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.

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...