The Last Free Meal

The other day the wind was pretty strong.

I heard the sound of some random junk on the potting table fall off onto the porch and chalked it off to the wind. Had a quick look and not only had the old coffee tub filled with cracked corn and meal worms fall off the table, but had uncapped itself. Thank goodness it hadn't spilled! I snapped the cap back on and put it back on the potting table, shielded somewhat from the high winds behind some heavier junk on the potting table.

A bit later and the same sound occurred. Same situation. "Huh ... isn't that a hell of a thing." I mused as I put it back up.

A little while later I prepared warm treats for the flock and as I stepped out, there was that can on the ground again with its lid off ... only THIS time I spied a squirrel fleeing the scene of the crime! Well, okay buster, you got some free cracked corn. No doubt with the frigid temps, you needed it! But, convenience be damned, the chicken treat tub will now have to live inside.

In other news, even with the heat lamp humming away inside the coop, but with the near zero temps the water font was still freezing over. Well, the heated font is now hooked up and all is well.

Yesterday brought another round of icy temps and a blanket of snow. With the snow still falling at a goodly pace, Not My Cat turned up. "What kind of people let their cat out in THIS weather!"

Never the less, I took pity on the friendly neighbor cat and made sure he got fed as well.

Today, although it breaks my heart, the flock is not even out in the run. They are confined in the coop. With temps around 10 degrees and the wind up I want them safe! I know they can handle it, but I am just not prepared for a loss to the cold.

Coq Au is probably mad as hell, but I'd rather have a mad chicken than a dead chicken.

Well, we'll be ringing in the new years quietly and dreaming of the warmer days to come!

Happy New Year!

Twas the Dawn Before Christmas

T’was the dawn before Christmas and all through the coop
The chickens were stirring through the new fallen poop
The heat lamp was glowing all warm and all red
The meal worms were present all scattered and spread

The feeder was filled, overflowing with feed
The flock block well placed with suet and seed
Ms. Rabbit was off sleeping, ‘not my cat’, he was home
I was looking for peace with some new purchased tome

Then from the run there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter
As my book had gone flying I snatched up my jacket
“This better be serious to cause such a racket!”

The sun was still breaking across the wet yard
All mired with mud from when it rained hard
And what to my wondering eyes should appear
Old Mr. Hawk with a most evil sneer

He perched on the run’s roof stately scratching an itch
“You clear the hell off, you son of a bitch”
Coq Au Vin, he ran wild with a growl and a squawk
Desperate to leap up and kill the foul hawk

Most of the flock went inside to hide
But Hermione stood by Coq Au, beaming with pride
Hortense could care less, outside she would stay
Knowing the run’s wire was in the hawk’s way

I tossed a small stone towards the dark foe
My throw had went wide but it was just for show
Coq Au leapt higher, his eyes filled with hate
The hawk bothered not with the rooster’s ired state.

The hawk stuck to his perch, his time he would bide
After another tossed stone, he spread his wings wide.
Slowly and stately he took to the air
thwarted again from a good meal’s fare

Coq Au calmed down as the hawk had took wing
Then there happened a magical thing
To check on the flock, I went into the run
Expecting from Coq Au a new fight begun

He said not a word but just bowed his head
Knowing without me they might all be dead
“Sir, the honor is yours.” I said with a beam
“For fighting off hawks we make quite the team”

Frayed nerves were now calm after a great fright
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

All Life Is Sacred

The season of winter is upon us. The dark time of the year, but with the promise of the growing light renewed.

As you gather about with your friends and loved ones, hold onto each other. Light those lights for your holiday. Be present in the warmth of your family. Whatever your beliefs, what ever you choose to celebrate, please know that my heart goes with you as well.

I'll leave this little poem and song for you in the link below from John Denver. Please say a prayer for the wind, for the water, for the wood,

And those who love there too.

It's In Every One Of Us

Wishing you all of the best for this year and all the years to come,
From myself, my wife, our little flock, the two cats, and the pig.

Chickens in the Snow.

During the week I discovered that the heat lamp was not working!

The heat lamp is on a thermostat and only turners on when temps dip to 35 degrees and shuts of again when the inside temps reach 45 degrees. So it doesn't run constantly. With daily temps hovering this side or that of freezing, the light is often off when I get home from work, but should have been on in the predawn mornings.

The lamp is really just a courtesy for my flock in these temps, but needed when the dead of winter dips down to zero. If there is a problem, I am glad to have discovered it now!

Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do about it during the week. I leave in the dark and come home in the dark. Going into the small coop while the flock is inside n their roosts would only cause pandemonium! The poor spoiled chickens had to suffer a few chilly nights until I could attend to it yesterday.

Good day to sort out the heat lamp, their feed and water, put down fresh bedding and attend to their general welfare. I figured, with snow still blanketing the yard, that they would mill about the run while I bopped in and out of the coop going about my business.

I opened the run and the flock has been SO BORED being shut in that they actually ventured out onto the field of white. Still skittish of it, they clustered together and wandered as a group to their favorite three season haunts. They seemed horrified to discover that this 'snow thing' was everywhere!

On any given day, I would want them to be out for as long as possible, but after attending to the needs of the coop (bulb had burned out, nothing serious). I ushered them back in.

A couple were reluctant to return, but most of them wanted to be back in the run and some treats encouraged the others.

Pitch black hens against an open yard of white is an invitation to a nice winter meal for old Mr. Hawk and I was not about to risk it for longer than needed.

In they went, and sure enough, abut an hour later I spied that hawk winging it through the mostly cloudy sky. Thwarted again, Mr. Hawk! Too late for an easy meal!

In other news, in the darkness of the evenings, when I bed down the coop and collect what eggs the layers' union sees fit to bestow on us, I have seen Ms. Rabbit about her business in the moonlight. Snow bothers her not so much. Glad to see she is doing well.

Embargo Lifted.

Matilda passed on suddenly back in September as you have read.

That triggered a molt. Two troublesome young roosters were also underfoot. The dark days also descended upon us.

From September until now we had been getting but one to two eggs a day.

I fretted over it. Most of the girls are older. The molt passed and still no eggs. The young roosters left for their new homes and still no eggs.

Pleased to announce that we are back up to three to four eggs a day which would be more normal for older layers at this time of year. In any case, if they never laid again they would still have a home with me, my original girls, for as long as they lived.

Never the less, they are bestowing their bounty upon us once again. Special kudos to my younger girls Lily and Petunia for crossing the picket lines lo these past few months and keeping at least a few eggs coming in.

I am grateful that the hens, even with the season of ice upon us, are happy once again and returning to laying their eggs.

Come Saturday, it will be treats for the whole flock!

In other news, I walked out onto the snowy porch this morning before the sunrise to clear off the cars and make ready to go to work. Not My Cat greeted me in the darkness with a plaintiff, yet cheerful cry for attention. This cat is well fed, well groomed, and obviously NOT a stray. Who on EARTH would let their cat out on a frigid snowy night?

No matter, his pleas did not fall on a heart of stone and I made sure he had some food as well.

Warm breakfast for the flock, a little food for the handsome stranger ... who is not my cat ... and off to work I went.

My heart yearns for the solstice and the promise of the returning sun.

Nope Day.



Today is a 'nope' day.

My flock flees to the cool shade on hot, sunny summer days. They huddle in a corner on windy days, they hunker down UNDER the coop on rainy days. Most of all, they love cool somewhat cloudy days. But snow is a 'nope!'

Yesterday morning, as the sun rose, nary a snow flake had fallen so they wanted to come out for their warm breakfast, but they were clearly skittish. As I was about to leave to get the week's groceries purchased, Howard stopped by.

