Coq Au Vin's Sentence of Execution is Commuted.

Coq Au Vin’s Sentence of Execution is Commuted.

With herself and I now looking forward to the warm spring days, we were turning our attention to preparing the ground for gardening. This is where Coq Au came as near to a death sentence as he had gotten ever before. My wife is normally a confident woman who is perfectly capable in all ways of confronting any situation out before her. One of the reasons that I love her so much is that she has a personality strong enough to keep me from getting away with bullshit. She moves through her life that way with a strong sense of rooting out other people’s bullshit and feeling perfectly comfortable with calling them out on it. Somehow, she was unable to bring that wonderful trait of hers to bear in dealing firmly with our rooster. She was reaching a level of being upset over the prospect of facing an angry rooster every time she wanted to enjoy her yard and the company of her chickens. She let me know these feelings with no uncertainty and my heart was breaking for her over the dilemma and for Coq Au. With a torn mind, I continued to drag my feet over the issue.

Then a miracle happened. The miracle of life.

There comes a time in a young hen’s life when she gets ‘the urge’. Now that our hens were grown and the warm weather was fast approaching, little Mildred went ‘broody.’

When a hen goes ‘broody’ it means they are inclined to sit on their eggs for the purpose of hatching chicks.

What it REALLY means is that they will pluck out their own feathers near their chest to create a bald patch to make skin-to-egg contact for greater warmth for their developing babies, eat extra food to put on a little weight, get a glossy, far away stare, flatten themselves out over the clutch of eggs, growl and even peck at anyone that comes near them, and stay there for 21 days. They will turn the eggs three times a day. They will hardly get up to poop, eat, or drink. That is tough on a chicken. There is no knowing when a chicken will go broody except to say they won’t do it in cold conditions, realizing that baby chicks might not survive. There is no way to stop a hen from going broody if it is determined to do so (except through some cruel methods that don’t always work anyway) and there is no way to force a hen to go broody if they don’t want to. Some breeds are more inclined to go broody than others, some individual hens are more likely to go broody than others.

Some things that you should do if your hen goes broody and you want to encourage her: make sure she has food and water close by so that she can take nourishment without straying very far. You should move her to an isolated spot from the flock so that she will not be disturbed. The trouble with this is that with a young and inexperienced hen, of she is disturbed, she may lose interest and give up sitting. Sometimes, even if everything is perfect, she will give up after a few days anyway because it was just too damn hard. Mildred seemed determined.

We didn’t have an isolated place for her, so here is what we did and the mistakes we made along the way, one of these mistakes is what led to Coq Au ultimately being spared from his very near brush with execution.

We reached under her and felt two eggs, we immediately put two or three more under her. We left her alone in the nesting box for several days, making sure she did have food close by. We wanted to make sure she was going to ‘stay the course’ on her own and we had no suitable place to isolate her. That was mistake number one.

Chickens are social animals. You can spend days and weeks just observing the political structure that makes up to proverbial ‘pecking order’. What we never knew was the social nature of ‘motherhood’. It seems, that as soon as the ladies hear that one of their own have gone broody, they all stop by to offer words of encouragement and ‘help’. It goes sort of like this … when another hen drifts into the coop and sees that ‘thousand yard stare’ of the broody hen, she says “oh … are you doing that thing? Here, let me help you, since you’re doing that ‘thing’ anyway!” and she’ll climb in on TOP of the expectant mother and lay another egg. The mother will at some point scoop that egg under her along with the rest. The laying hen then feels like she is ‘participating’ in the miracle of birth and ‘helping’ the flock. In other words, the lazy bitch is dropping off her responsibilities with someone else who will do the work for her!

So, after a few days, poor Mildred was sitting on FOURTEEN eggs. With no way to tell for sure which were her original clutch or not, I could only remove a few of the eggs, the only ones I could be ‘sure’ were new and not already several days into a potential hatch. It was then that I decided to affix some plastic garden fencing around her area to help isolate her. Since her box was smack in the middle of the nesting boxes, it was particularly awkward and the whole while I was afraid I’d be making too much noise and disturbance and interrupt her concentration. To my horror, I discovered that in spite of my best efforts, and in spite of the fact that it did REDUCE the frequency of interlopers into her private space, some determined hens still managed to ignore the FIVE OTHER EMPTY nesting boxes and go through great length to crawl past the barrier with some difficulty to continue to ‘help’ poor overburdened Mildred.

