with heading back. By the time we returned, Sheldon was doing the "running w/the pack thing", trying to keep up with Mini and feeling all big-boyish. It was sweet.
On a sadder note, one of our hens is sick and didn't end up in the hen house last night. She's had diarrhea since I stopped the antibiotics I was giving them for a respiratory problem several of them had. I have been feeding her kefir on chunks of bread, kefir being a highly probiotic fermented milk drink. She has been eating well, but hanging around the house and looking quiet. She's been sweet, because every time I go out of the house she follows me around and sits under my chair if I'm lounging. Chickens are social creatures, and it's been hard for her, that the other chickens have been touring the grounds and she has been left behind. I hope that she is just tucked under somewhere getting better. That's not likely though. Sadness.
Most evenings I take a walk down our lane. I like to take as many animals with me as a possible. There is no question about the dog. If I so much as walk out the front door after supper she convulsively leaps to her feet and barrels down the lane in anticipation. Of course, there's no helping the droopy disappointment if I'm just heading out to the lawn chair with a book. The bunny goes where the dog does. He's reluctant, but dedicated. He does have a tendency to wuss out on the way home though, flopping over in the middle of the lane and refusing to move. He hates being carried, so the threat of being tucked under my arm usually gets him going again.
The kittens are another matter altogether. My last cat, Frodo, (bless his wandering heart) went with us for every walk, from the time he was 7 weeks old. Even at that young age, when he got tired he hated being carried and kept insisting he could make it on his own. Sheldon and Sawyer have no interest in walks, and prefer wrestling in the dirt under the porch, chasing butterflies and throwing each other down the front steps. I tried carrying them partway down the lane and then putting them down, hoping they'd follow. Instead, they wrestled in the dirt, chased butterflies and threw each other into the ditch, there being no stairs handy. I then tried carrying one of them while the other one stood forlornly in the lane trying to decide exactly how much he really needed his brother, after all. We had a bit of success with this method, as it turns out they are pretty attached to each other, and once trotting along beside us, they seemed to enjoy themselves.
Last night I just took Sheldon with me. Sawyer was sound asleep on the couch, and I couldn't bear to disturb him. Just kidding. My alternate choice of activity last night, had the walk not panned out, would have been flicking his whiskers to see how long it would take him to wake up. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what they say about the easily amused...
Anyway, I took Sheldon with me, carried him part of the way down the lane and then put him down and kept walking. He turned to head back, saw how far it was, chased a bug into the edge of the lane, beat up a few blades of grass, saw I had moved on, sat down on the lane and cried. Then he followed. I didn't go the entire way down the lane, as I unexpectedly needed a potty break and the farmers were working the adjoining fields. The trees by the side of the lane don't provide that much privacy. Besides, bunny started flopping over sooner than usual, probably due to a slow recovery from the intense heat that we've been having. Mini the dog had already done 3 trips up and down the lane to my 1/2, so she was okay with heading back. By the time we returned, Sheldon was doing the "running w/the pack thing", trying to keep up with Mini and feeling all big-boyish. It was sweet.
On a sadder note, one of our hens is sick and didn't end up in the hen house last night. She's had diarrhea since I stopped the antibiotics I was giving them for a respiratory problem several of them had. I have been feeding her kefir on chunks of bread, kefir being a highly probiotic fermented milk drink. She has been eating well, but hanging around the house and looking quiet. She's been sweet, because every time I go out of the house she follows me around and sits under my chair if I'm lounging. Chickens are social creatures, and it's been hard for her, that the other chickens have been touring the grounds and she has been left behind. I hope that she is just tucked under somewhere getting better. That's not likely though. Sadness.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Hello, little chick, how fast can you grow?
Well, it has been a long time since I have updated this blog, at least a week which is months in chick years. I would feel guilty, really I would, but I've been too ill to care. About the blog, that is. The chicks, on the other hand, have continued to be 20 bundles of chirping, fluffy, feathery fun and an endless source of amusement while the chronic illness I have, interstitial cystitis, has been kicking my butt.
Marc is sure that the chicks are mostly roosters, because they are all so darn pretty. He could be right. They are gorgeous. One thing that is surprising is that many of them are white, and we didn't have any eggs from our white hen. She died from a rabid respiratory illness a few months ago. The eggs were all brown, except for the Americauna ones, which were robin blue. I thought it was supposed to be, brown eggs, "brown" chickens. Oddness. They seem to have almost tripled in size, and began to develop feathers almost immediately. The feathers came out so quickly, I'm sure if I held a chick for an hour or two and watched him, I'd be able to see them growing!
Gracie picked out a chick to be her special pet, and called her Muffin. When she's sitting to watch t.v or do homework, she puts the chick on her shoulder. It's beyond cute. I am trying to win the heart of the Americauna. I named her Beauty. I thought that if she turns out to be a he, I'd change his name to Beast, but I don't think that will happen. He's just too lovely.
We've had some seriously hot weather, lately, and the chicks were afraid of the ceiling fan in the dining area. When I put it on, they all flipping out and piled themselves into a corner, frantically cheeping. Earlier this week, I had to clean out the pen. I used a broom to sweep the shredded paper bedding into piles, which of course caused no end of cheeping and wailing and corner piling. I figured since I was already traumatizing them, I might as well try the fan out again, and this time they didn't react to it. I guess it's all about perspective. Moving propellers on the ceiling pale in comparison to the big red broom chasing them around our home. We all very much appreciate their new found courage, because the temperature soared, at times in the 40's in the sun, and the ability to use the fan was a godsend. Brave little darlings.
So, yesterday I was lying on a lawn chair in the shade of the maple tree in the yard. A chicken was asleep under my chair, panting. The rest of the hens and Bruce were slowly wandering the lawn, pecking at things and holding their wings out slightly to let the warm breeze cool their wing-pits. The dog was sprawled out beside me, chasing squirrels in her mind. Bunny was spread out near the dog. The kittens, still dubbed The Farty Boys, were wrestling madly, throwing each other into the rhubarb, chasing each other up the tree and then pushing each other off of the tree, playing chicken with each other and chest bumping in midair. Frankly, it's a good thing they have each other, because nobody was up to playing with them. They had been growled at by the dog, pecked at by a hen or two, and even the bunny wasn't interested. I just wanted to kiss them, but they did the usual squirming, "aw, mom!" stuff.
It was sunny and hot and the wild pink roses were out. I love the wild roses. It felt peaceful. And I was happy.
Marc is sure that the chicks are mostly roosters, because they are all so darn pretty. He could be right. They are gorgeous. One thing that is surprising is that many of them are white, and we didn't have any eggs from our white hen. She died from a rabid respiratory illness a few months ago. The eggs were all brown, except for the Americauna ones, which were robin blue. I thought it was supposed to be, brown eggs, "brown" chickens. Oddness. They seem to have almost tripled in size, and began to develop feathers almost immediately. The feathers came out so quickly, I'm sure if I held a chick for an hour or two and watched him, I'd be able to see them growing!
Gracie picked out a chick to be her special pet, and called her Muffin. When she's sitting to watch t.v or do homework, she puts the chick on her shoulder. It's beyond cute. I am trying to win the heart of the Americauna. I named her Beauty. I thought that if she turns out to be a he, I'd change his name to Beast, but I don't think that will happen. He's just too lovely.
We've had some seriously hot weather, lately, and the chicks were afraid of the ceiling fan in the dining area. When I put it on, they all flipping out and piled themselves into a corner, frantically cheeping. Earlier this week, I had to clean out the pen. I used a broom to sweep the shredded paper bedding into piles, which of course caused no end of cheeping and wailing and corner piling. I figured since I was already traumatizing them, I might as well try the fan out again, and this time they didn't react to it. I guess it's all about perspective. Moving propellers on the ceiling pale in comparison to the big red broom chasing them around our home. We all very much appreciate their new found courage, because the temperature soared, at times in the 40's in the sun, and the ability to use the fan was a godsend. Brave little darlings.
So, yesterday I was lying on a lawn chair in the shade of the maple tree in the yard. A chicken was asleep under my chair, panting. The rest of the hens and Bruce were slowly wandering the lawn, pecking at things and holding their wings out slightly to let the warm breeze cool their wing-pits. The dog was sprawled out beside me, chasing squirrels in her mind. Bunny was spread out near the dog. The kittens, still dubbed The Farty Boys, were wrestling madly, throwing each other into the rhubarb, chasing each other up the tree and then pushing each other off of the tree, playing chicken with each other and chest bumping in midair. Frankly, it's a good thing they have each other, because nobody was up to playing with them. They had been growled at by the dog, pecked at by a hen or two, and even the bunny wasn't interested. I just wanted to kiss them, but they did the usual squirming, "aw, mom!" stuff.
It was sunny and hot and the wild pink roses were out. I love the wild roses. It felt peaceful. And I was happy.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The final tally
I was kindly reminded yesterday that it had been a few days since I have updated. Thanks, Howard. :) We were up until 2:30 am on Sunday morning, and then Sunday was a huge day and so yesterday I basically crashed. In the sun with a book and the critters. Lovely day.
The hatching was pretty much finished on Saturday night. After several efforts to count the fuzzy little bundles in the pen, we think we may have 20 chicks. If they'd stop moving for a minute, we'd know for sure.
We were initially told to put twice as many eggs in the incubator as we wanted to hatch, because we'd lose half of them, which is pretty much what happened. About six of the chicks died in the process of hatching, one died shortly after, one died a day later and the rest of the eggs didn't hatch, either because they died somewhere in the midst of the development or because they were never fertilized.
The saddest thing was watching the chicks that had been trying to hatch all day grow weak and then die. We knew that we shouldn't help them out, and that was tough. In fact, late Saturday afternoon I was watching one that had been trying to hatch, and I did reach in and flick a bit of shell off for her. Later, Marc was watching her, and he confessed to me that he had helped her, too. She did eventually get out, but she was the one who died shortly after her birth. If they don't have the strength to get out of the egg, they won't be able to survive life outside the egg. Poor little things. We were disappointed that only one of the Americauna chicks hatched. She's a beauty, though. I say she because there is no way I can tell what sex they are yet, so I am alternating between he and she. I think we are going to try to get a few more Americauna eggs to hatch later.
After they had dried in the incubator, we popped them into the pen. Marc had made a plastic dome out of half a barrel, and threaded the heat lamp through it. He propped it up on bricks and the temperature in the dome is perfect for them. They can linger around the edge of it if it gets too warm for them, or go inside right under the heat light if it gets cool in the room. They started popping around almost immediately. They were like little Weebles, running around, wobbling and falling over and popping back up. They cheep incessantly, but usually it's a soft noise and not intrusive at all. Sometimes there's a bit of a tussle between a couple of the chicks and their voices will raise as they tell each other off, but nothing lasts too long.
Mini is interested in them, and peers over the top of the pen occasionally, especially when the cheeping is loud and they sound distressed. The kittens are also interested, but they can't get into the pen. They can hear the cheeping and pecking and think, "Play toys!!!"
I've been taking pictures,and will try to upload some to my Photobucket account and post links. I'm in a bladder flare, and am not feeling great, so I think today might be another crash day. I feel like I am wasting the sunny warm weather, but there no rule saying I can't crash outside, right?!
I've really enjoyed this whole experience, even if the hatching did happen on the busiest week-end we've had in ages. It was so exciting, and the babies are adorable. Now, the adventure of watching them grow begins. They already have wing feathers coming. I think, like all babies, this stage will pass quickly.
I wonder what teen-age chickens are like?
Yikes. ;)
The hatching was pretty much finished on Saturday night. After several efforts to count the fuzzy little bundles in the pen, we think we may have 20 chicks. If they'd stop moving for a minute, we'd know for sure.
