Chicken Scratch - Part 8 - Rear Wiping, Gender Changing, Death

First time reading "Chicken Scratch"?  You may want to start here.  :)

I decided to give it another try.  This raising chickens thing, of which I am horrible.

Brand new baby chicks (one rooster and four hens), were delivered to our local post office early on the morning of Jonny's 4th birthday.  I couldn't have planned that any better!

Birthday boy with one of the chicks

The rooster was immediately named Roostie (I know, we are quite creative).  The other hens were named by Emilia.  I suggested names like, Hennrietta or Mildred, but those were not nearly "fancy" enough for my very fancy daughter.  She chose the names Bella and Bella (because we couldn't tell the difference between the black and white speckled birds), and Anastasia and Drizella for the black birds (because she didn't like them as well, I guess.  Why else would she give them those names?!).

Emilia and Matthew

Soon after we got them, I noticed that Roostie was "pasting up".  Dried poo covered his vent and would eventually kill him if I didn't do something about it.

Emilia with Roostie

A couple times every day, I'd go downstairs with warm water and a rag.  I'd dab at his little tiny rear, wiping away the crusty feces (very fun, let me tell you), and then try my best to dry him off so he wouldn't catch a cold and die.  Death seemed to be the common denominator if I didn't do my job correctly.  My position as Official Rear Wiper and Dryer (ORWD) was serious.

I was the ORWD for a couple of weeks.  Finally, he was able to poo regularly and my services were no longer needed.  I gladly retired my badge, knowing that I had been diligent in my duties.

When the five birds had enough adult feathers to keep warm during the cooler nights, we put them outside in the chicken tractor.  We double checked to make sure the tractor was tightly secured.  We didn't need a repeat of what happened the last time.

Jonny and the 5 chickens

In the weeks that followed, I noticed that both Roostie and (one) Bella had larger combs and wattles than the others.  You can see the difference in the the picture below.  Could it be that they had accidentally shipped us another rooster?  

"Bella" very quickly became "Herm".

Bella and Bella (I mean...Herm)

Herm and Roostie would occassionally fight, but it was Herm (the unwanted rooster) who became the dominant male.

Herm and Roostie

In fact, Roostie wasn't dominant at all.  He was even skittish around the hens.  I'd see the group of four darker chickens pecking around the yard and then, from out of nowhere, Roostie would awkwardly cluck himself into the mix.  The others would peck at or ignore him.  I would often find him alone while the others played their chicken games.  I felt bad for Roostie.  First his poo problem, then his demotion to second Rooster, and now his status as Chicken Outcast. 

Roostie

As if the aforementioned wasn't bad enough, one day I noticed that Roostie's feet and legs were swollen.  He'd stumble around the yard falling every now and then.  It got worse and worse until one day he couldn't get back up.  His white feathers were brown from thrashing around in the dirt as the other chickens pecked around (and occasionally on) him.

When Nate got home from work, he put him out of his misery and buried him.

Poor Roostie.

There's a fondness in my heart for all little rears that I wipe.

Chicken Scratch - Part 7 - The Shortest Chicken Story

Start reading HERE.

After the death of our last set of chickens, our super nice neighbor gave us two of his laying hens.  Emilia named them Bella and Anastasia.

These chickens were suppose to lay eggs, but they didn't.  Well, that's not true.  They laid about six eggs and then stopped. just. like. that.

Well, I can tell you that I was not about to feed some hens who weren't producing.

So, I left the coop open.  All the time.

I know.  I'm mean.

One day, they just weren't there anymore.

I have no idea what really happened to them, but I have a pretty good guess.

(Don't worry, I didn't let Jonny shoot them...although maybe that would have been more humane, but WAY less "natural" and we all know that "natural" is the best.  ;) )

Part 8

Chicken Scratch - Part 6 - The End of New Beginnings

If you haven't read any "Chicken Scratch" yet, start here with Part 1

These new, adorable chicks needed names, of course.

After suggesting "Hennrietta" or "Gertrude", which I thought were perfectly appropriate for lady chickens, Emilia took charge by saying that they needed "pretty, fancy names".  So, I gave her the reigns and for the Araucanas she choose "Grace" and "Alicia" (say "Uh-lee-see-uh" because that's WAY more fancy).  As she was trying to come up with a name for the Barred Rock chick, it kept cheeping and cheeping, so I suggested that we name her "Cheepers".  Even though it wasn't very creative, the kids loved it!

With the naming of the chickens completed, we were now able to enjoy watching them grow.  Once they got too big (a.k.a. STINKY) for the basement they went into the garage until it was warm enough for them to be outside in the chicken tractor.  While they were in our garage, I noticed that Grace and Cheepers were picking on Anastasia.  They had pecked so hard at her neck that it was bleeding.