Howard is a kindly elderly man who loves to spend his days riding his bicycle around the neighborhood. He is retired from a career in the sciences and possesses a sharp and inquisitive mind. In out casual conversations, he's taught me some of the particulars of the optic structure of birds and insects and I have intimated to him the behaviors of chickens. Always a fascinating time spent talking to him.

But yesterday morning found me wanting to get the errands done before the first snowfall of the year made the roads slippery for my bald tires on my old car. Howard picked that moment to stop by and say hello.

I politely said hello in a genuinely cheery voice, but told him that I needed to make haste. I further stated that he was MORE THAN WELCOME to stick around for a while and visit the flock to his heart's content while I was out. He strode over to the run and the chickens immediately moved away. He asked about this and I was puzzled too, so I paused to go over as well before leaving.

The dark days and the longer confinement in the run are taking their toll ad the poor girls are a little more skittish of people from lack of contact, but it was more than that. Even Coq Au was not looking to engage but rather wanted to herd the girls away from danger. The coming snow storm, with its first flakes already flying, was making them all pensive.

I bid Howard a fair adieu and left him by the run to contemplate chicken behavior and I do so without a care in the world. Many a time I've driven up the street to see Howard paused at some other neighbor's yard with no one around as he lovingly pets any friendly neighbor dog that happens his way. Just knowing the nature of some people, taking the time to speak to them, listening to how they respond, or what questions they ask, you can just tell an animal lover.

With the errands run, I returned hope before the flakes gathered on the road surfaces and herself and I settled into a snow day. Around noon, I brought out warm treats to the flock, they were hunkered down under the coop so I took the time to sweep away some of the snow for them and they were grateful for some warm food. The whole flock wasn't out, as each girl had gone into lay, they decided to stay indoors after nature's task had been accomplished.

By late afternoon they had gone in and I was content to close them in for the night as the growing darkness settled over the snowy suburban landscape.

This morning, I brought out warm breakfast, but decided with the new fallen snow, they might appreciate it inside and I obliged.

This photo was taken about and hour after that and only a few moments ago. Not one hen will venture out. For all of the weather that they love, snow is a NOPE!



 

My Pets are Liars

Apart from my rooster who likes to sneak up on me when my back is turned ... and he still tries to do this, but I've learned to be alert!

My pig and one of my two cats are liars.

Our cats are banned from the bedroom for misdeeds. But truth be told, it is Osha who is the trouble maker when left to her own devices. Moonkie is usually calm.

However, Moonkie will also yowl and meow at you to the point that you seriously wonder if something is wrong with her. She will issue her distress to the point that you are convinced that something is hurting her, but in truth, she is only complaining until one of us gives in and lets her into the bedroom where she will do NOTHING except lay contentedly on the bed like a boss for hours on end.

Our pig Ruby is also a liar.

She doesn't like coming into the kitchen, as hooves on a kitchen floor are uncomfortable for her and she slides about more than actually walking. When we are eating dinner, however, she braves the instability to beg at the table, where she sings the song of her people:

"Does't thou not hear my plaintive cries? Wilst thou not take pity upon they pig and share the bounty of your good fortune?"

After getting some treats we tell her in no uncertain terms that she has had enough and no amount of 'singing' will move us further. It is at this point that she makes a great show of her reluctance to traverse the kitchen floor on sliding hooves to retreat back onto the other room. She is convinced that her show of great trepidation will cause us to take pity once again and offer more treats to the poor afflicted pig.

But when you're not looking, she can walk that kitchen floor hither and fore with more grace than one would imagine of a creature of her stature. It's all drama.

Here is a picture of the two of them. Moonkie and Ruby snuggled on the couch with me. It is an OLDER picture from when Ruby was still small enough to get up on the couch!

The Birds of Winter.

With the season of darkness in full swing, I miss seeing my flock! I am up before the sun and have just enough time to feed them breakfast treats before the gathering dawn and then off to work. It is only a short moment in the darkness. By the time I am home, it is dark again and they are already abed.

Sometimes, I wonder if they miss me.

Thursday night, with some decent moonlight, I opened the coop and pulled out the empty feeder to refill it. Coq Au was on the roost fast asleep as were the girls. I took that sneaky opportunity to pet him briefly, my angry boy. He lifted his head in surprise and turned it this way and that, but being blinded by the darkness he could meaningfully respond. He couldn't have been too upset, he went back to sleep quickly.

Yesterday found skies that were clear of clouds and clear of hawks. I took a risk and let the flock out. Hortense went off by herself to her favorite dust bath spot. The rest of the flock hunkered down on the other side of the yard to enjoy their own sun and dust.

About two hours later, I heard a ruckus and flew outside. Skies were still clear, but the flock was hiding under a bush. Something spooked them and Coq Au lead them into cover. I took no chances and herded them into the run. Hortense was unaware, but Coq Au hesitated to go in knowing there was a girl missing.

"Coq Au, old man, you go on in, I know just where she is."

By the time I rounded the house, she was gone. She, hearing the ruckus, had wandered over to the spot where the flock as to see what was going on. Once located, I was inclined to scold her, but she's so sweet that I couldn't bring myself to do it. I herded her in as well and peace reigned once again.

I sure miss the tree cover, the longer days, and the warmer weather. Oh well, in about three weeks the solstice will be upon us and in about six weeks, the daylight will be back to where it is now but growing longer again rather than shorter.

An Uncomfortable Post.

Through the years of raising my flock and then writing about it over the course of this past year I have grown to know and love the individual personalities of my birds. I know a number of my readers have also expressed delight or concern about the state of my individual hens and even the overall health and temperament of Coq Au Vine himself. I am so delighted that the peace and comfort that my little backyard flock brings me can be shared with all who stop by to read about it. It is my hope that reading about these experiences brings a little of that peace and comfort to everyone.

In my last posts, I mentioned that our two spare roosters were spared. I also mentioned that for Thanksgiving we departed from the obligatory turkey dinner in favor of trying goose for the first time.

Now the uncomfortable part. What does roast goose taste like when compared to chicken and other poultry? Just on the off chance that one of my hens has snuck a wireless interwebs access device into the coop, they should be rest assured that I am NOT, repeat, NOT speaking about eating any of them! (mostly).

So … here we go …

I do not cook well at all. So any of my comments about the actual preparation and cooking of said poultry is second hand at best and should be taken with a huge grain of salt (no pun).

Additionally, goose, as I understand it, is a much more common meal across the pond. This was our first experience with it, so I have to imagine that any of my readers from Northern Europe may be sniggering at our clumsy American ways, but we gave it a good go, I’d say!

We purchased a fresh, young, 12-lb goose and felt that would be more than sufficient for four people to have a good meal. The first obstacle was the price! Not being a common meal in the states, I have to imagine that it is much less expensive in areas where it is more common. Based on price alone, we will not be feasting upon goose very often!

To look at this bird in its raw state, we were struck by just how large the wings were when compared to other poultry. The drum sticks were smaller than a typical turkey of a similar size, but still sufficient. My wife cautioned that the internal cavity would not be as large as a turkey, and thus would not accommodate an unusually large amount of stuffing. Never the less I let her know that even a taste of the stuffing would be enough for me to be satisfied. My wife also prepared a goodly quantity of stuffing to be baked outside of the bird. This is what I would call the ‘lesser’ stuffing. But even my wife’s ‘lesser’ stuffing is far superior to most folks stuffing, in my humble opinion!