We were initially told to put twice as many eggs in the incubator as we wanted to hatch, because we'd lose half of them, which is pretty much what happened. About six of the chicks died in the process of hatching, one died shortly after, one died a day later and the rest of the eggs didn't hatch, either because they died somewhere in the midst of the development or because they were never fertilized.
The saddest thing was watching the chicks that had been trying to hatch all day grow weak and then die. We knew that we shouldn't help them out, and that was tough. In fact, late Saturday afternoon I was watching one that had been trying to hatch, and I did reach in and flick a bit of shell off for her. Later, Marc was watching her, and he confessed to me that he had helped her, too. She did eventually get out, but she was the one who died shortly after her birth. If they don't have the strength to get out of the egg, they won't be able to survive life outside the egg. Poor little things. We were disappointed that only one of the Americauna chicks hatched. She's a beauty, though. I say she because there is no way I can tell what sex they are yet, so I am alternating between he and she. I think we are going to try to get a few more Americauna eggs to hatch later.
After they had dried in the incubator, we popped them into the pen. Marc had made a plastic dome out of half a barrel, and threaded the heat lamp through it. He propped it up on bricks and the temperature in the dome is perfect for them. They can linger around the edge of it if it gets too warm for them, or go inside right under the heat light if it gets cool in the room. They started popping around almost immediately. They were like little Weebles, running around, wobbling and falling over and popping back up. They cheep incessantly, but usually it's a soft noise and not intrusive at all. Sometimes there's a bit of a tussle between a couple of the chicks and their voices will raise as they tell each other off, but nothing lasts too long.
Mini is interested in them, and peers over the top of the pen occasionally, especially when the cheeping is loud and they sound distressed. The kittens are also interested, but they can't get into the pen. They can hear the cheeping and pecking and think, "Play toys!!!"
I've been taking pictures,and will try to upload some to my Photobucket account and post links. I'm in a bladder flare, and am not feeling great, so I think today might be another crash day. I feel like I am wasting the sunny warm weather, but there no rule saying I can't crash outside, right?!
I've really enjoyed this whole experience, even if the hatching did happen on the busiest week-end we've had in ages. It was so exciting, and the babies are adorable. Now, the adventure of watching them grow begins. They already have wing feathers coming. I think, like all babies, this stage will pass quickly.
I wonder what teen-age chickens are like?
Yikes. ;)
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Ten chicks overnight, and they're still coming...
I crawled into bed exhausted at around 12:30 a.m this morning, with six chicks under the heat lamp and two newly hatched in the incubator. Gracie had come home from the Glee Cabaret and there was lots of chatting about her evening and crooning over the fluffy black and yellow chicks.
We took the egg turner out of the incubator and lay the eggs on the mesh screen at the bottom, to prevent any of the other chicks getting caught between the wall of the incubator and the turner. It also made it easier for the newly hatched chicks to get around the incubator and to be comfortable as they waited for us to discover them in the morning.
I did a potty run just before 4:00 a.m, and there were 8 hatched chicks. At 6:00 a.m, when Marc got up and I followed to check the chicks again (and yes, for another potty run), there were 10. We were especially delighted to see that one of the blue Americauna eggs had hatched. We had gotten 5 Americauna eggs from a friend of ours, and they were quite a bit smaller than our eggs in the incubator. The little mottled black and yellow chick is also smaller than the others, and she has the most lovely eyes, lined in black, bright and alert. I think only one of the other Americauna eggs have holes pecked in them. I'm hoping we get at least a couple more. Americauna chickens are really pretty, with lovely plumage. We have one Americauna hen, and while she doesn't lay eggs, she is lovely, with gold fringed feathers. They also lay interesting eggs, of various colors. The eggs we have are robin blue, but Americauna eggs can range from lilac and chocolate brown to olive green and turquoise blue. Quite exotic, for chicken eggs.
All 10 chicks have been moved from the incubator to the heat-lit dome, and there is quite a bit of cheeping coming from the other eggs in the incubator. Basically, we had expected to get half the chicks for the eggs that we had put in, so anything over 21 chicks is a bonus. If all the chicks that have poked holes through their egg shells get out, we'll have many more than 21.
The kittens have caught on to the fact that there is something small, noisy and interesting-smelling in the corner of the kitchen. The temporary pen is made of cardboard, and the kittens love to scratch around at the bottom. They can't get in, yet, but we're not taking chances. We put them both in the bathroom last night, and will need to make sure they aren't left alone with the pen when we aren't here. I am also endeavoring to teach them to leave the pen alone, with the judicial application of the flyswatter and ample amounts of kitty treats as rewards for obedience.
Mini likes to look over the top, and is especially interested when the cheeping sounds distressed, as it does whenever we pick one of the chicks up. I think she wants to make sure that they are okay. She's such a great dog.
So, it looks like Hatching Day is going to be Hatching Week-end.
Cool.
We took the egg turner out of the incubator and lay the eggs on the mesh screen at the bottom, to prevent any of the other chicks getting caught between the wall of the incubator and the turner. It also made it easier for the newly hatched chicks to get around the incubator and to be comfortable as they waited for us to discover them in the morning.
I did a potty run just before 4:00 a.m, and there were 8 hatched chicks. At 6:00 a.m, when Marc got up and I followed to check the chicks again (and yes, for another potty run), there were 10. We were especially delighted to see that one of the blue Americauna eggs had hatched. We had gotten 5 Americauna eggs from a friend of ours, and they were quite a bit smaller than our eggs in the incubator. The little mottled black and yellow chick is also smaller than the others, and she has the most lovely eyes, lined in black, bright and alert. I think only one of the other Americauna eggs have holes pecked in them. I'm hoping we get at least a couple more. Americauna chickens are really pretty, with lovely plumage. We have one Americauna hen, and while she doesn't lay eggs, she is lovely, with gold fringed feathers. They also lay interesting eggs, of various colors. The eggs we have are robin blue, but Americauna eggs can range from lilac and chocolate brown to olive green and turquoise blue. Quite exotic, for chicken eggs.
All 10 chicks have been moved from the incubator to the heat-lit dome, and there is quite a bit of cheeping coming from the other eggs in the incubator. Basically, we had expected to get half the chicks for the eggs that we had put in, so anything over 21 chicks is a bonus. If all the chicks that have poked holes through their egg shells get out, we'll have many more than 21.
The kittens have caught on to the fact that there is something small, noisy and interesting-smelling in the corner of the kitchen. The temporary pen is made of cardboard, and the kittens love to scratch around at the bottom. They can't get in, yet, but we're not taking chances. We put them both in the bathroom last night, and will need to make sure they aren't left alone with the pen when we aren't here. I am also endeavoring to teach them to leave the pen alone, with the judicial application of the flyswatter and ample amounts of kitty treats as rewards for obedience.
Mini likes to look over the top, and is especially interested when the cheeping sounds distressed, as it does whenever we pick one of the chicks up. I think she wants to make sure that they are okay. She's such a great dog.
So, it looks like Hatching Day is going to be Hatching Week-end.
Cool.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Things are moving slowly, but still moving...
We have six chicks hatched, and almost all of the eggs have holes in them. I think many will hatch overnight. One of the hatched chicks got stuck between the wall of the incubator and the automatic turner, and needed help to get out. I'm pretty sure she would have died if left too long. Something tells me I'm not going to get a lot of sleep tonight. I didn't fall asleep when I went to nap, either. I just kept listening to the cheeping, and hoping that everything was okay. Of course, everything was okay.
I probably shouldn't be hovering like this, but it's hard not to. It's funny, I was just about to write that I felt I might be neglecting the rest of the animals, and even Gracie who is in the Cabaret show at CVR tonight. Then Sawyer, one of the kittens, trotted by with a huge turd stuck to his bum, and I pushed the computer aside to chase Mr. Stinky-butt with a kleenex. Guess I'm not missing everything. And I have been praying all night for Gracie. I can't wait to hear about it, or to see the show tomorrow night!
So, many if not all of those little holes in those little eggs will turn into cracks that let loose our chickies. As for Mr. Stinky-butt, he took off when he saw me coming, and when I finally caught him, he was sans turd. Brat. He did make a pass over the shoes in front of the door. I looked and looked, but...let's just say someone may find a surprise in their shoe tomorrow! And it won't be a chick!
Muahahahahahahaha!
As for me, I'm going to be wearing sandals. :)
I probably shouldn't be hovering like this, but it's hard not to. It's funny, I was just about to write that I felt I might be neglecting the rest of the animals, and even Gracie who is in the Cabaret show at CVR tonight. Then Sawyer, one of the kittens, trotted by with a huge turd stuck to his bum, and I pushed the computer aside to chase Mr. Stinky-butt with a kleenex. Guess I'm not missing everything. And I have been praying all night for Gracie. I can't wait to hear about it, or to see the show tomorrow night!
So, many if not all of those little holes in those little eggs will turn into cracks that let loose our chickies. As for Mr. Stinky-butt, he took off when he saw me coming, and when I finally caught him, he was sans turd. Brat. He did make a pass over the shoes in front of the door. I looked and looked, but...let's just say someone may find a surprise in their shoe tomorrow! And it won't be a chick!
Muahahahahahahaha!
As for me, I'm going to be wearing sandals. :)
Two chicks so far, fast and fluffy!
There have been two chicks out for most of the day. The others are slowly making their way out, peck by peck. I had a lovely lunch out with my friends, Karen and Sandy, and I am proud to report that I was able to talk about something else besides the chicks. Or kittens. So yeah. Yay me. ;)
One of the eggs is actually rocking back and forth. The egg that we initially saw with a hole in it is still not hatched. The hole has only been enlarged a bit. I guess the chicks vary in strength and stamina. Some of them will most likely have died, and some will not make it through the hatching, which is sad but reality. Some may not even make it through the week in our kitchen, although we do plan to do our best. The two that have hatched are fluffy and gold, and will grow up to be red/brown. They have bright yellow beaks and feet. Like many young animals, their feet are freakishly large.
The pen is prepared, with a plastic dome over the bedding. A heat lamp is installed in the dome, and Marc has been adjusting the height of the dome until the temperature is right. It needs to be 100F for the first week, and I think 5 degrees less per week. The feeder and water dispenser are ready as well. There is almost a constant cheeping coming from the incubator, not just from the hatched chicks but from within the other eggs. Several little yellow beaks are poked through hard-earned holes, announcing their tiny but significant presence to the world.
I'm heading up for a nap. All of this birthing stuff is exhausting!
One of the eggs is actually rocking back and forth. The egg that we initially saw with a hole in it is still not hatched. The hole has only been enlarged a bit. I guess the chicks vary in strength and stamina. Some of them will most likely have died, and some will not make it through the hatching, which is sad but reality. Some may not even make it through the week in our kitchen, although we do plan to do our best. The two that have hatched are fluffy and gold, and will grow up to be red/brown. They have bright yellow beaks and feet. Like many young animals, their feet are freakishly large.
The pen is prepared, with a plastic dome over the bedding. A heat lamp is installed in the dome, and Marc has been adjusting the height of the dome until the temperature is right. It needs to be 100F for the first week, and I think 5 degrees less per week. The feeder and water dispenser are ready as well. There is almost a constant cheeping coming from the incubator, not just from the hatched chicks but from within the other eggs. Several little yellow beaks are poked through hard-earned holes, announcing their tiny but significant presence to the world.
I'm heading up for a nap. All of this birthing stuff is exhausting!
One out...41 to go!
I thought I might be able to update in the comments of the last post, but a lot has happened in the past two and a half hours. One of the chicks has hatched entirely, and while it was an agonizing process to watch, it was awesome. And I mean awesome in the way it is meant to be used, not the way I usually use it, which is to signify something cool. This was awe inspiring.