My first thought was, "YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING!!!"  Not another bloody chicken saga!

I was determined not to lose this chicken!

I had this great idea to protect her neck from the others and herself.  Using a tiny paper cup, I made Anastasia a chicken-sized cone for her head.  You know the kind that dogs wear when they can't stop biting at a red, swollen wound?

I considered patenting the idea before I tried it out.  However, after I put the cone on Anastasia, I realized why no one had ever done such a stupid thing.

Once the cone was fastened (with duct tape no less) on Anastasia, her neck immediately flopped to the side and she lay there very still.  I thought I killed her.  Then in a wild frenzy, with her head still laying on the ground, she thrashed around the box.

It was at once, the saddest, most hilarious thing I had ever seen!  I worked quickly to get the cone off her neck before she broke something.  I then contemplated my next course of action.

Off to the internet I went to read all I could on how to get the other chickens to stop eating their friend.

And I found out that I needed...drum roll please... 

Axle Grease.  Who knew?!

I found a blob of black grease on the axle of our riding mower that I thought would work just fine.  I smeared that grease all over the neck of the poor bird and watched as she pecked at herself trying ever so diligently, and frantically, to get her feathers cleaned.  I was pretty sure she'd eat so much that she would die of grease poisoning.

Turned out that she never died from eating it and the other birds didn't peck her after she was covered with the sticky blackness.  In awhile she was completely cured.  She didn't even need counseling for her time spent wearing "the cone".

Weeks went by and these girls were growing rather nicely.  Their feathers were coming in full and colorful.  They stopped picking on each other once they were able to be outside free ranging during the day, sleeping in the tractor at night.

The kids and I really enjoyed watching our pets.  We "played" with them daily.  We handled them frequently so that they (and we!) would be used to it.  We longingly anticipated the day when we would eat our first golden yolk.  It was so close now.  They were nearing that 20 week mark when they would begin their laying careers.

And then, one morning, I went outside to feed them and let them out of the tractor to enjoy their daily freedom.  I remember looking out at their coop where I usually saw them anxiously waiting, thrusting their heads in and out of the fencing in anticipation of my arrival.  But this time, I didn't see them.  I wondered if I had accidentally left the tractor propped up overnight like I had done once before and they had already started eating their breakfast.  But no.  The coop was down. 

I picked up my pace.  Remember how I mentioned before that staples used to fasten fencing on a coop is a bad idea?  Well, it is.  A really bad idea.  The fencing had been ripped open, pulling all the staples out, rather easily, exposing our precious birds. 

I gathered my wits as I surveyed the damage.  I saw the scene in my mind.  Cage ripped open.  Our birds startled awake and filled with terror as some ferocious animal(s) dragged each squawking bird to their demise in the woods.  

There were three piles of feathers around the tractor.  One white, one brown, and one speckled black and white.

Emilia came out then and looked at the piles in shock as tears filled her pretty blue eyes. 

I was so mad at that animal!  I was so mad at myself!  I knew that the staples wouldn't hold and I had been meaning to fasten it more securely with nails, but hadn't gotten around to it.  Procrastination is not a good thing.

I felt so responsible and so sick.

Emilia sadly walked to the piles and took one feather from each.  She kept the three feathers in her room for about a year, every now and then running her fingers across the softness.  Remembering.

Part 7 - The Shortest Chicken Story

Perfect. Really?

Now, isn't this just beautiful?  This picture may feed a desire in someone to own chickens.  It's so perfect!  

Picture perfect...

and totally not real (you can't see or smell the poop here and let me tell ya, there's a lot of poop!).

This picture is completely staged.  

I hung up only our white laundry (I wash whites along with other colors) on the line (something I rarely do because, although I think it looks so pretty blowing in the breeze, I find it to be a big pain - not to mention that I really don't like stiff clothing or spiders that happen to hide out in the folds of the clothes and later appear in the house...).  

The chickens had to be in the picture, of course, because I wanted a visual of the beautiful (fake) country life that I wanted to be living.  So, I took a handful of grain (not organic - sorry folks, but it's just too expensive) and generously dumped it on the ground right where I wanted my feathered friends to gather.

My son, Jonny, happened to be out there running around anyway, so I had to get him in the picture as well.  I would have changed his clothes (not that Lightning McQueen isn't classy) if I wasn't worried that the chickens would eat all the grain first!  

"Hey Jonny, can you run this way?  Nope, not like that.  Straight through.  click.click.  Okay, do it again.  click.  Perfect!"   

