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.
:)
Showing posts with label coop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coop. Show all posts
Friday, June 11, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
"Honey, the outhouse is caught on the clothesline..."
My husband suggested I open "The Chicken Diaries" with this story, written in September of 2006.
I agreed.
The chickens were a wedding gift. My husband, Marc, who is a carpenter, was given 5 hens and a rooster by one of his customers. We were so excited, and despite the fact that we don't have a chicken coop or hen house, we basked in the glow of our newly acquired status as farmers (everyone knows that if you have animals that actually produce something other than gas and poop, that makes you a farmer :D ) . All obstacles seemed irrelevant. Besides, we did have an old outhouse out behind the barn. Surely that would do.
And it would do. It was perfect. But, unfortunately, it was too far back, and needed to be moved closer to the house. The idea of moving an outhouse seems so improbable to me, I would have promptly gotten busy building a pen out of chicken wire and twist ties or something, but Marc is a man of many skills and abilities. One thing I have learned about people of many skills and abilities is that they tend to think that everything is possible. If the outhouse didn't get moved, it would not be because it wasn't possible to move it, but because Marc simply hadn't figured out HOW to move it yet.
So late yesterday afternoon, I looked out the kitchen window facing the barn, and saw Marc slowly wandering in circles around the outhouse. He was thinking hard, I could tell, as I could see his furrowed brow from afar. Finally, he came back to the house, his stride strong and sure. He had figured it out. He hitched up our wagon to the back of his work van and headed off through the front cornfield and around the house through a meadow back to the barn and outhouse. Curious, I wandered out to watch, poking my way though the tangled grass and wildflowers. He measured the wagon, measured the outhouse, and began to jack up the outhouse with the intention of essentially toppling it onto the wagon. This plan went off successfully, and the small and exceedingly old building remained intact as it creaked into a very narrow fit. The front of the wagon was raised and propped up by a large tire iron, in order to receive the building. The challenge then was to lower the front of the wagon in order to raise the back and the outhouse off of the ground.
This is where I became very useful. A good section of the outhouse was hanging off the back of the wagon, and there wasn't enough weight in the front of the wagon to hold it upright, so Marc had me sit on the edge of the front of the wagon, with my feet on the hitch bars for balance. Then, Marc would carefully drive the van and assorted wagonned burdens through the meadow, the cornfield, part of the lane and across the front yard to the spot that he had chosen.
The hilarity of this was not lost on me, as I sat perched on the wagon, repeatedly glancing behind me at the shifting, creaking, rusted roof of our new hen house. I had visions of the newspaper headlines: "Local woman killed by falling outhouse" or "The dangers of outhouse use - why indoor plumbing is the way to go" or "Outhouse vs woman - outhouse wins". I remembered an argument that I had had with my husband, who had watched a documentary that claimed that farmers have the world's most dangerous jobs, more dangerous than firefighters and policemen. Apparently they get injured or killed on the job more often than any other profession. The outhouse shuddered as we went through a dip in the field, and suddenly it all made sense. Firefighters routinely go into burning buildings, but you don't see them bouncing through fields perched on wagons carrying old and creaky buildings. Eureka!
I was busy contemplating these deep and profound thoughts, as well as nervously looking over my shoulder at the crest of the building, and I did not notice that the outhouse was caught on the clothesline until I heard the moaning whine of the line about to snap. I looked up in time to see my daughter's Winnie the Pooh bear blanket pulling across the rusted tin, and yelled for my husband to stop. There are moments in life when you find yourself saying things that you never imagined saying. These are not harsh or angry things, but things that just don't seem possible to ever have to say. "Honey! The outhouse is caught on the clothesline!!!" is one such saying. But there I was...saying it.
So now, the outhouse-loaded wagon is safely parked in the designated spot. And the chickens are in a cage in the garage, because it is raining and the pen will have to wait for a drier day. And I've been thinking...maybe we'll be able to do something with the chicken wire and twist ties after all. Heh.