The other chicks that have poked through are taking their time, which leads me to think that the one that has hatched initially broke through his shell sometime in the night. He isn't the one that I saw at first. That hole on that egg is still fairly small. The hatched one is out and flopping around the incubator. We are calling him a male because Marc wants more than anything to call him Adam. No, it doesn't make sense, but I've been up since 5:30 a.m and am too tired to protest. Plus, it's cute.
Marc is building a pen for the chicks in our kitchen. I don't think I have mentioned how small our house is. Our down stairs is one and a half rooms, a kitchen/living room/dining room and a half bath. So, for the next week, our lives will consist of chicks and kittens and the never-ending chore of keeping the house from smelling like a barn. If it doesn't warm up soon outside, it may be longer. I'm okay with that now, but I am aware that it may get tiresome. Or maybe not. Who knows?
The chick that has hatched is adorable. He's golden, alert and he seems strong. He has bright eyes, and when he hears my voice he turns his head in my direction and cheeps. He has to stay in the incubator until he dries, and it must be lonely in there. Poor little fellow. All that work, and he's left alone in a Styrofoam box surrounded by unhatched siblings. I was impressed with the way he broke his egg shell. He pecked a crack around the egg, like we do when cracking a egg. Then he was able to just pop the top off. Talk about the wonder of creation. It's the most energy efficient way for him, but how did he know the pattern? How did he know not to just peck randomly until the egg fell apart? It's lovely, to be able to see the hand of God in such simple, small things.
Marc is pretty sure he's an athlete, having been able to bust out so soon. If he's a rooster, Marc will probably want to name him Rambo or something. What can I say? We've had roosters named Aragorn, Tevye and now Bruce. Maybe it's time for a Rambo?
Marc just counted. There are 12 more chicks that have broken through their shells and are on their way. Woot!
The other chicks that have poked through are taking their time, which leads me to think that the one that has hatched initially broke through his shell sometime in the night. He isn't the one that I saw at first. That hole on that egg is still fairly small. The hatched one is out and flopping around the incubator. We are calling him a male because Marc wants more than anything to call him Adam. No, it doesn't make sense, but I've been up since 5:30 a.m and am too tired to protest. Plus, it's cute.
Marc is building a pen for the chicks in our kitchen. I don't think I have mentioned how small our house is. Our down stairs is one and a half rooms, a kitchen/living room/dining room and a half bath. So, for the next week, our lives will consist of chicks and kittens and the never-ending chore of keeping the house from smelling like a barn. If it doesn't warm up soon outside, it may be longer. I'm okay with that now, but I am aware that it may get tiresome. Or maybe not. Who knows?
The chick that has hatched is adorable. He's golden, alert and he seems strong. He has bright eyes, and when he hears my voice he turns his head in my direction and cheeps. He has to stay in the incubator until he dries, and it must be lonely in there. Poor little fellow. All that work, and he's left alone in a Styrofoam box surrounded by unhatched siblings. I was impressed with the way he broke his egg shell. He pecked a crack around the egg, like we do when cracking a egg. Then he was able to just pop the top off. Talk about the wonder of creation. It's the most energy efficient way for him, but how did he know the pattern? How did he know not to just peck randomly until the egg fell apart? It's lovely, to be able to see the hand of God in such simple, small things.
Marc is pretty sure he's an athlete, having been able to bust out so soon. If he's a rooster, Marc will probably want to name him Rambo or something. What can I say? We've had roosters named Aragorn, Tevye and now Bruce. Maybe it's time for a Rambo?
Marc just counted. There are 12 more chicks that have broken through their shells and are on their way. Woot!
It's Starting...!
It's 6:16 am and there is a hole in one of the eggs! I woke up early, and was lying on the couch with Marc when I joked about hearing cheeping from the incubator. Then, we DID hear cheeping! It's early for the chick, too, as they aren't due until tonight! There's a tiny little beak peeking out of the broken egg shell, and every once in a while it cheeps. Oh my goodness, it is beyond adorable!!!
Marc is hovering over the incubator (ah, so this is why it's called The HovaBator), and thinks the first chick hatched should be named Adam or Eve. Fitting. Actually, we found another egg that has a bigger hole on the side of it that we hadn't noticed before. Marc wants to put a little dab of food dye on the head of the first chick hatched, so we can see how he/she does.
Stay tuned...I think this will be a busy day here in The Chicken Diaries. I'll be home most of the day, hovering (See? See?) over the incubator, oohing and aw'ing. I am going out for lunch with friends, and I am making a pledge right now not to spend the whole time talking about my chicks. Seriously. Okay, I'll at least try...
I'll let you know when the first chick has achieved freedom from his/her egg.
Squeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Marc is hovering over the incubator (ah, so this is why it's called The HovaBator), and thinks the first chick hatched should be named Adam or Eve. Fitting. Actually, we found another egg that has a bigger hole on the side of it that we hadn't noticed before. Marc wants to put a little dab of food dye on the head of the first chick hatched, so we can see how he/she does.
Stay tuned...I think this will be a busy day here in The Chicken Diaries. I'll be home most of the day, hovering (See? See?) over the incubator, oohing and aw'ing. I am going out for lunch with friends, and I am making a pledge right now not to spend the whole time talking about my chicks. Seriously. Okay, I'll at least try...
I'll let you know when the first chick has achieved freedom from his/her egg.
Squeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Tomorrow is hatching day!
Tomorrow Marc and I are going to become parents! Apparently the whole hatching thing is pretty precise, which means that it should start sometime tomorrow afternoon and finish sometime tomorrow night. We have decided to put the incubator in the middle of the kitchen table, to facilitate the compulsive checking that we will be doing. After all, there's no point in fooling ourselves. We will be hovering over those eggs in manic anticipation all day, like Cruella Devil over a litter of dalmatians. Only with better intentions. Well, except for the roosters. Oh, let's not go there now.
Marc built a feeder for the chicks on principle, after going to the local pet store and and recoiling at the thought of paying $25 for one. He also built a plastic dome to go over their little pen. He did buy a heat lamp bulb, because even he can't create one of those, no matter how much duct tape and barbed wire he uses.
It occurred to me last night, what if only one hatches? Anyone wanna bet that one chick will become an ultra spoiled rotten diva of the chicken world? More than the hens we already have, I mean. And Marc bought a 80 kilo bag of chick starter. Whoever comes, I hope they're hungry!
I am quite excited. I probably don't need to write that, it being obvious, but I think repeating myself is a symptom of extreme excitement.
Have I mentioned how excited I am?
Marc built a feeder for the chicks on principle, after going to the local pet store and and recoiling at the thought of paying $25 for one. He also built a plastic dome to go over their little pen. He did buy a heat lamp bulb, because even he can't create one of those, no matter how much duct tape and barbed wire he uses.
It occurred to me last night, what if only one hatches? Anyone wanna bet that one chick will become an ultra spoiled rotten diva of the chicken world? More than the hens we already have, I mean. And Marc bought a 80 kilo bag of chick starter. Whoever comes, I hope they're hungry!
I am quite excited. I probably don't need to write that, it being obvious, but I think repeating myself is a symptom of extreme excitement.
Have I mentioned how excited I am?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Two more days to Hatch day!!
Two more days to hatch day! Awk! I am getting excited, and a little nervous. What if none of them hatch? What if they're all male? What if they all hatch?? What if, what if, what if...I wonder if hens go through all of this when they are sitting on eggs. Probably not. I am literally being out-serenity'd by a chicken. Sigh.
Marc is busy building a chick nursery. I think he's pretty much McGyvering it, but he's a genius at stuff like this, so I trust him completely. Sort of. ;)
The kittens are doing well. They are growing at an amazing rate. They have this obsession with drinking out of the dog's water bucket instead of their own smaller dish, and as the weeks past they have gone from having to stand on their tippy toes in order to reach the water when the bucket is full to being able to drink from it when it is only at half mast. They spend most of their days wrestling. As they get older, their wrestling moves have come to include full body slams as well as throwing each other off of various surfaces. They have just started going upstairs, so it won't be long before they start tossing each other down the stairs for fun. At least they are evenly matched, in size and strength as well as propensity for evil.
The chickens are also thriving. The antibiotics seem to work, as there is now no sneezing or sniffling in the coop when I go in at night to close the door. Just soft snoring. I love seeing them on the front lawn, or in the fields scratching for worms. They look very peaceful and pastoral. Especially now that Bruce the rooster has stopped with the attacks. The other night the light was left on in the porch and the next morning there were at least 10 June bugs lying on the porch floor. I picked them up and flicked them out to the chickens. Apparently June bugs are the equivalent of Scooby snax to chickens. And no, I didn't feel guilty. Years ago, I somehow got a June bug stuck up under my hair during the last 30 seconds of a Canadians play-off game, and my husband at the time, Grace's dad, suggested that I wait until the game was over before he responded to my hysterical screams of "Get it out! Get it out! GET IT OUT!!!!" Since the Bible says I have to forgive my husband, I've been taking it out on June bugs ever since. Beasts. But the chickens love them.
Marc is busy building a chick nursery. I think he's pretty much McGyvering it, but he's a genius at stuff like this, so I trust him completely. Sort of. ;)
The kittens are doing well. They are growing at an amazing rate. They have this obsession with drinking out of the dog's water bucket instead of their own smaller dish, and as the weeks past they have gone from having to stand on their tippy toes in order to reach the water when the bucket is full to being able to drink from it when it is only at half mast. They spend most of their days wrestling. As they get older, their wrestling moves have come to include full body slams as well as throwing each other off of various surfaces. They have just started going upstairs, so it won't be long before they start tossing each other down the stairs for fun. At least they are evenly matched, in size and strength as well as propensity for evil.
The chickens are also thriving. The antibiotics seem to work, as there is now no sneezing or sniffling in the coop when I go in at night to close the door. Just soft snoring. I love seeing them on the front lawn, or in the fields scratching for worms. They look very peaceful and pastoral. Especially now that Bruce the rooster has stopped with the attacks. The other night the light was left on in the porch and the next morning there were at least 10 June bugs lying on the porch floor. I picked them up and flicked them out to the chickens. Apparently June bugs are the equivalent of Scooby snax to chickens. And no, I didn't feel guilty. Years ago, I somehow got a June bug stuck up under my hair during the last 30 seconds of a Canadians play-off game, and my husband at the time, Grace's dad, suggested that I wait until the game was over before he responded to my hysterical screams of "Get it out! Get it out! GET IT OUT!!!!" Since the Bible says I have to forgive my husband, I've been taking it out on June bugs ever since. Beasts. But the chickens love them.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Of Chickens, Antibiotics and Kitten Love.
It's Monday today, and the chicks are due on Friday. Marc found that the temperature in The HovaBator was a bit low today and had to turn it up. It snowed here yesterday and Marc put the coal stove on, and it heated the house so much that he had to lower the temp. of the incubator. He forgot to turn it up again. We are hoping that the chicks will be okay.
Everyone else is doing well. The chickens are on day 4 of antibiotics. That was an adventure. There are a few of the hens that have been sniffling and sneezing lately, and one that came down with a full blown sinus infection that was so serious we ended up having to put her down. We have been trying to find poultry antibiotics around here for a while, but have had no luck. I ordered some on-line, from a great place called Jeffer's, and it came last week.
Now, I am a fairly intelligent person. I do have a tendency towards apparent flightiness due to the fact that my head is always full of wonderfully distracting things that seemingly have nothing to do with day-to-day life, but I can make my brain work when I need to. Still, I had a devil of a time figuring out how much antibiotics to give to the chickens. It came in a plastic bin, and the instructions seemed designed to dose hundreds of chickens at a time. I have eight.