My wife researched the proper particulars of roasting a goose and was nervous about it coming out good. She is a wizard in the kitchen for all meals great and small. She can cook meals with all of the bells and whistles or meals with ad hoc ingredients cobbled together from what is on hand and each one of truly amazing. She, however, is eternally convinced that the meal has come out wrong and won’t be fit for human consumption until the taste test reveals otherwise on the faces of our family and the enthusiasm in which we stop gabbing and concentrate on eating with true fervor.

So it was with the goose. But I’m a little ahead of myself.

Goose is a particularly greasy bird. My wife roasted it on a rack to let the excess grease drain off. She also gently pan cooked the gizzards which produced more grease. Halfway through the roasting process, she drained off a goodly amount of the grease. She filled a 16oz canning jar to the brim with it for later stock and still had plenty enough grease from which to make gravy.

So, after the stuffing, trussing, basting, draining, and roasting, the bird emerged from the oven at the appropriate time and the sheer look of it was enticing! A rich, golden brown it was. My wife made the first slices into it to check her work and was horrified to discover that she ‘ruined’ it. The meat was unlike any other poultry we had seen. Rich, dark, and a little tougher than one might imagine. I was not deterred in the least. The look of it reminded me of a roast duck, though a little more greasy, and certainly less fatty than duck.

We sliced off most of the breast meat and I discovered that by and large, there is a lot less breast meat on a goose than on a turkey of similar size. The drum sticks were also smaller, but without the bone splints that interrupt the fine meat of a turkey leg. The wings were positively huge. Additionally, there was much more stuffing in that bird than my wife had cautioned me to expect and it was beyond belief in its flavor!

As the meal progressed, we discovered that although the breast meat seemed to be in less abundance than we expected, it was a denser and filling meat than the overly plumped up birds that usually are the centerpiece of a holiday meal. That meat was dark, mild, yet filling! The wings produced much more meat than any other poultry I’ve had. The color and texture of goose reminded me a lot more of duck than either turkey or chicken but was still unique.

The grandest feature, I think, was all of that grease. The stuffing from the bird’s cavity and the gravy were the most wonderful, delicious, flavorful features that I had ever had in a holiday meal.

So, I liked the goose very much. I’d prefer duck or turkey, but goose has its own unique features that make it worth the trouble to enjoy every once in a while. As compared to chicken, it is very, very different. The only similarity I’d say is that they are both broadly ‘poultry’.

Left overs have been distributed and mostly eaten. My flock has picked the goose carcass clean to their own delight. This thanksgiving was a success!

The short points:
Chicken – cheap, easy, and a million ways to prepare. Free range farm chicken is tougher but more flavorful than industrially produced chicken, and probably healthier I’d guess.

Turkey – traditional, commonly available, best ‘bang for your buck’ for a one bird meal.

Duck – my favorite! Smaller, one duck if a good meal for two people and will still produce leftovers.

Goose – very glad for the experience! Different, meat is heavier and filling, makes the best gravy for sure!

I have no experience with pheasant, wild duck or goose, or swan, or any of the like. Would LOVE to hear from folks who have tried these!

To keep peace in this house, please, I implore you, don’t tell my chickens about this post!

And a special thank you to Brazil! Lately, someone from Brazil has started reading this blog in earnest! Hope you are enjoying it!

Thanksgiving is Really Tomorrow (for chickens).

Here in the United States today is Thanksgiving. It is my favorite holiday! Not my favorite because of a glut of food (although that goes a long way with me). For me, it is my favorite because unlike how most American holidays have morphed over the decades to become bloated affairs with fighting over traditions and what is the ‘proper’ way to celebrate it, Thanksgiving is nearly incorruptible!

You don’t need weird costumes.
You don’t need an endless array of gifts.
You don’t need sappy seasonal music.
You don’t need a bottomless basket of candy.
You don’t need budget crushing decorations in every corner.

You can do all of these things with Thanksgiving, I guess, but you don’t need it. You need but three things …

1) A decent meal.
2) Good company to share it with.
3) A sense of gratitude for all that you do have in life.

This year, I am especially grateful that my two young roosters have been spared and are off somewhere ‘celebrating’ Thanksgiving with their new found flocks. It is the gift of life. The meal they would have become would have been a gift of life for our family, but instead we have sought this gift elsewhere and I am so grateful for all of these experiences!

Thanksgiving this year is a casual intimate affair at our house this year, just my wife and I, my mom, and our son. As such, we’ve decided to depart from the overly plump, hormone infused turkey, and opted for goose! As Americans, goose is not normally on the menu so we’re looking forward to the slight change for this year’s centerpiece.

The cats will benefit and so will the pig. If our outside gentleman caller (who is not my cat) arrives, he’ll also get a treat on the porch.

The flock, however, will have a cold day in the run with their usual feed and treats. THEIR Thanksgiving will likely come tomorrow! After our meal today, and left overs divvied up, they will have already gone to bed. The morning tomorrow will find for them the opportunity to pick over the goose carcass and any other morsels that can be gathered to ensure they will have a real treat as well!

As each year passes, I am so grateful for my life, my wife, my family, and all of the wonderful gifts and lessons I encounter through each year.

This year I am very grateful, my dear readers, to have been able to share these journeys and thoughts with you!

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Blustery Day.

The flock is really antsy to get out today, but the winds are ever so ‘blustery’. No, Owl’s tree hasn’t blown down, and there is no chance that our ‘piglet’ will blow away … but our hens would be blown hither and fore until they are ultimately plastered against Bob and Barbara’s fence unable to fend off the late autumn gusts.

The sparse lean time of late autumn also brings its more treacherous dangers as Mr. Hawk was back just yesterday. Got a closer look at him and he was … well … CLOSER! He took wing not a few feet above the chicken run yesterday and his wingspan was magnificent. I hold no ill will toward him as he needs to gather what he can before the winter snows begin to fly, but he will NOT ‘gather’ one of my own!

I know my poor hens are desperate to forage the yard, but with the winds high and the birds of prey low, this will not be.

In other news, the neighbor cat (who is still not my cat!) has not been seen. But if the dead mouse on my porch is any indication, he still intends to ply the object of his ardor (our ‘daughter’ Osha) with courtship gifts. Sorry, young man, but the gifts must go unreceived.

Lastly, speaking of our ‘piglet’ Ruby, now that heating season is upon us, she has retreated to the comfort of the baseboard.

Protective Custody.

Yesterday I went out in the bitter cold that had suddenly descended upon us the day before to do my shopping. The flock had been fed a warm breakfast and were milling about the yard on a sunny, but bitterly cold morning. I mused over letting them out after I came home with the groceries … pretty cold to be wending off to who knows where, but I had decided that the sun was too strong to be missed and if they could find some comfort and late autumn forage then so be it! For too long will they be confined in the run, or even the coop on some days during the season of ice, so I wanted them to be out as much as possible!

After stowing my possibles, I strode out to their enclosure intent on letting them free and they gathered by the door in ready anticipation. I knew that once I opened that door they would come spilling out a la three (nine) stooges style.

As my hand fell to the door latch, Coq Au let out a mighty growl (mighty by chicken standards, anyway). My hand hesitated and sure enough … unbeknownst to me, a large bird of prey who had been perched nearby took wing and flew off at a height of about six or eight feet and not ten yards to my left! Sure, he was retreating, but with the leaves all but gone for the hens’ tree cover and the birds of prey having grown hungry, my second mind decided that the flock should stay safely in their run!

Extra rations of treats were distributed and full military honors bestowed upon my cantankerous rooster and I went about the business of refreshing their feed and water.

The thought struck me. That raptor probably knew that the chicken run was very secure. Was he waiting in hiding for me to let the flock out? Maybe. But Mrs. Rabbit!