So, I had to let it be, but as the days passed, it was easier to identify ‘new’ eggs under her. Unfortunately, with so many eggs under her, more mistakes happened. With so many eggs to turn, sometimes one or more would become broken. That was okay, because there were far too many. Also, some of the eggs might not be fertile. You know that old expression about counting your chickens? Well … yeah.

While this was going on, herself and I figured there would be more babies than our flock would absorb, so we decided to inform our little chicken network. We reached out to Tara who had a few chickens to let her know that if ever we had too many hens, we would gladly gift her with one or more if she wanted and if we had extra. We reached out to a neighbor with a few hens for the same reason, and we reached out to Dave, and old service buddy of mine who had a lot of land and a small flock way up in upstate NY, although ferrying hens six hours away seemed a difficult task. Also, we reached out to Bruce. Bruce is a tall, burly man who lives on a farm that is about 12 miles away. His family grown hay, straw, corn, and it has been in his family for generations, but they currently had no livestock. We discussed with him the prospect of getting chickens and if ever he wanted to start his own flock, we’d be happy to donate a few chicks and even a spare rooster if we were faced with the likely hood that one was born. We could only have ONE ROOSTER and we’d have to find a home for a spare (whichever one we felt was the ‘spare’ wink wink). So, with several potential sources for spare birds to have homes, we felt confident of a successful future for any chicks born … ones that might be staying, and ones that might have to go to good homes.

This next bit is really important. Don’t miss this bit … it is about how Coq Au Vin’s place in our home was assured.

A broody hen will only get off of the nest for about fifteen minutes at most. Take some food, stretch the legs, then back at it. If ever she spends too much time away from that nest, the eggs will become cold and the developing chicks will die. So, sometime after two weeks into sitting, I came home from work, went out to give treats to the flock, and Coq Au was giving me ‘the look’. He stood there still as a statue with malice in his eyes. Just standing there in the run, next to the nesting boxes. Glaring his hatred at me and all things human. I fed treats to the girls and glared right back at him. I steeled myself for the day’s inevitable onslaught … but it didn’t come. He clucked his usual angry clucks at me. Flapped his wings mightily, and glared. He didn’t move and inch toward me and when he’s in this state, he normally goes on the attack immediately. I was perplexed. “What the hell is wrong with YOU?” I testily demanded.

A realization struck me. I took a quick ‘beak’ count. Mildred was OUTSIDE IN THE RUN! She had slipped past the enclosure in the coop and couldn’t get back in to the eggs! Unlike what you’d expect from a nervous mother, she was happy as a clam to be out and having treats. Coq Au Vin, on the other hand, stood there stone still, KNOWING something was wrong and trying to do everything roosterly possible to alert me that life was at stake. He not only was already good at protecting his flock, but he was even trying desperately to protect the unborn!

I had no time to muse over his feelings at that moment, it was 5:30 or so, the sun was high, and temps in the coop were still hot, so I hoped against hope that we still had a chance. I scooped up Mildred in a hurry and gently deposited her on that nest. There was one cracked egg in there (something that had happened before a few times) so I snatched that egg out and hoped even some of the ones left had not gone cold!

I disposed of that egg. A cracked egg will not hatch, and I was horrified to discover that there was a developing chick (now passed on, of course) in that shell. That … out of everything else that had happened before or has happened since … was my most heartbreaking moment. To this day, I have never told my wife about what I saw in that discarded egg, and even now, nearly two years later, my heart still hurts over it.

Still no time, I called my wife and begged her to tell me what time she had last checked on Mildred. She told me four o’clock. That means that Mildred slipped the fence sometime AFTER four o’clock and was returned by 5:30. That window was still too long, but narrow enough that I help out hope that some of those babies had survived.

There were too many eggs to take care of. There were a couple of broken ones along the way. She slipped off of the nest for some undetermined amount of time. This was a disaster … to think she might have gone through three weeks of that for naught.

Four days later, it was Saturday. Herself was at work and I checked the nest. Mildred was off of it again, but standing right there. I looked carefully and one of the eggs was ‘pipped’! There was a live baby chick being born before my eyes! I took the above picture and sent it to my wife. It would be hours before the baby would emerge, so I left the situation alone.