First it said to make a stock solution, presumably gallons of the stuff. Then, I was to "meter" the stock solution into their drinking water at an ounce per gallon, or something like that. And the stock solution does not last past 12 hours. I was, like, huh? So I did what I usually do when I am stumped. I wrote "how to give poultry antibiotics" into a search engine. I essentially got the very same instructions that are on the plastic container my antibiotics came in. One lady did suggest putting bread in the solution to make sure they eat/drink it all, which I thought was just short of genius.
I appealed to my sister for help, as she has been through this before with her chickens. Her instructions helped. I ended up putting a bit of the antibiotic powder on the tip of a teaspoon and mixing it in 4 cups of water and giving it to them with bread or crackers crushed up in it. They eat the majority of it right away and then drink the remaining water for the rest of the day. It is really difficult to get free range chickens to drink from only one source. They have the dog's water, the rabbit's water, not to mention puddles and ditches and yesterday's snow. No one had died yet, so I hope I am doing it right.
The kittens are growing magnificently. Mini is still not impressed, although she does take the time to sniff their bums on a pretty regular basis. Yesterday they figured out how to get upstairs, and spent some time playing under Grace's bed after she had retired for the night. They play, eat, drink, poop and sleep. And we derive no end of pleasure watching them. It really is quite odd, but we don't question it. Some things in life are not to be analyzed, but simply enjoyed.
To close, a bit of kitten wisdom ~ A brother who has just been biting your toes, cheeks, ears, throat, and tail should still be trusted to clean your bum. This is, though, a one chance deal. Even kittens have limits...
Everyone else is doing well. The chickens are on day 4 of antibiotics. That was an adventure. There are a few of the hens that have been sniffling and sneezing lately, and one that came down with a full blown sinus infection that was so serious we ended up having to put her down. We have been trying to find poultry antibiotics around here for a while, but have had no luck. I ordered some on-line, from a great place called Jeffer's, and it came last week.
Now, I am a fairly intelligent person. I do have a tendency towards apparent flightiness due to the fact that my head is always full of wonderfully distracting things that seemingly have nothing to do with day-to-day life, but I can make my brain work when I need to. Still, I had a devil of a time figuring out how much antibiotics to give to the chickens. It came in a plastic bin, and the instructions seemed designed to dose hundreds of chickens at a time. I have eight.
First it said to make a stock solution, presumably gallons of the stuff. Then, I was to "meter" the stock solution into their drinking water at an ounce per gallon, or something like that. And the stock solution does not last past 12 hours. I was, like, huh? So I did what I usually do when I am stumped. I wrote "how to give poultry antibiotics" into a search engine. I essentially got the very same instructions that are on the plastic container my antibiotics came in. One lady did suggest putting bread in the solution to make sure they eat/drink it all, which I thought was just short of genius.
I appealed to my sister for help, as she has been through this before with her chickens. Her instructions helped. I ended up putting a bit of the antibiotic powder on the tip of a teaspoon and mixing it in 4 cups of water and giving it to them with bread or crackers crushed up in it. They eat the majority of it right away and then drink the remaining water for the rest of the day. It is really difficult to get free range chickens to drink from only one source. They have the dog's water, the rabbit's water, not to mention puddles and ditches and yesterday's snow. No one had died yet, so I hope I am doing it right.
The kittens are growing magnificently. Mini is still not impressed, although she does take the time to sniff their bums on a pretty regular basis. Yesterday they figured out how to get upstairs, and spent some time playing under Grace's bed after she had retired for the night. They play, eat, drink, poop and sleep. And we derive no end of pleasure watching them. It really is quite odd, but we don't question it. Some things in life are not to be analyzed, but simply enjoyed.
To close, a bit of kitten wisdom ~ A brother who has just been biting your toes, cheeks, ears, throat, and tail should still be trusted to clean your bum. This is, though, a one chance deal. Even kittens have limits...
Friday, May 7, 2010
Seven days to The Hatching!
Tonight it will be seven days until The Hatching. Yesterday, I got a 5 lb bag of chick started food in the mail. I went to the local feed mill, and asked for prices. I can get a 40 kg bag of chick starter for a little over $10.00. But 40 kg??? My chicks will be eating chick starter for years! It kind of defeats the whole starter part of the Chick Starter.
I've still no idea how many chicks we'll get. I swing between expecting them all to hatch (eeep!) and fearing that none will hatch.(double eeep!) Life will, mostly likely, meet me somewhere in the middle.
We found a nest of about 10 eggs in the shed, behind some boards. We've been collecting 5 or 6 eggs a day, and the fact that there is a stockpile means that more of the hens are laying than we thought. We have 7 hens. One, Uhura, we've just never expected anything from, egg-wise. She has always been a bit fragile, shy, scruffy, sort of like the snot-nosed kid in grade school that always gets bullied and hangs out in the library at lunch time. Last summer, I used treats and coaxing to get her to come out of the coop, and she is pretty much as free-range as the rest now. She has special privileges, though. When I'm giving the chickens bread, she sits right by me and gets hers hand fed to her. Sometimes she'll sit on my lap for treats while the others scramble to grab the bits I throw out to them. When Uhura was more timid and bully bait, she didn't do well in the melee for treats. Now she probably could hold her own, but she's a pampered princess and doesn't need to anymore. She has only started laying eggs this spring, which is good news.
When we were choosing eggs to go in the incubator, Marc and I both wanted to make sure that we had some of Uhura's eggs to add in. It's a bit odd, as she is not the finest specimen of chicken-hood. But she was needy and a bit weak and so we put more effort into her and so she's special. We want to see her chicks. High tech geneticists, we're not.
If the chicks hatch next week-end, we'll be in the midst of the busiest week-end that we've had in a long time. It figures. It will all work out, though. I love new experiences. Especially when they involve fluffy, wobbly new creatures.
Mini, as dog of the family, protector and on-duty big sister, will most likely be adopting a permanent air of martyrdom. It's going take a lot of Scooby snacks to make up for kittens AND chicks....
I've still no idea how many chicks we'll get. I swing between expecting them all to hatch (eeep!) and fearing that none will hatch.(double eeep!) Life will, mostly likely, meet me somewhere in the middle.
We found a nest of about 10 eggs in the shed, behind some boards. We've been collecting 5 or 6 eggs a day, and the fact that there is a stockpile means that more of the hens are laying than we thought. We have 7 hens. One, Uhura, we've just never expected anything from, egg-wise. She has always been a bit fragile, shy, scruffy, sort of like the snot-nosed kid in grade school that always gets bullied and hangs out in the library at lunch time. Last summer, I used treats and coaxing to get her to come out of the coop, and she is pretty much as free-range as the rest now. She has special privileges, though. When I'm giving the chickens bread, she sits right by me and gets hers hand fed to her. Sometimes she'll sit on my lap for treats while the others scramble to grab the bits I throw out to them. When Uhura was more timid and bully bait, she didn't do well in the melee for treats. Now she probably could hold her own, but she's a pampered princess and doesn't need to anymore. She has only started laying eggs this spring, which is good news.
When we were choosing eggs to go in the incubator, Marc and I both wanted to make sure that we had some of Uhura's eggs to add in. It's a bit odd, as she is not the finest specimen of chicken-hood. But she was needy and a bit weak and so we put more effort into her and so she's special. We want to see her chicks. High tech geneticists, we're not.
If the chicks hatch next week-end, we'll be in the midst of the busiest week-end that we've had in a long time. It figures. It will all work out, though. I love new experiences. Especially when they involve fluffy, wobbly new creatures.
Mini, as dog of the family, protector and on-duty big sister, will most likely be adopting a permanent air of martyrdom. It's going take a lot of Scooby snacks to make up for kittens AND chicks....
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
An Evening Walk Down The Lane...en masse!
Last night we had our friend, Mark Tasse, over for Lost night. Every Tuesday night we all have supper together and then watch Lost, which is coming close to the end of it's last season. Last night was heart-breaking. It's an surprising event when the sadness of the happenings in the show trump the confusion of it all, but what can I say. We're junkies.
After supper but before Lost came on, there was a gorgeous double rainbow outside. I wanted to go for a walk down the lane, and the Marc(k)s accommodated me and came along. We also took Teddy, my friend's dog that we were keeping for the night, our dog Mini, the rabbit and the two kittens.
The dogs "get" the walk thing like no one's business. They love it. They live for it. It is air and water to them. Pippin the bunny enjoys walks because the dogs are there. He could do without a traipse down the lane, but he can't do without Mini, so along he comes. He has a habit of stopping in the middle of the lane, usually on the way back, for an emergency paw cleaning. There is only so much lane mud a bunny can handle. It takes a bit of coaxing to get him moving again, if not a gentle boot in the behind, but he is learning to co-operate.
The kittens are a different thing all together. I worked out a plan to acclimatize them to walking the lane. I was going to take them out, one at a time, teach them the drill, work them up to eventually walking the whole thing by themselves. Yada yada yada. We couldn't all go and leave one behind. We'd be hearing the wails of despair all the way down. Talk about putting a damper on things.
So we scooped up both kittens, walked partway down the lane, and put them on the ground and hoped they would follow. They stood uncertainly for a few seconds until one brother smacked the other brother upside the head for fun. Then they rolled around together on the lane a bit and headed, bouncing and tripping, back to the house. I picked up Sheldon, and left Sawyer on the lane by himself. He had no choice to follow. It's one thing to be unspeakably brave when your one pound fluff-ball of a brother is at your side. Alone, it's best to stick with the gang. He followed manfully. After a bit, I put Sheldon down, scooped up Sawyer and repeated the process. When I put them both down together then, they just knew to follow. They ended up walking the entire length of the lane. It was an impressive feat for such little guys.
So we had a lovely evening. Marc did mention that it would be interesting if we could get the chickens to follow us on our walks down the lane.
**sigh**
Oh, there are only nine days to go to hatching day! Everything seems to be going well. I keep dreaming about chicks pecking out of eggs. Fun!
After supper but before Lost came on, there was a gorgeous double rainbow outside. I wanted to go for a walk down the lane, and the Marc(k)s accommodated me and came along. We also took Teddy, my friend's dog that we were keeping for the night, our dog Mini, the rabbit and the two kittens.
The dogs "get" the walk thing like no one's business. They love it. They live for it. It is air and water to them. Pippin the bunny enjoys walks because the dogs are there. He could do without a traipse down the lane, but he can't do without Mini, so along he comes. He has a habit of stopping in the middle of the lane, usually on the way back, for an emergency paw cleaning. There is only so much lane mud a bunny can handle. It takes a bit of coaxing to get him moving again, if not a gentle boot in the behind, but he is learning to co-operate.
The kittens are a different thing all together. I worked out a plan to acclimatize them to walking the lane. I was going to take them out, one at a time, teach them the drill, work them up to eventually walking the whole thing by themselves. Yada yada yada. We couldn't all go and leave one behind. We'd be hearing the wails of despair all the way down. Talk about putting a damper on things.
So we scooped up both kittens, walked partway down the lane, and put them on the ground and hoped they would follow. They stood uncertainly for a few seconds until one brother smacked the other brother upside the head for fun. Then they rolled around together on the lane a bit and headed, bouncing and tripping, back to the house. I picked up Sheldon, and left Sawyer on the lane by himself. He had no choice to follow. It's one thing to be unspeakably brave when your one pound fluff-ball of a brother is at your side. Alone, it's best to stick with the gang. He followed manfully. After a bit, I put Sheldon down, scooped up Sawyer and repeated the process. When I put them both down together then, they just knew to follow. They ended up walking the entire length of the lane. It was an impressive feat for such little guys.
So we had a lovely evening. Marc did mention that it would be interesting if we could get the chickens to follow us on our walks down the lane.
**sigh**
Oh, there are only nine days to go to hatching day! Everything seems to be going well. I keep dreaming about chicks pecking out of eggs. Fun!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Countdown to the Hatching ...10 days to go!
