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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