The next day, my wife and I checked to find one healthy, happy, baby chick! The TV show Vikings, being popular at that time, we gave this new life the strong name Lagertha, one of the strongest female figures on the show!

We waited a few more days hoping more would hatch, but it was not to be. Two days later, Mildred emerged and proudly introduced baby Lagertha to the world. Unlike the first generation, Lagertha would be raised by a real chicken mommy with the sun on her face and grass under her feet. We were disappointed that there weren’t more hatched, but relieved that new life was possible for our little flock.

I quietly disposed of the unhatched eggs, without deep investigation into the contents.

I had given my wife the details of Coq Au Vin’s actions that day. I told her, and she agreed, that it didn’t matter how much of a douche bag he was determined to be, he was the best rooster for our flock that a person could hope to own. I don’t need him to be nice or gentle, I need him to be a good protector to those girls.

Dental Plan.

Dental Plan.

With the situation still unresolved over Coq Au, winter broke and spring came gently to the land. The flock was fast approaching one year old and everything (except what to do about the angry rooster!) was running smoothly.

Then … one day … the eggs stopped. The feed was right, they had treats, forage, oyster shells … but the daily egg count dwindled off from about five eggs a day to one egg every other day.

I marched into that run, rooster be damned, and demanded an explanation from Matilda (the flock’s union rep). Among the hens, Hermione is the alpha, a fiery little girl that would remind you of many of Joe Pesci’s characters. Although recognized as their de facto leader after Coq Au, the flock thought she was a little too hot headed herself to enter into negotiations of a high level and yet manage to keep her cool, so they elected Matilda to be the union’s liaison with upper management.

Anyway, I marched in there and demanded an explanation about the egg situation.

“We’re on strike.” She plainly explained.

“On STRIKE??!!” I quipped, “Why on EARTH would you go on strike?”

“We want a dental plan.” Matilda calmly intoned.

“You understand that you don’t even have teeth, right?” I tried to rationalize to her.

“No matter, we work pretty hard and feel we deserve some benefits.” She stated.

“Do you even know what a dental plan is?” I asked

“Don’t you oppress me, I’m a respected member of the flock and it’s high time we sorted out some worker’s rights around here.” She calmly demanded.

She was without threat and without malice, so I entered into tough negotiations with her. After several hours of hard fought compromise it was decided that they would get a gold level premium dental plan and that the mealworms to cracked corn ratio would be improved. Naturally, chickens don’t have teeth, so I only TOLD them I was getting a dental plan for them. Nor can they read, so when I showed Matilda the ‘policy’ I had obtained, she peered at it with pretend intensity … said ‘hmmm’ several times and finally ended with ‘Very good, everything looks in order.’

Turns out, that when chickens are molting, not only will they stop laying eggs during their molt, they will also get some pretty strange ideas in their heads.

“Dental plan” indeed. I figure the neighbor’s Australian Shepherd put that idea into their heads to sow discord. Bastard.

After some time, whether it was the end of their molt, or the fact that they did notice an improvement in the mealworms ratio, they started laying again. Coq Au and I had continued our mutual stance of armed neutrality through the whole crisis, each of us realizing that bigger things were at stake than our petty squabble.

Come tax time, in an effort to mitigate the increased cost of treats due to a higher percentage of mealworms, I asked my accountant if I could declare the flock as dependents. He blithely replied “Get me their social security numbers and we’ll talk.”

On a side note …

Today, as I was in the kitchen, window open on a rare day of temps in the 60’s in Feb. I heard a ruckus on the porch. I went outside quickly and hens went fleeing off of the porch. “What was that ruckus?” I demanded. “What ruckus?” They said. “I distinctly heard a ruckus!” I replied. “Can you describe the Ruckus?” they asked. At this point, I felt a fool for arguing with chickens who apparently had been raised up with the same level of sarcasm as every other NJ resident. I don’t know what they were up to, but I suspect they were trying to get to the mealworms can on the potting table. Also … I must remember to cut the cable to their TV … no more old movies for them. Take THAT chicken union!

Dark Days.

Dark Days.