Gratefully, I did not see any pieces of rabbit, nor was that bird carrying anything off … potential meal thwarted! But neither did I see the rabbit!

Thankfully, as I was about my tasks, she did make an appearance in the underbrush about a half an hour later.

“Go on, you!” I shouted. “Get ye back in that brush!”

I didn’t want to seem cross, but I wanted her to retreat to safety in case the marauder was still lurking about. Sure, hawks, falcons, buzzards, and vultures need to eat too, but NOT my chickens and I’d rather they left the rabbit alone as well! Thus far she has avoided the neighbor cat who seems a half-hearted hunter at best, hopefully she could stay vigilant against the sky as well.

My mind fell back to Coq Au once again. Had he not alerted me, I might’ve missed that raptor and one of those hens might have been an easier target that a wily wild rabbit.

Damn, but he’s good at his job!

Going Home: The Brave Boys part II.

With November in full swing I needed to discuss with my wife the particulars of when and how we were to dispatch our two young roosters Marvin and Bubba in time for Thanksgiving. I was reluctant, but determined to do the hard thing. Being late season babies, I didn’t want to see them come to their full maturity in the dead of winter and cause REAL trouble at a time when the flock would be much more confined.

She and I chose the day, but with both of hearts against the task, she advised that I make ONE MORE effort with my chicken sources to rehome them. We had decided then that if there could be a home for them where they would live and thrive, that would be the best situation. If the only takers where those inclined to butcher the birds for the meat, in accordance with our beliefs we would politely decline and do the hard task ourselves. We both feel it is only right that the burden of a sentence of death should be carried out by ourselves who are responsible for their lives.

With these thoughts in mind, rather than reaching out to the chicken network exclusively, I put it out on the Facebooks to the general population. My friends, chicken keepers and non chicken keepers alike, shared and tagged people and within an hour I had a weak lead and a strong lead. I asked the weak lead to please stand by. The strong lead turned out to be a friend of a friend only one town over who wanted to see a better photo of the birds. I’m not handy with a camera, so I suggested that she stop by at her leisure and see the birds for herself live and in person.

Grateful to report that she was able to stop by early the next day!

I let the flock out while isolating Marvin and Bubba inside the run so that she could take a close look uninterrupted once she arrived. In the ensuing time, Marvin whined inside the run over not being allowed out and I felt so sad for him, yet I knew that these moments of separation might just lead to a full life for he and his brother.

A woman called Missy arrived in good spirits and she, my wife, and I wandered into the run to have a look. I cornered the birds, and being young and unsure, they were fairly easy to catch. I was able to grasp Bubba and he was quite frightened, but calm none the less. I held the gentle nervous boy and he said nothing. Missy and I talked for some time. She has a sizable flock and land and so does her cousin who would be interested in the other roo. We talked about her situation and experience with roosters. I gave a full account of my observations about their personalities and how I thought they might conduct themselves once fully grown … along with the caveat that with roosters … it’s always a craps shoot.

Bubba wriggled a little now and then as I held him and was clearly nervous, but said not a word. Missy asked if she could hold him and I carefully transferred Bubba to her arms. She held him close and although still nervous, he immediately grew calmer than he had been.

She decided then and there to take both roosters and one would be going home with her for her own flock and the other would be going to her cousin who also had a flock. It is a statistical anomaly to find a home for TWO roosters with full flocks to live and thrive with and I hope my two boys comport themselves respectfully!

Then a positively magical thing happened. One of those things that reaffirms the mysteries of life.

As Missy was holding Bubba, and I collected Marvin, Marvin voiced his fear and displeasure about suddenly being thrust into the scary situation of being handled. Coq Au Vin, off in the yard, abandoned the hens and came running over to find out just what was happening to his boys!

Remember, dear reader, these are the young princelings that were already starting to challenge their father. This was the king who already had to assert his authority more profoundly each day.

This was the king … if you have read my previous posts regarding A Tale of Two Roosters that had once been dethroned and brutally tortured by his own son just two seasons back.

Here he was … like a king … defending his flock. Didn’t matter what they were capable of. Didn’t matter that he already had experience with how wrong this could go. These birds were part of HIS flock and they were alerting him that they were scared and in trouble.

Marvin, once grasped, calmed down and Coq Au kept a close eye on us voicing his contempt as we crept past him to bring the birds to this nice woman’s car.

I was able to maneuver Coq Au into the run as we exited and isolated him. He was not happy. I didn’t blame him!

Missy opened her hatch back, and I placed a bird into one of the boxes she had brought. “what the DUECE???” he exclaimed and a short game of ‘rooster whack-a-mole’ ensued as with each closure of a box flap, a rooster head popped out of another. A little careful handling and some tape that my resourceful wife quickly produced, and the birds were secure.

Missy, my wife, and I chit chatted for a bit longer and she left to bring the boys to their new homes.

Herself and I are ever so grateful that these lives are spared. We met a new friend along the way, and Coq Au was released back into the yard to see to his flock. Even my wife was astonished at his protective nature and we spoke to him and about him with great reverence.

At over three and a half years, we are still surprised by him, though I suppose we shouldn’t be after all.

And wouldn’t you know it? Later on that day Missy (who also keeps a few ducks) sent this photo of Marvin and Bubba already making new friends!

 

 

And SPEAKING of Respect.

And SPEAKING of Respect.

“Coq Au, did you know that people are reading about you on every continent?” I asked.

Turns out, that these blog things that seem to be all the rage keep track of various data and metrics. Not specific info, I hope, on specific persons who may stop by to see a blog, at least that info isn’t available to me and I wouldn’t want it to be. But it does tell me how many views, from which countries, and from what browsers, etc. I am fascinated by silly data like this. I can only assume that it is useful for those who are trying to monetize their blogs to be able to zero in on target markets or some such and of course, you can arrange to place ads and try to earn money by clicks and what not … BUT …

I assure you that MY blog will not become a click-bait factory, nor will I look to place ads within its confines! As such, neither am I inclined to invest a dime into this other than my time to relate the silly little chicken stories for no useful purpose other than to entertain myself and hopefully you, my fine readers.

That being said, if I ever do get around to writing that ebook, that I would at least try to link, make folks aware of, or what not … and hopefully, never to the point of annoyance!

Now, unlike those blogs I’ve heard about that feature photos of ladies in their underwear (or without their underwear, for that matter!), my blog counts its entire viewership since its inception in the thousands, and not in numbers encompassing some mass segment of the population.

But for those who are interested, at least ONE PERSON from the following list of countries has stopped by this blog to read about my humble flock at least ONCE:

United States
Australia
Bahrain
Bangladesh
Brazil
Cambodia
Canada
China
Dominican Republic
Ecuador
Estonia
France
Germany
India
Ireland
Israel
Italy
Japan
Luxembourg
Mexico
Mongolia
Netherlands
New Zealand
Philippines
Romania
Russia
Rwanda
Slovenia
Sweden
Taiwan
Thailand
Ukraine
United Arab Emirates
United Kingdom
Venezuela

That hits each continent at least once, if you leave out Antarctica, and that may only be because they don’t seem to collect data from there.

The implications for me are this … chickens are born every day. They live their lives however long or short to whatever purpose. But THESE few chickens … the specific names of the little flock owned by some kook in New Jersey are known SOMEWHERE in the world by SOMEONE. Love him or hate him, Coq Au Vin and his flock mates will not pass from this world entirely unnoticed.

“You may want to show a little gratitude. I’ve helped you become world famous.” I sardonically intoned to my otherwise ungratefully foul fowl.

Nonplussed, he merely replied: “I’d be a lot more grateful if you’d include more breadcrumbs when you’re handing out treats, you stingy bastard.”