Even HE was staged!

So, there's the truth about that picture.  

Just goes to show that all the lovely pictures we see in bloggyland aren't necessarily spontaneous (which is a bummer because I really like spontaneity).

My dear friend, Rachel, sent me a link to a blog post that talks about how this affects our lives.  

We see flawless photos of gardens, chickens, children, sparkling clean counter tops and rustic wood floors.  We want our gardens, chickens, children, counters, floors to look like theirs.  Or maybe we don't have these things, so we covet.  We become discontent.  We want better, prettier, perfect-er lives.  Just like the lives we see online.

Father, forgive my discontent.

This "perfect" picture should serve as a good reminder, while I blog, to keep it real.

Real life is not always picture perfect, but it's always better.

Chicken Scratch - Part 5 - New Beginnings

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

After I returned the chickens to Farmer John, I thought I was done raising chickens.  

I was wrong.

Spring came and I had thoughts of holding sweet, fuzzy, yellow chicks.  My own fuzzy, yellow chicks.

I didn't want full grown hens that already had problems.  I figured I needed cute little baby chicks (in a variety of breeds of course - just like the birds in The Book) so I could bond with them while they were small and help them grow into fine feathered poultry.

I took the kids to the local farm and pet store where we were greeted by a slobbery, large golden retriever and the delicate peeping that we had come for.

We picked out one white and one brown Araucana and one Barred Rock.  The Araucanas would lay light blue or green colored eggs, and the Barred Rock would lay brown eggs.  Both breeds were said to be hardy in colder climates and lay well.

The lady at the store packed them gently into a container that resembled a Happy Meal box and off we went!  

I'm sure I annoyed more than one driver on our way home as I turned my car and pressed on the gas ever. so. slowly to make sure I didn't tip the little ladies over.  I felt like a new mom all over again.  You know how it is when you drive for the first time with your first new baby?  You sit in the back with them gripping the car seat with both hands and praying your husband doesn't accelerate too fast.  You may even say things like, "Watch out for that car!"  "Why is everyone driving so fast?!"  "She really should be more careful!"  And really, it's just this little old granny going 30 mph, passing you on the right...on the highway.  

Okay, maybe it wasn't quite like bringing home your firstborn, but it was close.

After checking to make sure none of our new little friends had died during the nerve racking ride, we brought them to the basement where we had their new home all set with fresh bedding, warm light, refreshing water, and tasty morsels.  

It was perfect.  They were perfect.  

So much better than the first unfortunate set of birds.  This time things would go better...wouldn't they?  

To be continued...  Part 6 - The End of New Beginnings

Chicken Scratch - Part 4 - Back to the Farmer

 

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

After the episode, I decided that raising chickens wasn't really my thing, but my husband thought that the $150 spent on the chicken tractor (not to mention the entire day spent building the thing) was sufficient reason enough to keep the chickens. 

Desperate to convince him that these chickens needed to GO, I decided to find out if having chickens where we lived was actually legal.  So, I spent a couple hours looking online at zoning ordinances and calling the township (probably should have done this before hand, but, in my defense, there were cows across the street...).  And much to my pleasant surprise, it was, in fact, illegal to have chickens where we lived.  Score!!!

Nate, being one to follow the letter of the law, couldn't argue.

Permission granted, I had to get these chickens back to Farmer John.  And quick.

My elderly neighbor lady came over one day.   

"I see you have chickens," said she. 

Not knowing if she was for or against, I quickly said, "Yes, but don't worry.  They are going back to the farmer...as soon as I can figure out how to get them into their cage."

Rolling up sleeves on her ample arms, she furrowed her brow.  "Grew up on a farm until I was 19.  I'll get 'em in for ya." 

My deliverer!  I ushered her over to the tractor. 

Now, remember how I mentioned that we never made a door on this tractor?  I knew this was going to be interesting as we started pulling off part of the fencing that was stapled (note to self: use nails next time - this is a story for another day) on the wood.

Once we got enough of the fencing pulled off, she lowered her large frame to sturdy knees and stuck the upper part of her body in the coop.  She reached out and grabbed at a chicken.  Missed.  Grabbed at another.  Missed.  Finally, with a force that I did not know she posessed, she grabbed a hen by its legs and slammed it to the ground.  She grunted, reached behind - right at me - with that flapping bird and said, "Push it in the cage!  Get its wing down!" 

WHAT?!!  Touch the thing?!  I thought she said she'd take care of this and now I have to TOUCH it?! 