The dark days of winter fell upon us. The cold and wet meant more time inside for herself and I and less yard time for the flock. They were able to get more sleep at night and egg production slowed just a little. Some hens shut down entirely in the worst of the cold, but our hard working girls kept right on laying, even if the rate was a little slower. When Yuletide rolled around I bought a ‘flock block’ to put in their coop. This is a massive hard packed seed treat thing, not unlike what others might put out for the wild birds to peck at in winter when foraging is scarce. This one was maybe 25lbs! This reason was more to stave off the boredom that comes from being ‘cooped up’ in bad weather (yeah, the expression actually comes from something). But, cold temps be damned, our chickens love being out in their run all day, every day. Down to temperatures in the teens they will still stand watch through the bitter hours desperate for some sun. The only days they elected to stay in the coop was on snow days (you can read my earlier post on the most recent snow day to gather their unchanging opinion on the matter).

 

All the while I was mindful of my task to spare my roosters life in spite of his best efforts to convince me that we should end it. These are the things I discovered about his behavior over that winter. He gets a ‘look’ about him when he’s spoiling for a fight. When the early dawn took, and I had to be ready for work before the sun was on high, I would go out to the coop, open the peep door, and let them into the run. Often, he would dash out and stand betwixt me and the girls and give me ‘the look’. I would never back down. It was in HIS interest that he had to learn the true pecking order of the household, and when he did take it in mind to charge, battle would be joined and he would end up the worse for it. I am ever grateful that my morning coffee was already strong about me so that I would be steeled for the morning task at hand. But this I also discovered: After he would retreat with as much dignity as he could muster, I would check the doings of the flock with as much time as I could before the daily trek to the office. I often found his attacks were because the flock had run short of feed. Sometimes because they ran short of water. He was alerting me that things were amiss and I needed to address the situation immediately. I was also learning to ‘chicken’ and discovered that it was only natural that with less foraging the yard, they were going through feed more quickly!

One day, they didn’t come out. I peered with bleary eyed attention into the peep door and noticed that not only was their feeder empty, they had knocked it over and it was blocking the exit. Still in my morning fog, I reached in through the peep door to right it once again and that son of a bitch bit me hard. Right on the meaty part of my hand between the thumb and the fingers. I drew back in pain, realized that he had not drawn blood, but it was to be a nasty bruise. I knew that once he tasted my blood, he would be itching for a taste of my internal organs, so I was grateful it was only a bruise. I went in through the large door amidst the now frantic girls and braved ‘the look’ he gave, refilled the feed and went to work.

To this day I’m not quite sure if he knew it was MY hand, or merely thought it was an intruder. Either way, I had come to realize that he would lay down his life willingly to defend that flock.

If I were to give an accurate, though anecdotal assessment of WHY he would choose to go on the attack on one morning over another I’d say the break down was approximately 50% something is wrong, no food, or something and 50% ‘you just piss me off in general and I’m coming for you.’

Turns out, a rooster has very complex emotions and he doesn’t seem to give a fig what my complex emotions are.

So after the first of the year … mind you, I was NOT giving up hope of a reconciliation … I called the local farm to discuss a replacement rooster. The woman that owned the farm (this is where we bought the chicks in the first place, so I had already had a few long discussions with her and found her to be a wonderful conversationalist) and I talked about a great many things. We talked about the lavender crossbreed rooster she had that she could part with, we talked about what to do about learning how to butcher a bird if the time came, we talked about the possibility of a zombie apocalypse … some folks are very strange indeed … and by that, I mean myself most of all. I gravitate to strange folks it seems. What struck me most of all was her confirmation that this was indeed all very common behavior for most roosters and that the temperament of any rooster was a crap shoot. She went on to describe her own ‘rooster-be-good’ stick that she carried with her whenever she attended to the doings of her own flock.

My mind was torn on the matter, but still tending toward sparing his life. I felt no great need to execute our first rooster if the result could easily be a rooster that was just as bad or worse. Besides that, I was getting the idea that he was committed to his job and at least half of the efforts he made in proving his wrath upon my body was in the sole interest of his girls.

Obsessed.

Obsessed.

Here is a list of some of obsessive things that casual chicken owners do. Remember, do NOT take advice from some jerk on the internet just because he writes a blog about it! Research!

1)      A little vinegar (cap full) in their waterer will keep bacteria down and aid their digestion. Of course, only the finest organic apple cider vinegar for our girls! Note: A little vinegar in the waterer may be good for the chickens, but if you have a galvanized steel font, it will rust out in a quick season! Lesson learned!