Oh, by the way, we named our rooster King Aragorn. Just because. :D
I agreed.
The chickens were a wedding gift. My husband, Marc, who is a carpenter, was given 5 hens and a rooster by one of his customers. We were so excited, and despite the fact that we don't have a chicken coop or hen house, we basked in the glow of our newly acquired status as farmers (everyone knows that if you have animals that actually produce something other than gas and poop, that makes you a farmer :D ) . All obstacles seemed irrelevant. Besides, we did have an old outhouse out behind the barn. Surely that would do.
And it would do. It was perfect. But, unfortunately, it was too far back, and needed to be moved closer to the house. The idea of moving an outhouse seems so improbable to me, I would have promptly gotten busy building a pen out of chicken wire and twist ties or something, but Marc is a man of many skills and abilities. One thing I have learned about people of many skills and abilities is that they tend to think that everything is possible. If the outhouse didn't get moved, it would not be because it wasn't possible to move it, but because Marc simply hadn't figured out HOW to move it yet.
So late yesterday afternoon, I looked out the kitchen window facing the barn, and saw Marc slowly wandering in circles around the outhouse. He was thinking hard, I could tell, as I could see his furrowed brow from afar. Finally, he came back to the house, his stride strong and sure. He had figured it out. He hitched up our wagon to the back of his work van and headed off through the front cornfield and around the house through a meadow back to the barn and outhouse. Curious, I wandered out to watch, poking my way though the tangled grass and wildflowers. He measured the wagon, measured the outhouse, and began to jack up the outhouse with the intention of essentially toppling it onto the wagon. This plan went off successfully, and the small and exceedingly old building remained intact as it creaked into a very narrow fit. The front of the wagon was raised and propped up by a large tire iron, in order to receive the building. The challenge then was to lower the front of the wagon in order to raise the back and the outhouse off of the ground.
This is where I became very useful. A good section of the outhouse was hanging off the back of the wagon, and there wasn't enough weight in the front of the wagon to hold it upright, so Marc had me sit on the edge of the front of the wagon, with my feet on the hitch bars for balance. Then, Marc would carefully drive the van and assorted wagonned burdens through the meadow, the cornfield, part of the lane and across the front yard to the spot that he had chosen.
The hilarity of this was not lost on me, as I sat perched on the wagon, repeatedly glancing behind me at the shifting, creaking, rusted roof of our new hen house. I had visions of the newspaper headlines: "Local woman killed by falling outhouse" or "The dangers of outhouse use - why indoor plumbing is the way to go" or "Outhouse vs woman - outhouse wins". I remembered an argument that I had had with my husband, who had watched a documentary that claimed that farmers have the world's most dangerous jobs, more dangerous than firefighters and policemen. Apparently they get injured or killed on the job more often than any other profession. The outhouse shuddered as we went through a dip in the field, and suddenly it all made sense. Firefighters routinely go into burning buildings, but you don't see them bouncing through fields perched on wagons carrying old and creaky buildings. Eureka!
I was busy contemplating these deep and profound thoughts, as well as nervously looking over my shoulder at the crest of the building, and I did not notice that the outhouse was caught on the clothesline until I heard the moaning whine of the line about to snap. I looked up in time to see my daughter's Winnie the Pooh bear blanket pulling across the rusted tin, and yelled for my husband to stop. There are moments in life when you find yourself saying things that you never imagined saying. These are not harsh or angry things, but things that just don't seem possible to ever have to say. "Honey! The outhouse is caught on the clothesline!!!" is one such saying. But there I was...saying it.
So now, the outhouse-loaded wagon is safely parked in the designated spot. And the chickens are in a cage in the garage, because it is raining and the pen will have to wait for a drier day. And I've been thinking...maybe we'll be able to do something with the chicken wire and twist ties after all. Heh.
Oh, by the way, we named our rooster King Aragorn. Just because. :D
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