I cringed and winced as I gingerly stuck out one finger and poked at the outstretched wing (this was the first time I touched a chicken - at least a living one).  I do believe she got a little impatient with my fear of (living) chickens and shoved that bird, outstretched wing and all, headfirst into the cage.  Huffing and puffing, she got back down and proceeded to level each bird in turn and stuff them into their prison. 

Singing her praises and thanking her profusely, I put the cage into my car (okay, I think she put it in my car...), loaded up the kids, and drove straight to Farmer John's house to return the defiled goods. 

He wasn't home, but I was not taking them back with me.  So, I grabbed the cage with cautious fingers (positioned as far away from their beaks as possible), placed it in his yard where I hoped he'd see it when he returned, and took off.   

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.  My chicken adventures were over.  Or so I thought...
Part 5

Chicken Scratch - Part 3 - Playdate Turns Pernicious

Part 1
Part 2

Oh, how I wish I had a camera to document all of my chicken adventures - especially this one.  Although, those who witnessed the event probably would not want to be reminded with a visual... 

I can still see the sun shining, the ladies and their children casually chatting and playing in my backyard.  I can see myself standing by the chicken tractor with a friend, proudly sharing all of my beginner's knowledge on chicken rearing.

And I can still hear the horror in my friend's voice as she said something like, "WHAT IS THAT??!!"

Protruding out of one unfortunate hen's vent was a bloodied mass of...insides.  The other hens, far from horrified about this turn of events, greedily began pecking at the jumping, clucking, bleeding chicken's rear.

My frantic, "What do I do??!!" brought the attention of the other ladies, who, upon seeing the canibilism taking place before their very eyes, began gasping, "Oh my!" and "EW!!  Gross!" and "Are they eating her?!"

I had read enough to know that the wounded chicken would be eaten by the other chickens unless they were separated.  Chickens love chicken blood.  In fact, chickens love to eat just about anything - especially chicken.

So, I made a quick decision to lift up the chicken tractor (we didn't make a door - something that was a nuisance the entire time we had chickens) and let the wounded one out...or let the other hens out.  I suppose I assumed they would be quite orderly about getting out of the cage - clucking sweet things like, "You first, poor dear," and "Why thank you.  I do think I need to get out for awhile."  Instead, quite the opposite was true.

They saw their chance at freedom and bolted through the narrow opening right toward the unsuspecting children.

Immediate panic set in as moms in a frenzied flurry gathered their children closer.  The children, on the other hand, thought the chickens were quite exciting and attempted to pick them up.  This produced more gasps of disgust, pulling of the children, and kicking at the hens - especially the one with blood oozing from its back side.

Not exactly sure how to get the crazy birds away from the group, I kicked at them, shooed them with my flailing arms, and said brilliant things like, "Get!  Get!" and "Go!"

Eventually, the oblivious chickens pecked their way into the small patch of woods in the corner of our property.

Audible sighs of relief were heard.  After a few nervous chuckles and "oh my" 's, things settled down and the children were free to swing and dig in the sand.

One of the ladies confided, "I thought I'd like to give raising chickens a try, but now I don't think so.  That was disgusting."

Looking down, I saw a few drops of blood still glistening on a blade of grass. 

I had to agree.

To be continued...(Part 4)

Chicken Scratch - Part 2 - Bringing Them Home

To read Part 1, Click Here

"Farmer John" lived fairly close.  He said he'd be happy to help us get started in this chicken adventure with three laying hens.  No charge.  You can't beat that, right?!  I'd find out...

So, I loaded up my kids in the van and tried, in my eager anticipation of making this new found dream a reality, not to speed.

I desperately wanted multiple breeds of chicken, just like the three well-mannered, albeit spoiled, chickens in The Book.  The difference in colors of feather appealed to me.  I also wanted free range chickens so they would be healthy - eating bugs and fresh grass out in the open fields just as the Lord intended.

Farmer John, decked out in grubby pants and boots, came to meet us as we drove up his long, steep driveway.  He led me to the rustic coop where thirty-ish Isa Brown chickens were skittishly jolting about in one large mass.  This was definitely not the picture perfect image I had in mind.  Instead of being a variety of beautiful colors, these chickens were a dirty brown.  Their feathers were not "shining in the sunlight" like I had imagined.  Their eyes, round and beady, unnerved me.  Their frantic clucking unsettled me.

Farmer John stepped in the coop and roughly grabbed three squawking, flapping chickens and put them in a metal cage for me to inspect.  Instead of having beautiful plumes, all three had red, raw spots on their backs and necks.  This is a fairly common occurrence, I was to find out, in raising chickens, especially if there is a rooster in the mix, but I was not prepared for this.  That Book never mentioned such revolting atrocities.