So as far as I can tell, we are on day 11 with the incubated eggs. Ten days to go. Woot! I have to tell you, waiting for the eggs to develop and hatch is a pretty boring endeavor. I had grand plans of posting every day about the adventures of nurturing this little group of eggs into full-blown chick fluffiness. I'm actually grateful we haven't had many adventures with this. Last week, we had a serious snowfall that cut power in some places, but not here. Thankfully. Even last night, friends I know had lost their power, probably due to thunder and wind storms. We have remained plugged in and on-line and I am glad.
This is not to say that there have not been other sorts of adventures. The kittens are a going concern, even now as the kitten-squirts have subsided (otherwise known in classier circles as diarrhea). So many rules, so few brain cells. I shouldn't be so hard on them. They are very young, only 8 weeks now. They are also unspeakably cute. I took Sheldon with me for a walk down the lane last night. Well, partly down the lane. Let's say he lacks focus. I ended up carrying him much of the way, but he's so small and sweet, it was a pleasure.
I figure at first, I'll have to take them one at a time. Otherwise, they'll just wrestle and tumble in the middle of the lane while I go nuts trying to coax them to follow me. Someone is going to get tossed into the water-filled ditch, I just know it. Probably Sheldon. Sawyer is turning out to be a bit of a bully. There's a fine line between the squealing, whining and complaining that they both do when wrestling and gnawing on each other, and the desperate wailing that happens when brother has a tooth 'n' claw grip on some vital body part and is going for broke. Ouch. The humans in the family all have claw marks and scratches up both arms and legs. One wonders what the babies look like under all that fur...
Mini lost her temper with bunny twice yesterday. There's the growling, brief bit of snarling that says, "Get away from my bum, you perv!" And then there's the out-of-control ferocious snarl that is, in no uncertain terms, a definite effort to solve the irritating bunny problem once and for all. She is always very remorseful afterward. I feel for her. I have, on occasion, had my "little bit of patience" meet up with "a whole lotta crazy" and have had close to the same reaction. But no matter how maddeningly irritating someone is, one cannot grab them by the neck and shake them until their teeth fall out and their knees go weak. Or so I've been told...
Anyway, in 10 days, the fun really starts!
This is not to say that there have not been other sorts of adventures. The kittens are a going concern, even now as the kitten-squirts have subsided (otherwise known in classier circles as diarrhea). So many rules, so few brain cells. I shouldn't be so hard on them. They are very young, only 8 weeks now. They are also unspeakably cute. I took Sheldon with me for a walk down the lane last night. Well, partly down the lane. Let's say he lacks focus. I ended up carrying him much of the way, but he's so small and sweet, it was a pleasure.
I figure at first, I'll have to take them one at a time. Otherwise, they'll just wrestle and tumble in the middle of the lane while I go nuts trying to coax them to follow me. Someone is going to get tossed into the water-filled ditch, I just know it. Probably Sheldon. Sawyer is turning out to be a bit of a bully. There's a fine line between the squealing, whining and complaining that they both do when wrestling and gnawing on each other, and the desperate wailing that happens when brother has a tooth 'n' claw grip on some vital body part and is going for broke. Ouch. The humans in the family all have claw marks and scratches up both arms and legs. One wonders what the babies look like under all that fur...
Mini lost her temper with bunny twice yesterday. There's the growling, brief bit of snarling that says, "Get away from my bum, you perv!" And then there's the out-of-control ferocious snarl that is, in no uncertain terms, a definite effort to solve the irritating bunny problem once and for all. She is always very remorseful afterward. I feel for her. I have, on occasion, had my "little bit of patience" meet up with "a whole lotta crazy" and have had close to the same reaction. But no matter how maddeningly irritating someone is, one cannot grab them by the neck and shake them until their teeth fall out and their knees go weak. Or so I've been told...
Anyway, in 10 days, the fun really starts!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
My Mysterious Mini
Well, all is hunky dory on the incubator front. We check the temperature several times a day, and last night we checked the humidity to find it just right. We are on day 4, with 17 left to go.
As I type this, I have the kittens in my lap. Sawyer is especially intrigued by the sound and movement of my typing. He is chewing on my fingers at this very moment. This may be a short entry. Of course I could kick them off, but I probably won't.
Do you want to know one thing that I just cannot figure out? I love my animals and try hard to understand how to best care for them, as well as how they see and interact with the world and what is going on in their heads. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why my dog, Mini, has started tipping her food dish over since the kittens arrived. Mini always has food available to her. I keep her dish full at all times. In fact, if it is empty, she will bring it to me and drop it at my feet, even if she just finished it and has no intention of eating any more.
After the kittens came last week, she started tipping her dish over so the food spills out onto the floor. Now, she shows no signs of liking the kittens. In fact, her demeanor of choice lately has bordered on tortured martyrdom. She has sniffed a few bums and licked a few faces, but mostly she tries to avoid them and growls when they get too close. So, why the dish tipping? It's as if she is making it easy for them to get into her food. We had an issue before with a kitten that sniffed at her food while she was eating, that began with her attacking the kitten and ended with a severe reprimand and time in the corner on her own. She learned the lesson, and later became close friends with the cat, even sharing her yummiest snacks with him happily. She doesn't get upset with the babies when they come near her while she is eating. In fact, they will often hang out at the water dish when she is at the food dish, watching her and pushing each others' faces into the water. It really is a mystery.
As I type this, I have the kittens in my lap. Sawyer is especially intrigued by the sound and movement of my typing. He is chewing on my fingers at this very moment. This may be a short entry. Of course I could kick them off, but I probably won't.
Do you want to know one thing that I just cannot figure out? I love my animals and try hard to understand how to best care for them, as well as how they see and interact with the world and what is going on in their heads. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why my dog, Mini, has started tipping her food dish over since the kittens arrived. Mini always has food available to her. I keep her dish full at all times. In fact, if it is empty, she will bring it to me and drop it at my feet, even if she just finished it and has no intention of eating any more.
After the kittens came last week, she started tipping her dish over so the food spills out onto the floor. Now, she shows no signs of liking the kittens. In fact, her demeanor of choice lately has bordered on tortured martyrdom. She has sniffed a few bums and licked a few faces, but mostly she tries to avoid them and growls when they get too close. So, why the dish tipping? It's as if she is making it easy for them to get into her food. We had an issue before with a kitten that sniffed at her food while she was eating, that began with her attacking the kitten and ended with a severe reprimand and time in the corner on her own. She learned the lesson, and later became close friends with the cat, even sharing her yummiest snacks with him happily. She doesn't get upset with the babies when they come near her while she is eating. In fact, they will often hang out at the water dish when she is at the food dish, watching her and pushing each others' faces into the water. It really is a mystery.
Monday, April 26, 2010
And we're off....
Well, the countdown has begun! Actually, it began two days ago, but that seemed a bit anti-climatic. It took a bit of time to get the temperature right in the incubator. Apparently the temperature and humidity levels have to be pretty specific consistently in order for the eggs to develop well and hatch. Which begs the question, how do creatures that spent hours yesterday staring at our new rock garden wondering where the dirt went, actually get this egg hatching thing right? Perfect temperature, perfect humidity for 21 days. I just don't know...
We put 42 eggs into the incubator. I'm not sure if this means that we are being optimistic, or expecting disaster and hoping to salvage at least a few. If we're being optimistic, we're also being insane. Say, we lose 12 eggs. That means 30 chicks. It's possible half will be roosters, but really, who knows? I overheard Marc telling someone that the roosters will be soup. **sigh** I dread the thought of it, but at the same time, I am convinced that if I keep them from the hens and feed them lots and lots, we might be able to actually get some meat from them. I think I am a little conflicted.
In any case, it is possible to get at least 15 new hens, which is manageable with a few extra laying boxes in the hen house. What if, though, we end up with 20 hens? Or more? We're talking major renovations for the hen house. Ah, the thrill of living dangerously.
The other night I had a flash of inspiration. For the past few years I have been digging and expanding a little plot by the shed to plant herbs in. Last year, the hens killed or ate everything in it and used it for a dust bath. Every day I would find several hens sprawled in the dirt, flipping dust over themselves in a most luxurious fashion. They do this to deal with lice, who apparently aren't into dirt. This year, that plot is the saddest, scruffiest bit of garden I have ever seen. So, the plan is to officially turn it into a chicken bath, complete with a sign on the shed, hooks for bath brush and puffs, maybe a few flowers (they'll probably have to be plastic) around the perimeter. I may be able to get morning glories to grow up the shed wall, if I shield them from the chickens until they are high enough. I ordered some lice dust, and if the label says it's okay, it might even be a good idea to sprinkle a bit of that in the dirt. I figure, if I can't stop them, I might as well have some fun with it. I can't wait to start working on it.
So, today is day 3 in the quest for chicks. All is in order. Marc keeps saying he hears peeping when he checks on the eggs. He's funny.
We put 42 eggs into the incubator. I'm not sure if this means that we are being optimistic, or expecting disaster and hoping to salvage at least a few. If we're being optimistic, we're also being insane. Say, we lose 12 eggs. That means 30 chicks. It's possible half will be roosters, but really, who knows? I overheard Marc telling someone that the roosters will be soup. **sigh** I dread the thought of it, but at the same time, I am convinced that if I keep them from the hens and feed them lots and lots, we might be able to actually get some meat from them. I think I am a little conflicted.
In any case, it is possible to get at least 15 new hens, which is manageable with a few extra laying boxes in the hen house. What if, though, we end up with 20 hens? Or more? We're talking major renovations for the hen house. Ah, the thrill of living dangerously.
The other night I had a flash of inspiration. For the past few years I have been digging and expanding a little plot by the shed to plant herbs in. Last year, the hens killed or ate everything in it and used it for a dust bath. Every day I would find several hens sprawled in the dirt, flipping dust over themselves in a most luxurious fashion. They do this to deal with lice, who apparently aren't into dirt. This year, that plot is the saddest, scruffiest bit of garden I have ever seen. So, the plan is to officially turn it into a chicken bath, complete with a sign on the shed, hooks for bath brush and puffs, maybe a few flowers (they'll probably have to be plastic) around the perimeter. I may be able to get morning glories to grow up the shed wall, if I shield them from the chickens until they are high enough. I ordered some lice dust, and if the label says it's okay, it might even be a good idea to sprinkle a bit of that in the dirt. I figure, if I can't stop them, I might as well have some fun with it. I can't wait to start working on it.
So, today is day 3 in the quest for chicks. All is in order. Marc keeps saying he hears peeping when he checks on the eggs. He's funny.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The HovaBator Has Arrived!!!!
So The HovaBator came in. Marc was a bit disappointed that it was made out of Styrofoam. I guess with a name like The HovaBator, he was expecting tempered steel. I was just glad it was here. I let Marc put the thing together (aren't I nice?). I was a bit concerned when he was looking through the instructions and grumbling that there were no pictures. If I didn't know that he is downright McGyverish when it comes to mechanics, I'd be very concerned. I mean, really, the guy seriously has dreams of converting his Volks Jetta so that it runs on old french fry oil. And he could do it, too. Like he needs pictures.
**rolls eyes**
Now that the incubator is together, we are going to visit a friend tonight to get some special eggs. We're hoping that she has some Americauna eggs. Americauna chickens are very cool, in that they lay eggs that range in color from chocolate brown and lilac to aqua blue and green. We had two Americauna hens and a half Americauna rooster, but one of the hens and the rooster had an unfortunate meeting with a coyote last year. The other hen isn't laying eggs. So we need to import them. We'll pop them in with ours and see what happens.