Some folks are never satisfied.

Oh well.

I invite you to share this blog. Infect other people with the doings of an angry rooster and the foolish man with infinite patience that has to deal with him.

At the very least, it is a good escape from the issues of the day!

Couldn't Care Less.

In the late fall evenings before the clocks change I still have just enough time to get home and see my flock before they go in for the night. I know in another week it'll be dark and they will be long abed before I've returned from work, so now is the time to give them treats when I can.

Gone are the long summer evenings where there is still enough light to let them out lf the run for a stretch, so they are penned up more than I'd like. Coq Au has practically become a regular gentleman who is disinclined to join battle with me and content to glare.

Marvin, on the other hand, is becoming a handful. He's still young, but he already tries to mount some of the girls, much to their loud protests. He doesn't dance. He doesn't offer treats. He grabs a girl and tries to get 'er done did. Thus far, as I can see, he has been unsuccessful. In fact, as young as he is, the older hens are quite capable to chide and chase him all on there own, and yet this puzzles me.

This evening, as I witnessed the reoccurring sight once again, I asked Coq Au about it.

"Coq Au, are you not going to respond to the ruckus that this young roo is causing?"

"Naw, dawg."

"What so you mean 'Naw, dawg'??? It's kind of yurt job to sort this out!"

"The hens are doing fine on their own ..' after the last roo, I'm not getting involved. This is YOUR problem, and I'm not gonna let you pass it down the chain to middle management."

"Oh, I see. Getting too old, are we?" I goaded him.

"Old? Watch this."

With that, he calmly strides into the midst of the flock pecking at treats and the two young roosters scatter brusquely to any place but where Coq Au is.

"You see that? That's called 'respect'. I'm not getting involved unless I have to. You should try that sometime."

"I should ... what???" His attitude, while not aggressive, per se, had me on the edge of apoplexy.

'You should try it sometime.' indeed!

You’re Blocking My Light.

So Sunday morning I let the flock out as usual. Mostly, I left them to their own devices as herself and I puttered about with this or that. After a time I went out to check on them. These days I’ve been leaving them for longer stretches because they’ve been staying closer to the front porch and not wandering off, most notably, I try to keep them out from under the neighbors’ bush!

So, I step out and most of the flock is milling about in the yard nearby and even the young cockerels were staying out of trouble. I scattered some treats around, gave some to Lily out of hand, but I noticed that I was short a hen. Hermione was not about. No big deal, no one looked distressed, so she had to be around somewhere.

Back on the porch, I peered about at the underbrush. There she is! Having a nice, relaxing, dirt bath. Trouble is … she doing it in one of my wife’s smaller planting boxes! So I strode up to her to give her a piece of my mind!
 

“Um, *Excuse* me, what are you doing?”

“Do you mind sodding off? You’re standing in my light.” She replied with a tone of mixed boredom and annoyance.

“Hey! Don’t give me none of that lip … er … beak! Just what do you think you’re doing in that planter box?” I insisted.

“Well … I had THOUGHT it was obvious what I was doing, and you did make it clear that we’re not to be doing this under the neighbors’ bush … so … “

“So nothing! You get the heck out of that box and I do mean NOW!” I interrupted.

She closed her eyes slowly, let loose a heavy sigh of contempt and slowly … and by that I mean defiantly … lifted herself from her well dug in place of repose. Strode across the porch, and at last joined the rest of the flock.

But not before leaving a trail of dirt across the porch ... 

   

And finally shaking it all off leaving two perfectly clean chicken-foot prints.

 

My wife was thinking of digging up these bulbs for the winter … hopefully, Hermione served to help with the digging ...
 

Even though that was NOT her intent!

The Brave Boys.

With the acute realization that our two baby chicks have grown into roosters in spite of the careful inspection we tried, my wife and I have come to the hard decision.

Here is Marvin and Bubba. Notice how tall they’ve gotten and how their tails are coming in!
 

They are young, but already Marvin has been trying to mount his aunts MUCH to their loud displeasure. Bubba is already larger than the hens, though not to the size of Coq Au. Coq Au has been gently chiding them to assert his authority and to make sure they understand their place. As with Floki, he does not torture these young lads, merely disciplines them for the peace and comfort of the hens and so that they will understand their place. But I know will come a day when they are too large, and he being over three and a half now, he’s no youngin’.

Here’s Coq Au (right) with Bubba in the shot (left), and Marvin laying down dusting himself.

So, we can’t keep them in the flock. My wife and I talked about this and what is to be done. We’ve decided that this year, instead of turkey for Thanksgiving, it will have to be our brave boys. I am not looking forward to the task, and yet, I can think of no better way to honor their lives than to nourish ourselves and the more extended kin in such a way on such an occasion.

Every year Thanksgiving is an ‘animal sacrifice’. A person works hard for their livelihood, resources spent on caring for the family, and there is a sacrifice. Usually the sacrifice is a turkey. The bird is slain, butchered, carefully prepared, presented, and prayed over while each of us muses over what is gained and what is lost.

Of all of the holidays, Thanksgiving is my favorite. You don’t need weird costumes or ugly sweaters. You don’t need a stack of greeting cards. You don’t need an endless array of candy. You don’t need to drink yourself into oblivion. You don’t need to buy a bunch of gifts that the receivers probably didn’t need in the first place. You don’t need lights. You don’t need inflatable lawn ornaments. You don’t need music that you would never otherwise listen to.

All you need is a decent meal and loved ones to share it with, coupled with the conscious thought of the gratitude for everything that you do have.

I could buy a turkey, as so many years before, and the hard part of the sacrifice would rest once again in the hands of someone at some unknown slaughterhouse, but this thanksgiving will be of our own flock by our own hands and we will nourish our kith and kin from it. The contemplation of this will make it a particularly bittersweet Thanksgiving, but their lives will be especially honored more than any frozen turkey would ever be. There is also some comfort in knowing that THESE birds, unlike mass produced poultry, were hatched by their mother, raised in the company of their flock, and spent their days with the open sky above them and the grass under their feet.

Never the less, it raised the question between herself and I whether or not to allow our hens to hatch again if they are inclined. The flock is aging and we will want new life to fill our little coop, and I suggested that in the spring I will obtain a few SEXED pullets. Maybe buff orpingtons or rhode island reds. My wife was distraught to think that it may mean that we no longer allow our hens to follow their natural inclinations of motherhood. I mentioned that if we do so, it very well would mean more roosters and very likely the possibility of having to butcher one again. Herself is not happy about that thought, but considers it as much of a part of long term chicken raising as I do and part of the circle as well.

So, we decided (for now) that this spring we will see if the hens are inclined to hatch again, and if not, then we will seek to buy sexed chickens.

At some point, I know Coq Au will be too old to do his job in that department and we’ll need a replacement rooster as well, but just contemplating that would break my heart. I’ve come to love that angry old bastard and so has herself. Most likely, he will live out his natural life, however long that may be, before we even consider a new rooster. Our hens are ageing as well, and egg laying has already slowed down for the season. But they, like Coq Au will live out their natural lives whether they keep laying or not!

So, after all of these gut wrenching musings, I give you a picture of Lily!

Here she is insisting that she does NOT want the mealworms that I’ve cast about on the ground for the flock to scratch at … she’d MUCH rather have them direct from my own hand, thank you very much. The white spots that you see on her head are the last of the new feather coming in. Everyone is sporting their new coats of feathers and just about ready for the coming winter.

Three Roosters, A Cat, and a Rabbit.

As I stepped out of my front door with morning treats for the flock, there was a familiar “Hey!” from our dark gentleman caller.

“You’re still not my cat!” I reminded him.