I walked around the cage, examining the cowering, abused, ravaged beasts.  This was NOT what I had in mind, but I did want to try raising chickens.  I was convinced that under my watchful, loving protection these birds would flourish.  So, after asking a few basic care questions, I had Farmer John load them (still in the cage) into the Tupperware container that was in the trunk of my van.

As we drove away, the kids and I excitedly talked about how it would be to have fresh eggs and to be able to watch the hens as they delicately pecked around our yard.  This was going to be just wonderful, we were sure.  There was a pause in our conversation.  We listened for the chickens.  Not a cluck was coming from the back of the van.  Then, ever so slowly, I started to smell the most foul stench.  The stressed out chickens were pooping over and over again in the container.  Once again, That Book never mentioned chicken poop.  For all I knew, chicken poop smelled like roses!

The 10 minute drive felt like forever.  Finally, after suppressing the desire to throw up, we arrived home.  I was sure that once these poor, abused chickens got out of the car, they would behave in a similar fashion to the model chickens in That Book.  I would treat them well.  They wouldn't be locked up in a cage with 30 other birds.  They would be free to eat the nutrient filled grass and roam around the yard in civility.

With new vigor, I cautiously opened the door to get the chickens out.  Once I was sure they wouldn't jump out of the cage, I picked up the container and carried it to the back yard.  I crooned to the birds because that's what The Lady in That Book said she did.  She'd talk in a sing-songy, sweet way and those chickens would just purr...I mean, cluck, right back at her.

I was proud of the freshly painted chicken tractor.  I had set their table with clean water and tasty food.  I'd even fluffed their pillows.  Now, I just had to get them inside their new home.  I was tempted to make my 4 year old daughter pick them up and put them in.  Instead I did what every responsible adult would do.  I stared at the cage for a long time.

My kids were asking, "What are you doing mommy?" and "When will you put them in their home?"

Finally, I had a brilliant idea.  I put the entire cage into the chicken tractor and hastily opened the door of the cage.  They'd eventually find their way out, I hoped.  Even though That Lady loved to have her chickens perch on her shoulder, I couldn't bring myself to touch a feather.

To be continued...(Part 3)

Chicken Scratch - Part 1 - I want Chickens

I can't remember what exactly possessed me to raise chickens.  Maybe it was living across the street from cows.

But maybe it was a desire I've had since childhood.  One that I'd pushed deep down inside myself.

I've always been interested in farm animals.  Never chickens, that I remember, but horses.  Like many young girls, I wanted to tame the wild mustang and ride bareback and barefoot (of course) across the prairie with my beautiful long hair (too bad it was short) flowing in the wind.  I'm sure that somewhere in the recesses of my brain I desired other farm animals to keep my wild mustang company.

Or...maybe it was just the cows across the street.  Anyhow...

My husband's colleague had a chicken tractor in his backyard.

He raised about 4 hens every summer to have fresh eggs and then gave them to his farmer neighbor for the winter.  I had never heard of a chicken tractor, but it immediately peaked my interest.  I looked on the internet and checked out books on chicken tractoring and raising a small flock of hens.  I was currently reading books and magazines about hobby farming, veggie gardening, and homesteading.  We only lived on half an acre, but we didn't plan on staying there long.  Someday, in my mind (not so much my husband's...), we'd move to a parcel of land that I could fence and till and harvest.  But until we moved, I wanted some chickens in this thing called a chicken tractor.

My husband, Nate, did not share in my excitement.  However, he graciously listened as I threw my pitch for this sustainable, money saving chicken tractor that would fertilize our grass as well as provide fresh, free eggs all summer long and possibly into the winter (I was sure we could winterize the thing) with minimal effort on my part.  So, after being not-so-fully convinced, but wanting to save some money on eggs and please his wonderful wife (or just get me to stop bugging him about it), we spent $150 (not looking good for saving money so far) and built a very sturdy, heavy, shingled chicken tractor.  Because chickens need shingles.

I read a Book that made raising a three hen flock sound like a romantic, fun-filled walk in the woods.  This Lady would watch her hens from the kitchen window.  They would perch on her shoulder when she was outside mingling with them.  She'd feed them special treats from her hand.  She'd call them by their chicken names.  I'm pretty sure they could talk.  It all sounded so picturesque, so dear and wonderful.  I could almost see my own colorfully plumed flock behaving so appropriately - sharing their grubs and pecking those tasty treats ever so daintily out of my open hand.

I had to get some of these sweet-tempered, well-mannered birds!
       
To be continued...

Part 2
Part 3
Part 4