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

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.

:)

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...?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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...