 

2)      A spoonful of diatomaceous earth stirred into their feed will prevent intestinal parasites and also aid in digestion. Note: This is true, but only use FOOD GRADE d.e. Pool grade contains harmful artificial silicates.

3)      Hot oatmeal. Yes, I give my girls hot oatmeal each morning with vegetables stirred in on a bed of greens. Things like this are extra, the main stay of their diet should be their regular feed. In late fall, we’ll add spices to help them metabolize the cold weather better. In winter, I’ll add sardines once a week. Usually, a banana goes in the oatmeal as well. Our pig Ruby loves this, she always gets the peel (and a piece or two of the banana!) Note: best is to have their regular feed available at all times. Best addition to this is as much time foraging the property for bugs and wild greens as possible. After that come treats … they’ll eat almost anything, but DO read up on what NOT to give them!

4)      Frozen treats in summer. Into a muffin pan I ladle out vegetables (peas, beans, whatever) into a muffin tin, top off with water, and freeze. Heat waves can be tough on fully feathered birds, so I’ll pop out a couple of these and the frozen veggies help them cope. Note: Corn is a fine treat to give them, even if it is a little devoid of nutrition, but the act of grinding and digesting the husks generates heat. They get more corn in winter than summer.

5)      Heat lamp. This is its own topic. Do NOT use a heat lamp unless you are SURE it is properly secured! An unsecured heat lamp that falls and comes into contact with the coop’s bedding can cause a fire and kill your birds. In a bad, bad way. Also, your birds don’t need it (if you have an all weather or cold weather breed). Silkies, for instance, have a hard time staying warm in winter so they would probably need the heat lamp. If you ARE going to use a heat lamp, besides being secure, I recommend a ‘thermocube’. This is a simple set thermostat usually used for heater waterers in livestock situations. When the ambient temperature reaches 35 degrees, it turns on. When the temps rise to 45 degrees it turns off again. My heat lamp and heated font (yeah, my spoiled chickens have that too) are plugged into this, it isn’t running constantly. It is only running when the bitter cold sets in. With a number of birds inside the coop at night, all generating their own heat, it doesn’t turn on right away even if OUTSIDE temps have dropped into the 20’s.

 

6)      Chicken swing. This is a swing that some obsessed people (including us) install in a run so that when the chickens get bored they can perch on it and keep themselves occupied by gently rocking back and forth. Thus far, our chickens have tried it exactly twice and it is in the ‘nope’ category for them.

There are a thousand other ways folks will spoil their chickens. Most of them completely unnecessary, but we do it anyway. At any rate, healthy, happy birds make healthy, happy eggs. They also make healthy, happy company.

There Comes a Time.

There Comes a Time.

One day in late November of 2014, I arrived at my office with head hung down and shoulders slumped. Normally, my coworkers avoid talking to me in the morning because they know it will be a long and detailed story of what Mildred ate this morning, or that cute thing that Myrtle did, etc. But, being compassionate people, they asked me why I was looking so glum.

“I’m worried about my rooster’s health.” I grimly intoned.

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“My wife wants him dead.” I solemnly replied.

You see, after weeks of his bad behavior, my wife had had enough. She couldn’t enjoy the company of her flock with the proverbial sword of Damocles hanging over her in the form of an angry rooster. And now, that sword hung over him, only he didn’t realize it.

It came to a point where she insisted he had to go. There are very few options for unwanted roosters and the thought of ending his life was not a decision I was willing to come to lightly. We both knew that no one wants a spare rooster for any reason but one. I was not prepared to issue a sentence upon him unless I was absolutely sure of it. Some folks will butcher a chicken without thought and I have no compunction about doing so … but only under the terms of great need. So, we talked with some other chicken owners, consulted the interwebs experts, and called a local farm to see if it would be possible to obtain a replacement. For sure we did want a rooster, just hopefully a less evil one. I did, however, explain to my wife that any rooster could turn out to be hostile and we might find ourselves in this same position time and again.

I talked long and hard with my wife about the importance of ‘the boot’ and that every day, I offer Coq Au Vin a choice. He can have the treat or the boot. Four or five days a week he’ll opt for the treat. But some mornings, upon offering him his choice, he looks at me and says “Y’know what? Today I need to boot. My life just won’t be complete today until I antagonize you to the point to deliver to me a sound kick or three.” And I oblige him. I explained to my wife that when you think he needs to boot, you can’t flee, you can’t shrink away, you must stand there as if you have bigger balls than he does. You must be firm, stand your ground, and be prepared to deliver on your promises. I went on to explain that although you may do this with great aplomb, there will be days when he insists that he needs the boot anyway. You must deliver.