The chickens are blissfully oblivious to all this parental planning going on. They spend their days wandering the land, snoozing under the lilac bushes, picking worms and bugs out of the front fields, fighting minor skirmishes with Pippin who maintains territorial rights to anywhere he has plopped on. Which is pretty much everywhere. He has taken to sitting on the lane in front of the porch, right in the midst of the cracked corn that I throw there for the chickens. He doesn't even eat the stuff. He just likes to own it.
The kittens are doing well, eating, sleeping and rolling around with each other like the fat little imps that they are. The dog is unimpressed. She does keep sniffing their bums and licking their ears, and has twice cleaned up their food plate for them. Otherwise, she is very definitely adopting an air of tortured martyrdom.
Just wait until she sees the chicks.
**rolls eyes**
Now that the incubator is together, we are going to visit a friend tonight to get some special eggs. We're hoping that she has some Americauna eggs. Americauna chickens are very cool, in that they lay eggs that range in color from chocolate brown and lilac to aqua blue and green. We had two Americauna hens and a half Americauna rooster, but one of the hens and the rooster had an unfortunate meeting with a coyote last year. The other hen isn't laying eggs. So we need to import them. We'll pop them in with ours and see what happens.
The chickens are blissfully oblivious to all this parental planning going on. They spend their days wandering the land, snoozing under the lilac bushes, picking worms and bugs out of the front fields, fighting minor skirmishes with Pippin who maintains territorial rights to anywhere he has plopped on. Which is pretty much everywhere. He has taken to sitting on the lane in front of the porch, right in the midst of the cracked corn that I throw there for the chickens. He doesn't even eat the stuff. He just likes to own it.
The kittens are doing well, eating, sleeping and rolling around with each other like the fat little imps that they are. The dog is unimpressed. She does keep sniffing their bums and licking their ears, and has twice cleaned up their food plate for them. Otherwise, she is very definitely adopting an air of tortured martyrdom.
Just wait until she sees the chicks.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Of HovaBators and Kittens
Well, I discovered yesterday that The HovaBator started its journey in Fruitland, Idaho and has made its way through Seattle to Vancouver, crossing the border and clearing customs on April 16th. I'm thinking that means it should be here soon. Which is good, because I've been saving eggs, and if it doesn't come soon we may have to build an addition on the hen house. Marc keeps saying, "You want to hatch all those?" I tell him that I am making allowances for defects, droppage and roosters. Oh, by the way, Marc has also informed me that we will be able to keep one rooster. Apparently Bruce will keep him in his place. This should be interesting.
On the subject of critter drama, we have recently acquired two new kittens. Marc and Grace went to pick out a kitten yesterday. Grace has a friend whose aunt had a cat with kittens, bless her heart. Anyway, they came home with two of the sweetest, most adorable kittens on the face of the planet. I know, I know, I'm the mom, I have to say things like that, but I think it just may be true. The kittens have been formally named Sheldon and Sawyer. Sheldon is my favorite character on "The Big Bang Theory" and Sawyer is Marc's fave from Lost. To be honest, I think I have run out of Lord of the Ring names. I blame the time we bought a pet rat for Gracie and she had 11 babies 3 weeks after we brought her home. We pretty much used up the entire cast of Lord of the Rings on them.
The critter drama will come into play as the kittens get acquainted with the rest of the gang. They have already met Pippin the bunny, who promptly tried to...well...romance them, without the benefit of candy or flowers. Mini, the dog, is not impressed. She's still trying to get over Pippin being here. She was mildly interested, and did a bit of bum sniffing at first, but had now decided that Sheldon and Sawyer can only mean trouble. This, of course, is probably true. There's no word on what the chickens think, as they have not met the kittens yet.
I am, for all intents and purposes, in love.
On the subject of critter drama, we have recently acquired two new kittens. Marc and Grace went to pick out a kitten yesterday. Grace has a friend whose aunt had a cat with kittens, bless her heart. Anyway, they came home with two of the sweetest, most adorable kittens on the face of the planet. I know, I know, I'm the mom, I have to say things like that, but I think it just may be true. The kittens have been formally named Sheldon and Sawyer. Sheldon is my favorite character on "The Big Bang Theory" and Sawyer is Marc's fave from Lost. To be honest, I think I have run out of Lord of the Ring names. I blame the time we bought a pet rat for Gracie and she had 11 babies 3 weeks after we brought her home. We pretty much used up the entire cast of Lord of the Rings on them.
The critter drama will come into play as the kittens get acquainted with the rest of the gang. They have already met Pippin the bunny, who promptly tried to...well...romance them, without the benefit of candy or flowers. Mini, the dog, is not impressed. She's still trying to get over Pippin being here. She was mildly interested, and did a bit of bum sniffing at first, but had now decided that Sheldon and Sawyer can only mean trouble. This, of course, is probably true. There's no word on what the chickens think, as they have not met the kittens yet.
I am, for all intents and purposes, in love.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Back, Bruce, Back! (Or, Where Did I Put That Pie Tin??!!)
This past week-end, we had visitors. Every month, two little girls come to spend the week-end with us. Their names are Kim and Becky and when they were little, I fostered them for a year. Now they are 10 and 8, and ever so much fun. At least I think so. Bruce the rooster may beg to differ. Unless, of course, his version of fun is charging them and snickering behind his wing while they run screaming into the house several times a day.
One of their favorite things to do when they are here is to collect eggs from the hen house. Bruce takes a dim view of egg-nappers, though. Especially when he's not afraid of them. And he is not afraid of Kim and Becky.
I tried to make outside time more enjoyable for the girls...okay, more possible...by empowering them with aluminum pie tins to clang together in hopes that the noise would deter Bruce. I taught them how to stomp towards Bruce, armed with the tins and a bold attitude. I have to admit, it did cut down the running and screaming by quite a bit. Or maybe it was just all drowned out by the incessant clanging. In any case, the kids got to play outside, and Bruce was left unharmed, except for an odd little twitchy thing he is now doing with his head. It's okay. I'm sure a few days of pastoral peace and quiet will restore his nerves.
It always works for me.
One of their favorite things to do when they are here is to collect eggs from the hen house. Bruce takes a dim view of egg-nappers, though. Especially when he's not afraid of them. And he is not afraid of Kim and Becky.
I tried to make outside time more enjoyable for the girls...okay, more possible...by empowering them with aluminum pie tins to clang together in hopes that the noise would deter Bruce. I taught them how to stomp towards Bruce, armed with the tins and a bold attitude. I have to admit, it did cut down the running and screaming by quite a bit. Or maybe it was just all drowned out by the incessant clanging. In any case, the kids got to play outside, and Bruce was left unharmed, except for an odd little twitchy thing he is now doing with his head. It's okay. I'm sure a few days of pastoral peace and quiet will restore his nerves.
It always works for me.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Popularity Contest...It's No Contest!
There are two things that make a person popular with chickens. Food and treats. The fact that I bring food to them every morning makes me their friend. The fact that I am rarely without a pocket full of bread makes me their god.
Creatures that do not know enough to come in out of the rain, who can and do occasionally get lost in the front porch, who, if given a warm bath, will get so relaxed that they will fall face first into the warm water and drown to death, these creatures will gladly learn to jump through hoops for a few bits of bread.
No, my chickens do not jump through hoops. But I have seen them jump over the dog. And fences. And each other. All for treats.
When they hear my voice, their little heads pop up, they drop whatever they are doing and they come running. If I am outside, they follow me around. The hens will walk so close to me, sometimes I have to fall over myself to avoid tripping over them. When this happens, they jump and squawk. Then Bruce gets all testy because his girls almost got stepped on, and he'll start puffing up and sharpening his spurs. Beast.
It is a bit like having my own little band of disciples. Sure they're dumb as dirt and only interested in one thing, but let's face it, I'm not exactly an A-list god. More like F-list, if even that. One can't be picky when all one has to offer is a pocket of stale bread bits.
All I can say is raising a flock of chickens is really good for the ego.
There. I have spoken.
:)
Creatures that do not know enough to come in out of the rain, who can and do occasionally get lost in the front porch, who, if given a warm bath, will get so relaxed that they will fall face first into the warm water and drown to death, these creatures will gladly learn to jump through hoops for a few bits of bread.
No, my chickens do not jump through hoops. But I have seen them jump over the dog. And fences. And each other. All for treats.
When they hear my voice, their little heads pop up, they drop whatever they are doing and they come running. If I am outside, they follow me around. The hens will walk so close to me, sometimes I have to fall over myself to avoid tripping over them. When this happens, they jump and squawk. Then Bruce gets all testy because his girls almost got stepped on, and he'll start puffing up and sharpening his spurs. Beast.
It is a bit like having my own little band of disciples. Sure they're dumb as dirt and only interested in one thing, but let's face it, I'm not exactly an A-list god. More like F-list, if even that. One can't be picky when all one has to offer is a pocket of stale bread bits.
All I can say is raising a flock of chickens is really good for the ego.
There. I have spoken.
:)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Forget Richard, the Lionhearted...I want to be Kelly, the Bunnyhearted!
I know this blog is called The Chicken Diaries, but along with our free range chickens, we also are blessed with a free range rabbit and a dog that tries to keep the whole bunch of them safe. The rabbit, Pippin, was a surprise that my husband brought home one evening from a customer that he had been to that day. Pippin has a problem with his teeth. Rabbits' teeth continue to grow throughout their lives, but Pip's teeth grow too fast for him to be able to gnaw them down the way he would if they were normal. We cut his teeth and keep them manageable but he is, for the most part, unable to eat anything but his pellets and a small variety of soft snacks, like bread and bananas, and just yesterday, noodles with pesto. Pippin lives in our front porch, and runs free. He is inordinately attached to the dog (we think it's love), but his relationship with the chickens is a different matter.
It might be different if the chickens hadn't any experience with hanging out on the porch. Pip's porch. But they do. Of course, I swoosh them off. And of course, they ignore me and come back. Pip has now taken over the swooshing. Frankly, he's better at it than I am.
Yesterday I mentioned Bruce the roo and his spurs. Bruce and Pip fight all the time. Bruce has spurs and a sharp, hard beak, he's much taller than Pip is, and the whole flapping his wing thing is pretty impressive. Pippin has...fur. He's short, not even up to Bruce's chest. Pippin is a small bundle of cute and bones in a luxurious fur coat. And he routinely charges Bruce, chasing him not just off the porch but lately away from the house.
I throw cracked corn on the lane way in front of the house so that the chickens will scratch there and maybe stick around. They have a habit of wandering, and the farther away they get from the house, the more vulnerable they are to birds of prey and coyotes. So, who meets them on the lane way near the tossed corn, ears flattened back, furry paws planted firmly on the ground, ready to defend his territory? Who said the entire front of the house belonged to the rabbit? Apparently it does. Pip has taken to head butting the chickens, including Bruce until they go away. And away means not just off the lane. He'll follow them, possibly muttering threats, until they duck under the lilac bushes on the edge of the far lawn.
Sometimes the chickens seem to have had enough of Pip pushing them around, and they will mob him. Puffs of rabbit fur fly, and I worry about his eyes with all those stabbing beaks coming at him. If it looks too nasty, I intervene. Lately, though, I've been letting Bruce and Pip go at it. Pip is adorable, even when he is fighting. He essentially head butts Bruce in the chest. Yup. That's pretty much it. It's oddly funny and impressive at the same time. Pippin will charge at Bruce, head bump his chest and disappear between Bruce's legs as Bruce dives down and tears tufts of bunny fur from Pip's behind. Sometimes he leaps out of the way, once even clearing Bruce's back and landing in front of the confused roo, all set for another head butt. Bruce, though, has to get a chance to reclaim some ground, and least in front of the girls. I mean, really. Being bested by a rabbit, in front of the ladies? Uncool.