Determined to ignore him, I walked over to the coop and there was the rabbit, munching on the morning dew-sodden turf and in deep conversation with the hens.

“… so I says to Mable, I says … WHOA!” and the rabbit jumped back a step or two from me, not realizing I was approaching. Rabbit is deaf, or somehow, I can fumble with a plate full or chicken treats while yelling at the neighbor cat like a ninja.

I told Rabbit to calm down a peg, fed the chickens, and started to walk back. Neighbor cat, who has not taken even the slightest predatory stance toward any of my chickens, had crossed half the distance from my porch to the coop hoping that I would feed him as well, in spite of my reprimands as to whose responsibility his stomach may or not be … certainly not mine! But now, he locked his muscles and took a clear and present interest in Rabbit.

“Oh HELL naw!” I said. I thought about booting him off the property, but he hadn’t harmed anyone before and I do like that he’s a ‘first defense’ against mice that might want to come into the house.

I quickly entered the house to retrieve some kitty kibble to entice him away from Rabbit and he obliged without further ado. With the situation now under control, I then let the flock out. I figured, with the chickens around, Rabbit would have more cover in case Mr. Cat (who is not my cat), wanted to try anything further. For now, he was perfectly happy to nibble the kibble and ply me with compliments in hopes that I would relent my stonewall of his affections toward our daughter Osha (who IS our cat).

Back into the house and I find Osha perched at the open kitchen window issuing her own complaints to her come-again-go-again beau.

“You don’t bring me flowers! And you’re here again and gone the next moment! You unconstant son of a … ! And like that.

“On don’t worry, Osha, apparently he’s planning to surprise you with a rabbit fur coat, complete with rabbit dinner!” I interjected.

Not completely satisfied with the goings on, I went back outside again to my porch where there was now a congregation of chickens looking for treats of their own. Mr. Cat was on hand at the outskirts. Far from crouching to pounce, he seemed content to watch and hope that in my can of meal worms might also be a kitty treat for him (the poor fool). I distributed generous handfuls of meal worms hither and fore, when Marvin and Bubba (the two chicks Molly and Beulah, who decided against my wishes to be roosters) wandered nearby for treats. Coq Au gave them a quick coffins to remind them that HE was the boss, and treats were for productive members of society … NOT for stray cats, OR extraneous roosters!

In their sudden retreat, the two young boys dashed off inadvertently in the direction of Mr. Cat and not expecting the black feathered figures, now nearly as large as himself, to come lunging toward him, Mr. Cat issued his own “WHOA!” in perfect echo of the rabbit just a bit earlier.

Young buck roosters properly chided, cat now in full retreat, Coq Au tending to the flock, Rabbit safe and sound, and Osha’s honor preserved yet another day … the business of the flock carried on as per usual.

These are the people in my neighborhood.

Hallowe’en Silliness and a Disturbing Story.

In a COMPLETE DEPARTURE from the true life events of my little backyard flock, I thought I’d post some chicken themed Hallowe’en silliness and a disturbing but true tale from the annals of history.

This story found its way to me on Friday, October the 13^th. For those who are wary of Friday the 13^th, I remind you that it was specifically OCTOBER, Friday the 13^th in the year 1307 that may be the origin for why some consider it to be a day of ill omen. Since it has nothing to do with chickens, I’ll leave it to you to search the interwebs for what happened that day.

At any rate, today is October the 15^th. The Ides of October. That is, if October has ‘ides’. I know that apart from March, some other months technically have ‘ides’ (whatever the heck an ‘ide’ is), but I’ll be damned if’n I can remember which other months those are!

Well … after I encountered the disturbing tale that I will recount later on in this post, I thought I’d look for other ‘scary’ chicken material to relate to you on this fine October day.

As it turns out … chickens DO NOT strike fear in the hearts of the general public so the material is thin at best. Never the less, I will sally forth bravely and at least provide a little chicken related hallowe’en fun!

First, I give you the chicken version of a slasher tale!

Then, swiftly on to a chicken ‘restless spirit’ occurrence.





Onto this still image from the Woody Allen film ‘Sleeper’ a comedy wherein giant chickens are farmed in a dystopian future (among other silliness).

Here is a still image of some sort of zombie chicken from a film that I will not name, because not only is the film so highly inappropriate for children, but also so incredibly bad that it is inappropriate to any modicum of basic human intellect. Now that I’ve said that, I know SOMEONE will ultimately search the image, find out the title of the film, and go off and watch it. I will tell you this … don’t do it. Even an evening spent trying to sit through “The Star Wars Holiday Special” from 1978 would be time better spent. So if you do this thing … this horrible, horrible thing. You have been warned, and I’m not kidding!

And, here is an image from the titling of the program “Robot Chicken”. A lot of good horror themes here. Mad scientist, a kind of a ‘frankenchicken’, cyborg crossover, and a nod to “A Clockwork Orange” all tossed together.

Just in case you’re getting the impression that the concept of the ‘scary chicken’ is a completely modern phenomenon, there is the case of the cockatrice.

This unnerving little serpent poultry abomination is a medieval mythical beast that apparently occurs when a rooster lays an egg (a decidedly rare occurrence) and that egg is then hatched by a toad or a snake (another exceptionally rare occurrence). Besides producing a beast that is already terrible to behold, the cockatrice is deadly in three ways. Its touch, its breath, and its very gaze are enough to cause death. Hard to imagine a rooster being a fearsome beast in English folklore, but a half lizard, half chicken thing that flies and can kill you with a look would certainly give pause to the medieval mind.

As a last little bonus thrown in … if you search YouTube for a song called “Ghost Chickens In The Sky” you will not be disappointed. Or perhaps you will … all depends on your level of expectation.

And thus, onto the disturbing true life tale from the annals of history. I caution you at this point that the following is one of those weird little things that happen along the way of life, the circumstances of which are ‘odd’ at the very least. I am including this tale here because some folks like something truly off beat during the hallowe’en season, but as I said, it really is a disturbing story, and if you’re not looking for that, scroll back up to the funny pictures above and then move on with your day!

No doubt you’ve seen plenty of those clickbait ‘shocking but true!’ type stories that expose you to endless advertising without really giving you much of a story. I’m going to provide you with the story HERE and a couple of links at the end just in case you want any sort of verification. I also caution you that the links will provide photographs, which I will not be providing in the tale below

I give you:

The Tale of ‘Miracle Mike’ the Headless Chicken.

Fuita, Colorado farmer Lloyd Olsen would raise a few Wyandotte roosters for meat for his family and for sale. Not being a young man at the time of the following events, he was used to dispatching and processing birds for food.

On September the 10^th, 1945, he, with axe in hand, set about the task. According to his grandson, he processed a few birds that day. It is not uncommon for a beheaded chicken to flop around a bit in an uneasy fashion, but trust me when I tell you, that bird is dead. The disturbing flopping is due to the spinal cord contracting causing some involuntary movement and that stops within a few minutes. The bird, already being dead, feels nothing. But on this day … one of his beheaded roosters stood up.

Apparently, this one particular rooster decided not to die.

Most people would put that poor rooster down immediately, and I would agree with that. But for whatever reason, that day, Lloyd Olsen decided instead to treat the bird’s injuries, care for it and he named the rooster ‘Mike’.

How long could a rooster live with such an affliction? On his own, not long. Lloyd Olsen, apart from whatever treatment he might have given the bird, fed Mike water and milk with an eye dropper and by placing small pieces of feed and cracked corn directly into his esophagus. He also used the dropper to make sure that his wind pipe was free of fluid and mucous so that Mike could continue to breathe.

