Special Deliveries and New Friends

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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?