The thing that amazed me about Pip is that he has no weapons, other than a hard head, and he has no protection. He's physically fragile. Even his teeth are weak and have a tendency to break off when they're not growing so long he could pick his nose with his bottom teeth. He just doesn't seem to know it. He's Super Bunny in his own mind. He has even irritated the dog to snarling distraction with his "loving", and after a brutal rough up (for which the dog suffers agonies of guilt and shame), Pip sits quiet for a moment to let the adrenaline go down, and then he's back at it, "C'mon, honey. You know you didn't mean it...let's get it on..."
Frankly, I think Pip is probably the most courageous creature around here. Pretty cool. So, yeah, when I grow up, I want to be brave like my bunny! Maybe not so darn irritating, though...
It might be different if the chickens hadn't any experience with hanging out on the porch. Pip's porch. But they do. Of course, I swoosh them off. And of course, they ignore me and come back. Pip has now taken over the swooshing. Frankly, he's better at it than I am.
Yesterday I mentioned Bruce the roo and his spurs. Bruce and Pip fight all the time. Bruce has spurs and a sharp, hard beak, he's much taller than Pip is, and the whole flapping his wing thing is pretty impressive. Pippin has...fur. He's short, not even up to Bruce's chest. Pippin is a small bundle of cute and bones in a luxurious fur coat. And he routinely charges Bruce, chasing him not just off the porch but lately away from the house.
I throw cracked corn on the lane way in front of the house so that the chickens will scratch there and maybe stick around. They have a habit of wandering, and the farther away they get from the house, the more vulnerable they are to birds of prey and coyotes. So, who meets them on the lane way near the tossed corn, ears flattened back, furry paws planted firmly on the ground, ready to defend his territory? Who said the entire front of the house belonged to the rabbit? Apparently it does. Pip has taken to head butting the chickens, including Bruce until they go away. And away means not just off the lane. He'll follow them, possibly muttering threats, until they duck under the lilac bushes on the edge of the far lawn.
Sometimes the chickens seem to have had enough of Pip pushing them around, and they will mob him. Puffs of rabbit fur fly, and I worry about his eyes with all those stabbing beaks coming at him. If it looks too nasty, I intervene. Lately, though, I've been letting Bruce and Pip go at it. Pip is adorable, even when he is fighting. He essentially head butts Bruce in the chest. Yup. That's pretty much it. It's oddly funny and impressive at the same time. Pippin will charge at Bruce, head bump his chest and disappear between Bruce's legs as Bruce dives down and tears tufts of bunny fur from Pip's behind. Sometimes he leaps out of the way, once even clearing Bruce's back and landing in front of the confused roo, all set for another head butt. Bruce, though, has to get a chance to reclaim some ground, and least in front of the girls. I mean, really. Being bested by a rabbit, in front of the ladies? Uncool.
The thing that amazed me about Pip is that he has no weapons, other than a hard head, and he has no protection. He's physically fragile. Even his teeth are weak and have a tendency to break off when they're not growing so long he could pick his nose with his bottom teeth. He just doesn't seem to know it. He's Super Bunny in his own mind. He has even irritated the dog to snarling distraction with his "loving", and after a brutal rough up (for which the dog suffers agonies of guilt and shame), Pip sits quiet for a moment to let the adrenaline go down, and then he's back at it, "C'mon, honey. You know you didn't mean it...let's get it on..."
Frankly, I think Pip is probably the most courageous creature around here. Pretty cool. So, yeah, when I grow up, I want to be brave like my bunny! Maybe not so darn irritating, though...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
No HovaBator...yet.
So, The HovaBator hasn't arrived yet. I know, I know. Given the whole six to eight business days shipping policy, it would make more sense to start expecting an arrival at, maybe, the sixth day. But that's just not me. Marc, my husband, ordered car parts on Monday, and got them yesterday when he accosted the UPS guy in town and literally asked him, "So...you got anything for me?" I'm not saying he actually went looking for the UPS guy, but...
In any case, I'm waiting at home patiently. My hens keep cranking out the eggs, although Marc says we should wait until the incubator comes before we start collecting those destined to be future poopers on the porch and layers in bunny's bed. Marc also says the roosters that we get will have to be killed. Seriously? It didn't say anything about offing roosters in The HovaBator info from Ebay. Of course I understand the logic of it. Roosters are hardwired to care for and protect a flock of hens. One rooster per flock. We will only have one flock, even with the new hens. And Bruce, bless his mighty and somewhat foolish heart, is head rooster. Once the hormones hit, any young roosters we have will be strongly inclined to spend their days fighting each other and trying to get at the hens. Wait, that sounds vaguely familiar...
In any case, it's not a life if they are never going to actually get any hens, and it will just be chaos out there. It's the practical, farmerish thing to do. Marc is the practical farmerish one in this operation. Thanks to the internet I have a fair bit of knowledge about raising chickens, and due to the constant presence of bread in my pockets they do tend to see me as a bit of a god, but I'm not very practical. I want to put plastic flowers in their coop yard, to brighten the place up a bit. I still have several "special" eggs stored in my fridge - the largest one, the smallest (a green one the size of an olive), a blue Americana egg and an egg that has wrinkles in the shell, just because it is interesting, just to name a few.
Marc is the one who does any "offing" that needs doing, who disposes of dead bodies, etc. Although a few days ago he found a mouse in the dog's food bag on the porch, and he implemented a new "catch & release" policy, letting it go where he claims it won't be able to return. Where...Paris? I did wonder how much of the new policy is based on the fact that the night before we had watched the movie, Alvin & The Chipmunks, The Squeakquel.
All I can say is that when I am choosing the eggs to be incubated, I am going to be seriously praying that I am choosing hens and not roosters. Yes, yes, yes, I know we are going to end up eating them if they don't hatch. Don't confuse the issue with facts. The point is, eating an egg with cheese, a bit of basil and a tomato slice is a lot easier that wrangling the neck of a fluffy chick. I'm thinking the catch & release option won't work here, either.
Help!
In any case, I'm waiting at home patiently. My hens keep cranking out the eggs, although Marc says we should wait until the incubator comes before we start collecting those destined to be future poopers on the porch and layers in bunny's bed. Marc also says the roosters that we get will have to be killed. Seriously? It didn't say anything about offing roosters in The HovaBator info from Ebay. Of course I understand the logic of it. Roosters are hardwired to care for and protect a flock of hens. One rooster per flock. We will only have one flock, even with the new hens. And Bruce, bless his mighty and somewhat foolish heart, is head rooster. Once the hormones hit, any young roosters we have will be strongly inclined to spend their days fighting each other and trying to get at the hens. Wait, that sounds vaguely familiar...
In any case, it's not a life if they are never going to actually get any hens, and it will just be chaos out there. It's the practical, farmerish thing to do. Marc is the practical farmerish one in this operation. Thanks to the internet I have a fair bit of knowledge about raising chickens, and due to the constant presence of bread in my pockets they do tend to see me as a bit of a god, but I'm not very practical. I want to put plastic flowers in their coop yard, to brighten the place up a bit. I still have several "special" eggs stored in my fridge - the largest one, the smallest (a green one the size of an olive), a blue Americana egg and an egg that has wrinkles in the shell, just because it is interesting, just to name a few.
Marc is the one who does any "offing" that needs doing, who disposes of dead bodies, etc. Although a few days ago he found a mouse in the dog's food bag on the porch, and he implemented a new "catch & release" policy, letting it go where he claims it won't be able to return. Where...Paris? I did wonder how much of the new policy is based on the fact that the night before we had watched the movie, Alvin & The Chipmunks, The Squeakquel.
All I can say is that when I am choosing the eggs to be incubated, I am going to be seriously praying that I am choosing hens and not roosters. Yes, yes, yes, I know we are going to end up eating them if they don't hatch. Don't confuse the issue with facts. The point is, eating an egg with cheese, a bit of basil and a tomato slice is a lot easier that wrangling the neck of a fluffy chick. I'm thinking the catch & release option won't work here, either.
Help!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Waiting Game or Rooster Attack!!!
In all that talk yesterday about waiting for my eggs to hatch in The HovaBator, I forgot that in order for the process to get started, I have to wait for The HovaBator to arrive. Six to ten business days. Egad.
Of course, it's not like there's nothing poultry-related to do while I am waiting. I have a rooster named Bruce who has recently become the Terminator of the yard. A few days ago he chased my daughter, Grace, into the house when she was trying to tidy the front yard. Last week I was dressing upstairs and I heard a yell from the drive in front of the garage. Bruce was chasing a friend who had come to visit, and had her cornered near her car. Pretty spunky for a 5 lb mass of bones and feathers. Of course, he does have spurs on the back of his legs. Spurs are hard nail spikes that protrude from just above their ankles. Wait...do chickens have ankles? Well, you know what I mean.
Roosters, when they attack, approach the target, rise up on their toes and flap their wings manfully. They flap their wings to distract their victim, which pretty much only works if it's an animal because then the flapping is right in its face and that can be quite disturbing. So, while the victim is supposed to be trying to fend off the flurry of feathers, the rooster jumps in the air, brings his legs together in a odd way that happens too fast for me to describe accurately, and spurs his victim with both spurs, simultaneously.
Now, don't tell anyone, but roosters can do some damage with their spurs. I say don't tell anyone because I keep pushing frightened people out of my house, adamant that "you're 50 times bigger than he is! Go show him who's boss!!!" Okay, maybe not guests, but kids. Unfortunately, the platitudes I keep spouting are turning out not to be true. He's more afraid of you that you are of him? Yeah. Not so much. He can't really hurt you? I don't know where THAT one came from...I have scars from previous roos to to prove otherwise! He's only protecting his hens? Okay, this one is true, but what does that matter when he's attached to the back of your leg by a spur?
Bruce's one saving grace is that he is afraid of me. Maybe it's respect. Yeah, respect sounds better, In any case, he and I have been through the whole spurring me while I'm collecting eggs or bringing food thing. The first time he did it, it was hard to tell who was more surprised. I turned to face him and he just stared at me, stunned. I stepped forward and scooped him up into my arms and held him under my arm while I finished my chores. He has come at me a few times since, and if he tries to spur me, I follow him around the yard until I am able to catch him and hold him, or until he gets the idea that attacking me is not a good idea. When he attacked Grace, I went out with her and walked arm-in-arm with her towards him repeatedly until he was avoiding us. Now, when he looks like he might be in attack mode, I just have to warn him verbally and he will cease and desist.
So, my mission should I choose to accept it, is to train the rooster (or is it train my family?) to allow others onto the lawn and not turn this summer into one long game of Rooster Attack, rated M! Oooh. There's that monster truck guy again...
Of course, it's not like there's nothing poultry-related to do while I am waiting. I have a rooster named Bruce who has recently become the Terminator of the yard. A few days ago he chased my daughter, Grace, into the house when she was trying to tidy the front yard. Last week I was dressing upstairs and I heard a yell from the drive in front of the garage. Bruce was chasing a friend who had come to visit, and had her cornered near her car. Pretty spunky for a 5 lb mass of bones and feathers. Of course, he does have spurs on the back of his legs. Spurs are hard nail spikes that protrude from just above their ankles. Wait...do chickens have ankles? Well, you know what I mean.
Roosters, when they attack, approach the target, rise up on their toes and flap their wings manfully. They flap their wings to distract their victim, which pretty much only works if it's an animal because then the flapping is right in its face and that can be quite disturbing. So, while the victim is supposed to be trying to fend off the flurry of feathers, the rooster jumps in the air, brings his legs together in a odd way that happens too fast for me to describe accurately, and spurs his victim with both spurs, simultaneously.