Mike had been about five months old at the time of his beheading, and thus nearly grown. With Lloyd’s continuous care, he actually put on weight and thrived. By reports, Mike, acting on instinct, would attempt to ‘peck’ at feed and preen himself with his neck stump, though he was unable to actually succeed at these things. It is reported that he would even attempt to crow, though that apparently sounded like a weird gurgling noise.

Lloyd’s friends and neighbors would stop by to see the rooster. Eventually, a sideshow promoter heard of the animal and convinced Lloyd that Mike should be part of a traveling side show. According to his grandson, Lloyd saw an opportunity to make enough money to pay off all of the family’s debts and get some new equipment for the farm. At the height of Mike’s popularity, he was earning about $4,500 per month which they say equates to about $48,000 in today’s numbers. Mike even traveled to England for a few dates. Naturally, even people at the time thought this whole thing was a hoax, but Mike was taken to the University of Utah which verified that the claims were true.

Sadly, one night in an Arizona motel, Mike suffocated on some fluid caught in his throat and passed away in March of 1947. Eighteen months after losing his head.

So how can this even be possible? Apparently, on that particular day in 1945, Lloyd Olsen’s aim was not true. He took off the bird’s head, sure enough, but the axe was off its mark leaving the poor rooster with most/all of its brainstem, one ear, and an intact jugular. Only by peculiar happenstance did the blood quickly clot from the injury, preventing the rooster from bleeding out and dying right then.

Here is a link from YouTube to the story (an eight minute segment from some larger story about poultry farming, I think). The video includes interviews with Lloyd’s grandson and local friends who had been alive at the time to see the rooster in person.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqDjRCHyjTY

Here is the link to the Wikipedia article about this particular bird.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_the_Headless_Chicken

In reading this tale, I am not quite sure how to process it. I know that EVEN IF Mike had not been bound for the table, or faced his strange accident, and lived a full life, he would’ve passed away more than half a century ago, yet I still feel empathy for this poor creature! Although I am okay with humanely dispatching livestock for food, I can not abide with cruelty. Yet, neither can I judge the actions of a man or his situation from over 70 years ago. Is it a triumph of the spirit that Mike lived? Shouldn’t the rooster have been put down immediately? With only a brain stem and none of the other brain functions, would he have even felt pain? Surely, without upper brain function, he could not have even been aware that he was alive at all. Between roosting, crowing, preening, and walking, how much of a chicken’s behavior is wrapped up in the instinctual brain stem levels?

Tales like this and the questions they raise disturb me. Yet, as a student of history, I am compelled to read about these things. And … as a douche bag … I am compelled to share them and inflict you with the knowledge!

Naturally, I didn't relay any of these ideas to my flock, lest I disturb the poor dears. Since they are no longer allowed to watch late night television, they've been sleeping better at night and I don't want them to experience any nightmares! But I did casually ask Coq Au how long he figured a creature could live without a brain. He retorted "I dunno, how old are you?"

Oh well, at least he and I are 'communicating' and not fighting!

Happy Hallowe’en!

Disappointed.

Based on their shape, their coloring, the size of their tail feathers, and the length of their legs, I have a growing fear that one or perhaps even both of the new babies are roosters!

Hopefully this will not be so. I can't believe that even with the best attempts at determining their sex that we have gone so wrong. I'll have to either make a decision before the weather turns too cold, or hope they all coexist well enough until spring at least.

I do know this ... no more home hatches! Next time I wish to add to this flock, I will be buying properly sexed chicks or pullets!

What do you think?

My dear readers,

I am considering writing an ebook based on this blog. This does NOT mean that I will end the blog, nor will I go back and change any of the posts made here to fore or going forward.

It would mean re-writing the material to flesh out many details and hopefully create a 'narrative' based on these little tales.

A grand novel the scope of ... say ... Watership Down, but with chickens? No. But perhaps a funny, yet emotional little book as a tribute to these experiences.

Wouldn't be written today, or tomorrow, but I'm thinking on it.

I want YOUR thoughts and input.

Primarily:

Is it worth the trouble? Should I do it?

Would you be interested in reading it?

If so, what should change and what should stay the same (assuming that I AM going to clean up spelling and grammar at the VERY least!)?

What kind of details do you wish were included?

Please comment your thoughts ... even if you think this is a DUMB idea!

Chipmunk Dance Rave Party

Coop Cleaning Day.

With a rare day off from work, the season now turning, and an unseasonably warm day, it was time to clean the coop!

There are all manner and schools of thought on coop cleaning as to ‘how to’, ‘how often’ etc. Over the years I’ve settled on a modified deep litter method. My whole life is one little modification after another on this or that and thus life gets accomplished one small step at a time. The big disasters, the big rites of passage, the big benefits that come and go are glorious, tragic, memorable things – or what have you – but I find it is the little things that I revel in most of all.

Cleaning the coop isn’t exactly a task I ‘revel’ in. From my perspective, I’d call it ‘Herculean’, but let me explain that.

Cleaning my small coop is far, far from the level of cleaning the Augean stables. But you must also remember that I am far, far from the level of Hercules! I am a small man who moves through my small life in my small ways and relish doing so.

So, I won’t go through the step by step of the autumn clean-out and neither should you, my dear readers, put too much stock in the particular methods and advice from random kook on the interwebs, but these are the basics of a full clean out …

Remove all bedding (shag cut pine shavings this time). Sweep out every bit you can along with any cobwebs and especially the build up of chicken dander.

Scrape out any build up of manure … this can happen, it is natural, and a darn good time to be on top of it!

Wash out the coop with soapy water, brush it down with a stiff brush, and take care over the ‘poopy’ parts to make sure it is loosened and gone. It will never be perfect.

As long at you’re waiting for things to get dry, take the time to check out the space for any damage, rot, fence mending, weak spots in the defenses, and any other issues!

Take the whole lot of the material out to your compost.

Spread out the new bedding … evenly as possible. Doesn’t really matter, the flock will move the bedding to the exact spaces that you thought they wouldn’t want it. They choose different spots each time and always in direct opposition to where you thought that may be even if it is also in direct opposition to where they had moved it to the last time. Their union meetings cover these issues in great detail. My flock is quite adept at thwarting my best efforts to please them.

Regardless, I know once the flock ventures back into the coop this evening there will be a ruckus.

“THIS IS DIFFERENT! WE JUST HAD EVERYTHING PERFECT AND NOW IT’S DIFFERENT! IT IS DIFFERENT AND NOT THE SAME!”

The ‘redecorating’ will then commence.

Don’t use bleach in your cleaning. Bleach is one of the cheapest and most effective agents against mold, bacteria, fungus, microbes, etc. Never the less it is caustic and most coops have some degree of porous wooden surfaces. Also, chicken manure has a strong level of ammonia and ammonia mixed with bleach creates a deadly gas that can overwhelm you. Although, a coop should be well ventilated to begin with and especially while a person is cleaning it! Soap and water will suffice, but if there is a real problem, there are non bleach disinfectants on the market.

Although my full clean out is twice a year, over the courses in between, I do clean out layers of poop and other issues throughout as needed.

My modifications for THIS season are that I’ve gone back to straw for the winter. I prefer the pine shavings, but that can get kicked around by the flock too easily and I feel a good layer of straw to start will lock the bedding down better for the winter months. As I do the minor clean out, new bedding added will be the shavings and that should work well in conjunction with the straw. Or … I’m totally over thinking everything … but if you’ve been reading my story all along, then you already knew that!

For THIS clean out, I’ve added some food grade diatomaceous earth to the bedding. Sprinkled about. Normally, I consider this to be counter intuitive to a deep litter method, but since the possibility of parasites has been on my mind, I thought I’d take the extra precaution this time around. A little goes a long way.

However a person manages their coop … all the petty little details … the most important things in a coop are dry, ventilated, and secure. The rest are all arguable details.

In other news:
The gentleman caller is back again. He’s tried to rub up against my legs, and I must fight every urge to pet him. He is a stranger outdoor cat and I have no notion of whether or not he has fleas or mites. He is quite vocal and speaks to me warmly each time I pass by with my doings. The flock takes no particular notice of him, nor he them. My flock, enjoying the outside forage time during the clean out, continue to drift to the neighbor’s bush … so my whole exercise this morning was punctuated with cries to the gentleman caller of “But you’re not even my cat!” and chides to the flock of “Get out from under there … COQ AU! You’re supposed to be HELPING me by keeping them sorted!”

Also, if you’ve seen the picture of the cat from previous posts, you may have taken notice of the plank boards he is sitting on which are part of my front porch area. Underneath these boards is a colony of chipmunks (who also do not trouble the cat, nor he them). But last night, as is increasingly common this time of year, was another ‘chipmunk dance rave party’. Through my open window came the continued strains of rave music and chipmunk sex. It leaves me to wonder how does the chipmunk DJ gets his equipment under the boards and just where do they get the tiny glow sticks?

My own cats Moonkie and Osha were greatly concerned for the chipmunks’ well being and perched themselves by the open window eagerly listening for sounds of trouble and trying to devise a way to assist. Unfortunately for them, I did not allow an opportunity for them to go out and attend to the issue directly.

So, another day, another round of redecorating for the flock’s union, another day of hangovers for the chipmunks, and another day of unrequited love for the mysterious neighborhood cat on the porch, who … is still not my cat.

The Seasons of Life, the Stresses They Bring, and Renewal.

The Seasons of Life, the Stresses They Bring, and Renewal.

With the dark season gradually encroaching on us egg laying drops off a little. But right now we are down to one egg a day.

Looking at all possible factors, the darkening season, a few cooler nights, the dewormer medication, the purposeful change in diet to less treats, and most importantly, the loss of one of their own have combined into a perfect storm that throws everything from laying to pecking order out of whack.

It has also triggered a seasonal molt, and the timing couldn’t be better! It is common for birds to molt at least once a year and industrial eggs producers even purposefully trigger a molt. The hens don’t lay much if at all during this time, but it refreshes their egg laying in general.

And here lies the evidence there of strewn all about the coop floor. Next weekend will be a full cleanout anyway, so all of the seasonal factors have lined up on this one.

 
The flock is out in the yard as of this chilly October morning enjoying dirt baths and some autumn foraging.

I’ve asked them how they’re getting along and why they’ve chosen now to molt, but their responses to my inquiry are as various as the individuals that make up my flock! One of the hens insists it is a protest over the diminished amount of special treats. Another out of mourning for her lost friend, most of them just felt they needed a new outfit for winter and at this rate, they will be well decked out by the time the weather turns cold in earnest.

I asked Coq Au about it personally, since he has lost his resplendent long tail feathers. He glowered at me hatefully and said “None of your damn business and I’ll thank you to have the common courtesy not to mention it."




And thus, the season turns on. Everyone is busy about preparing for the season of ice and at the same time, the season of renewal.

As ever, I stand awed by the majesty of the process of nature even if it transition itself leaves the flock looking scraggly and ugly. We are ever poised on the precipice of transitional moments.

No Pictures of Lily.

No Pictures of Lily.

I've been trying to get a nice picture of Lily (of the valley). She's a very sweet hen and a little shy. More than any of the others she is turning into a little 'daddy's girl'.

When the flock is out in the yard, and I'm puttering about, she follows me everywhere. Sometimes I give her treats just for her, sometimes not. But when I turn and she's there, she patiently allows me to stoop down a bit and give her some gentle pets.

Thus far I've failed to get a nice picture owing to the fact that when I'm out, I seldom have my phone on me. When I am interacting with Lily, I even more seldom wish to interrupt our time by stopping to take a photo. At any rate, with my poor picture taking skills, I doubt the photo would look like anything more than 'just another picture of a little black hen'.

Old married couples like my wife and I develop cute, funny, romantic things together that are 'no big deal', but are part of the language of love. One of these things for herself and I is that in the evenings, I'll read to her. No big deal ... just some evenings we'll sit at the kitchen table to unwind and I'll read out loud to her. When she was small, no one really had the time to read bedtime stories to her. I can't go back in time for her, nor would I want to, but I darn well can read to her now.

One day, as I was reading, the kitchen window was open. During a pause in the story, we heard a small coo and slowly peeked out. Lily was all by herself, right outside the window. She was riveted by every word in the story and completely happy to sit and listen while the other girls were off foraging to their heart's content. She's NOT going to be getting her own 'story time', but she is more than welcome to sit and listen, too!

Mourning and Moving Forward.

Mourning and Moving forward.

The last two days have been tough since the loss of Matilda. I suspect she may have had parasites as well as being egg bound and one condition complicates the other. Any flock, even in the cleanest of conditions, can occasionally get parasites and once discovered, they must be treated. With young hens it usually isn’t an issue. With older hens who have already exhibited laying issues it can be more devastating and it is a hard lesson to learn in such a way.

I have read all of the experts and newbie alike who keep backyard fowl and in the best of care the odds are that at some point you are going to lose a hen along the way to disease, physical condition, predators, infighting, or any number of causes, but the loss is still hard to bear.

At just under three and a half years, she was no longer young, but too young to go. My only consolation is knowing she spent her final hours in quiet comfort, as best as could be provided, while I went through the usual steps to treat egg binding … but sue was too far gone. I am wrestling with feelings of regret that I should’ve spotted her trouble a day or two earlier, but with her age and the condition appearing chronic, it may have only been a matter of time before she was egg bound and suffering once again.

I am renewing my efforts for a balanced diet and am now administering a dewormer into their watering font as a precaution. I don’t KNOW that she had worms, but merely suspect. No one else is showing symptoms or issues, but I am being extra cautious. Plus have added a little DE into their feed and coop to combat the possibility of any other parasites.

Coq Au is showing signs of grief too, in his own way. He has a whole flock to look after so his grief can not consume him, but as he stands vigilant amongst the flock, I catch him looking wistfully into the distance. I wonder if he’s watching and waiting for Matilda to come home and that breaks my heart.

While out of the run and into the yard, the rest of the flock are hanging closer together. I wonder if the other hens aren’t keeping a close eye on one another now that they realize one of their own is gone.

The hard thing about pets … especially of the outdoor/livestock variety, is that even under the best circumstances, one gets away from you. As prepared as I am for these moments, it is still hard not to be a crybaby about it. As they age, other hens will pass. Of that I am sure. But if the gods be good, not for a long time yet.

In other news … the babies are doing GREAT and the circle continues.

Bruce sent me these photos of the babies out on the farm and finally all settled into the big girl coop with the rest of their new family!

Upon hearing of our loss, he graciously offered on of the young hens back to me, and I am eternally grateful for the offer … but they have their own family now and there is no need to separate them further. As welcome as a new (returned?) life would be, and as much as they would be a new love, they could not replace Matilda.

Meanwhile, here is a picture from the flock in the yard today … if you are having trouble telling which ones are Beulah and Molly (the two babies we kept), it is because they are growing so fast and almost have full voting rights with the flock! Will be two months at least before they start laying and by then the dark of winter will be upon us and the hens won’t be laying much. That will give them an extra season of on and off laying so their bodies can ease into it.

 
The seasons of the year move on. The seasons of life move on. The circle moves forward.