Now, don't tell anyone, but roosters can do some damage with their spurs. I say don't tell anyone because I keep pushing frightened people out of my house, adamant that "you're 50 times bigger than he is! Go show him who's boss!!!" Okay, maybe not guests, but kids. Unfortunately, the platitudes I keep spouting are turning out not to be true. He's more afraid of you that you are of him? Yeah. Not so much. He can't really hurt you? I don't know where THAT one came from...I have scars from previous roos to to prove otherwise! He's only protecting his hens? Okay, this one is true, but what does that matter when he's attached to the back of your leg by a spur?
Bruce's one saving grace is that he is afraid of me. Maybe it's respect. Yeah, respect sounds better, In any case, he and I have been through the whole spurring me while I'm collecting eggs or bringing food thing. The first time he did it, it was hard to tell who was more surprised. I turned to face him and he just stared at me, stunned. I stepped forward and scooped him up into my arms and held him under my arm while I finished my chores. He has come at me a few times since, and if he tries to spur me, I follow him around the yard until I am able to catch him and hold him, or until he gets the idea that attacking me is not a good idea. When he attacked Grace, I went out with her and walked arm-in-arm with her towards him repeatedly until he was avoiding us. Now, when he looks like he might be in attack mode, I just have to warn him verbally and he will cease and desist.
So, my mission should I choose to accept it, is to train the rooster (or is it train my family?) to allow others onto the lawn and not turn this summer into one long game of Rooster Attack, rated M! Oooh. There's that monster truck guy again...
Monday, April 12, 2010
Bring on the HovaBator
Is it just me, or is HovaBator a really cool word?
The HovaBator is the incubator that I ordered for my chicken eggs. This thing is fully loaded, complete with thermometer, snap action thermostat and easy-to-clean sanitary liner. It has two 5" x 4" viewing windows and moisture rings built into the liner. It fits both chicken and quail sized eggs, has an automatic egg turner and is even dishwasher safe! Does that mean it'll survive a turn through the sink with Gracie? Because I know of several wine glasses that were also supposed to be dishwasher safe that are, sadly, no longer with us. But I digress.
I think it's probably a pretty standard model as far as incubators go, but with a name like The HovaBator, it's got to be special. I confess that in my mind, every time I read the words The HovaBator, I hear them being bellowed by a monster truck rally announcer over a stadium sound system.
I am very excited about this blog. It did occur to me, though, that while my heart's desire was to chronicle the progression my eggs will go through, from breakfast food to fluffy chicks, the process mostly involves waiting. Three weeks of waiting while my eggs sit in The HovaBator, with six automatic turns a day and all the heat and moisture that they'll need. So, what does one write about while watching eggs sit in The HovaBator for three weeks?
Will there be other stories? Will the chickens currently scratching around on the front lawn provide adequate antics for three weeks of waiting? Will Pippin the bunny and Bruce the rooster come face to face in an epic battle for supremacy? (Okay, that entire last sentence was in monster truck announcer guy mode)
We'll just have to wait and see, now, won't we?
The HovaBator is the incubator that I ordered for my chicken eggs. This thing is fully loaded, complete with thermometer, snap action thermostat and easy-to-clean sanitary liner. It has two 5" x 4" viewing windows and moisture rings built into the liner. It fits both chicken and quail sized eggs, has an automatic egg turner and is even dishwasher safe! Does that mean it'll survive a turn through the sink with Gracie? Because I know of several wine glasses that were also supposed to be dishwasher safe that are, sadly, no longer with us. But I digress.
I think it's probably a pretty standard model as far as incubators go, but with a name like The HovaBator, it's got to be special. I confess that in my mind, every time I read the words The HovaBator, I hear them being bellowed by a monster truck rally announcer over a stadium sound system.
I am very excited about this blog. It did occur to me, though, that while my heart's desire was to chronicle the progression my eggs will go through, from breakfast food to fluffy chicks, the process mostly involves waiting. Three weeks of waiting while my eggs sit in The HovaBator, with six automatic turns a day and all the heat and moisture that they'll need. So, what does one write about while watching eggs sit in The HovaBator for three weeks?
Will there be other stories? Will the chickens currently scratching around on the front lawn provide adequate antics for three weeks of waiting? Will Pippin the bunny and Bruce the rooster come face to face in an epic battle for supremacy? (Okay, that entire last sentence was in monster truck announcer guy mode)
We'll just have to wait and see, now, won't we?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
"Honey, the outhouse is caught on the clothesline..."
My husband suggested I open "The Chicken Diaries" with this story, written in September of 2006.
I agreed.
The chickens were a wedding gift. My husband, Marc, who is a carpenter, was given 5 hens and a rooster by one of his customers. We were so excited, and despite the fact that we don't have a chicken coop or hen house, we basked in the glow of our newly acquired status as farmers (everyone knows that if you have animals that actually produce something other than gas and poop, that makes you a farmer :D ) . All obstacles seemed irrelevant. Besides, we did have an old outhouse out behind the barn. Surely that would do.
And it would do. It was perfect. But, unfortunately, it was too far back, and needed to be moved closer to the house. The idea of moving an outhouse seems so improbable to me, I would have promptly gotten busy building a pen out of chicken wire and twist ties or something, but Marc is a man of many skills and abilities. One thing I have learned about people of many skills and abilities is that they tend to think that everything is possible. If the outhouse didn't get moved, it would not be because it wasn't possible to move it, but because Marc simply hadn't figured out HOW to move it yet.
So late yesterday afternoon, I looked out the kitchen window facing the barn, and saw Marc slowly wandering in circles around the outhouse. He was thinking hard, I could tell, as I could see his furrowed brow from afar. Finally, he came back to the house, his stride strong and sure. He had figured it out. He hitched up our wagon to the back of his work van and headed off through the front cornfield and around the house through a meadow back to the barn and outhouse. Curious, I wandered out to watch, poking my way though the tangled grass and wildflowers. He measured the wagon, measured the outhouse, and began to jack up the outhouse with the intention of essentially toppling it onto the wagon. This plan went off successfully, and the small and exceedingly old building remained intact as it creaked into a very narrow fit. The front of the wagon was raised and propped up by a large tire iron, in order to receive the building. The challenge then was to lower the front of the wagon in order to raise the back and the outhouse off of the ground.
This is where I became very useful. A good section of the outhouse was hanging off the back of the wagon, and there wasn't enough weight in the front of the wagon to hold it upright, so Marc had me sit on the edge of the front of the wagon, with my feet on the hitch bars for balance. Then, Marc would carefully drive the van and assorted wagonned burdens through the meadow, the cornfield, part of the lane and across the front yard to the spot that he had chosen.
The hilarity of this was not lost on me, as I sat perched on the wagon, repeatedly glancing behind me at the shifting, creaking, rusted roof of our new hen house. I had visions of the newspaper headlines: "Local woman killed by falling outhouse" or "The dangers of outhouse use - why indoor plumbing is the way to go" or "Outhouse vs woman - outhouse wins". I remembered an argument that I had had with my husband, who had watched a documentary that claimed that farmers have the world's most dangerous jobs, more dangerous than firefighters and policemen. Apparently they get injured or killed on the job more often than any other profession. The outhouse shuddered as we went through a dip in the field, and suddenly it all made sense. Firefighters routinely go into burning buildings, but you don't see them bouncing through fields perched on wagons carrying old and creaky buildings. Eureka!
I was busy contemplating these deep and profound thoughts, as well as nervously looking over my shoulder at the crest of the building, and I did not notice that the outhouse was caught on the clothesline until I heard the moaning whine of the line about to snap. I looked up in time to see my daughter's Winnie the Pooh bear blanket pulling across the rusted tin, and yelled for my husband to stop. There are moments in life when you find yourself saying things that you never imagined saying. These are not harsh or angry things, but things that just don't seem possible to ever have to say. "Honey! The outhouse is caught on the clothesline!!!" is one such saying. But there I was...saying it.
So now, the outhouse-loaded wagon is safely parked in the designated spot. And the chickens are in a cage in the garage, because it is raining and the pen will have to wait for a drier day. And I've been thinking...maybe we'll be able to do something with the chicken wire and twist ties after all. Heh.
Oh, by the way, we named our rooster King Aragorn. Just because. :D
I agreed.
The chickens were a wedding gift. My husband, Marc, who is a carpenter, was given 5 hens and a rooster by one of his customers. We were so excited, and despite the fact that we don't have a chicken coop or hen house, we basked in the glow of our newly acquired status as farmers (everyone knows that if you have animals that actually produce something other than gas and poop, that makes you a farmer :D ) . All obstacles seemed irrelevant. Besides, we did have an old outhouse out behind the barn. Surely that would do.
And it would do. It was perfect. But, unfortunately, it was too far back, and needed to be moved closer to the house. The idea of moving an outhouse seems so improbable to me, I would have promptly gotten busy building a pen out of chicken wire and twist ties or something, but Marc is a man of many skills and abilities. One thing I have learned about people of many skills and abilities is that they tend to think that everything is possible. If the outhouse didn't get moved, it would not be because it wasn't possible to move it, but because Marc simply hadn't figured out HOW to move it yet.
So late yesterday afternoon, I looked out the kitchen window facing the barn, and saw Marc slowly wandering in circles around the outhouse. He was thinking hard, I could tell, as I could see his furrowed brow from afar. Finally, he came back to the house, his stride strong and sure. He had figured it out. He hitched up our wagon to the back of his work van and headed off through the front cornfield and around the house through a meadow back to the barn and outhouse. Curious, I wandered out to watch, poking my way though the tangled grass and wildflowers. He measured the wagon, measured the outhouse, and began to jack up the outhouse with the intention of essentially toppling it onto the wagon. This plan went off successfully, and the small and exceedingly old building remained intact as it creaked into a very narrow fit. The front of the wagon was raised and propped up by a large tire iron, in order to receive the building. The challenge then was to lower the front of the wagon in order to raise the back and the outhouse off of the ground.
This is where I became very useful. A good section of the outhouse was hanging off the back of the wagon, and there wasn't enough weight in the front of the wagon to hold it upright, so Marc had me sit on the edge of the front of the wagon, with my feet on the hitch bars for balance. Then, Marc would carefully drive the van and assorted wagonned burdens through the meadow, the cornfield, part of the lane and across the front yard to the spot that he had chosen.
The hilarity of this was not lost on me, as I sat perched on the wagon, repeatedly glancing behind me at the shifting, creaking, rusted roof of our new hen house. I had visions of the newspaper headlines: "Local woman killed by falling outhouse" or "The dangers of outhouse use - why indoor plumbing is the way to go" or "Outhouse vs woman - outhouse wins". I remembered an argument that I had had with my husband, who had watched a documentary that claimed that farmers have the world's most dangerous jobs, more dangerous than firefighters and policemen. Apparently they get injured or killed on the job more often than any other profession. The outhouse shuddered as we went through a dip in the field, and suddenly it all made sense. Firefighters routinely go into burning buildings, but you don't see them bouncing through fields perched on wagons carrying old and creaky buildings. Eureka!
I was busy contemplating these deep and profound thoughts, as well as nervously looking over my shoulder at the crest of the building, and I did not notice that the outhouse was caught on the clothesline until I heard the moaning whine of the line about to snap. I looked up in time to see my daughter's Winnie the Pooh bear blanket pulling across the rusted tin, and yelled for my husband to stop. There are moments in life when you find yourself saying things that you never imagined saying. These are not harsh or angry things, but things that just don't seem possible to ever have to say. "Honey! The outhouse is caught on the clothesline!!!" is one such saying. But there I was...saying it.
So now, the outhouse-loaded wagon is safely parked in the designated spot. And the chickens are in a cage in the garage, because it is raining and the pen will have to wait for a drier day. And I've been thinking...maybe we'll be able to do something with the chicken wire and twist ties after all. Heh.
Oh, by the way, we named our rooster King Aragorn. Just because. :D
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