Bless her heart, she did try. But it isn’t in her. So, it fell entirely to me to straighten out this situation. Not only to create peace in our realm, but to save his life! The most extreme thing I did was to catch him, grab him firmly by his legs (let me tell you, you can feel the muscle in those drumsticks!) and carry him around upside down for a while. In front of the flock. On display until he calms down. Humiliate him in front of the flock. I kid you not, this is what the experts recommend. When he calms down, you’re supposed to hold him right way around again for a little bit longer, hand feed him some treats, and then gently put him down.

The reality of this is this … I convinced my wife to help me and catching that fucker in the first place was no easy task! But, I coerced him close to me with the promise of a good fight and, with heavy gloved hands, clumsily grabbed him. My wife had to help hold him still for a bit so I could adjust my grip. I can not tell you how brave this is of her to face the fear of this rooster to help me do this! I finally had a firm grip of both legs in one hand. But I was holding his legs to low down close to his feet and that son of a bitch reared up with knees bent and went at me! More adjusting, no bleeding, and a little bruising (I’m speaking of myself!) I finally had him around the thighs. Sure, while dangling upside down, blood rushing to his head, he was calm. Seething in a calm angry hatred of all things me. After a while, I up ended him and sensing he was still firmly held, he remained calm. But he damn well vowed not to take a treat from me! After a time, I gently let him down. I did expect him to spin on his heels and come at me, but he stomped off to sulk somewhere and shortly after, engage in some sex with the first willing hen.

 

At any rate, this was not going to be an overnight transformation. Not to be bested myself, I also vowed that I would somehow find his good side and spare his life. I told my wife that we would NOT be killing him, and that I would work with him through the winter and we would make a decision sometime in the spring. He had a temporary stay.

I want you to remember that I refer to both myself and the rooster as douche bags. They say that opposites attract, but in the case of my wife and me the truth is that our marriage works so well … I am so in love with her … because she is as big of a douche bag as I am. While she was unwilling to stand firm and kick the rooster, she DID enjoy attempting a bit of psychological warfare. Come thanksgiving, she actually paraded the turkey carcass in front of that chicken run as a display to Coq Au Vin of the possible fate that awaited him if he continued down the path he was on!

The entire crux of the issue is that he believes himself to be the big papi of the henhouse. What he doesn’t realize is that I’M big papi, and he can only hope to be little papi!

He had the winter and perhaps the spring to learn to calm down, or his fate was sealed.

A Brief Interlude.

A brief interlude.

Can you believe it? This is my first post about what is going on 'today'. I still have a lot of back story to catch you all up on, and trust me, there is an epic story arc to come just on one topic ...

But today is a rare and wonderful snow day!

As I've stated before, my flock are black australorps and I chose them because of their hardiness to various weather conditions. They're good down to zero degrees without worry. Their favorite weather conditions, truth be told, is a cloudy day in the 40s with little to no wind.

But snow is right out!

Yesterday, in preparation for the snow, most folks in NJ went into their usual pre-storm panic of picking up more bread, eggs, and milk than a reasonable person could eat. In fact, herself and I have all of that anyway, so the only essentials I needed to pick up were smokes and booze. Being home on time and without issue, I made sure the flock's feed was topped off and their water clean. Considering the 6-12 inches we were expecting in the early morning hours, I wanted them to be prepared to be shut in the coop for the day.

Up early this morning, I trudged out to bring them hot breakfast and their union rep issued a formal complaint about not being let out into the run. I had no time for their worries so I told them that their complaint would be filed for upper management to consider later. After a check on the roads, I went back inside and called out from work.

The bulk snow ended sometime around noon and I set to the task of shoveling (an activity that I find about as endearing as mowing). First, I started the cars to let them warm up a bit for snow clearing, then shoveled a bit into the chicken run. With a little bit of a patch cleared, I opened the wee door to the coop. A little head peaked out. It was Hortense. She more than any other cherishes her 'me' time and was probably itching to get out on her own. She peaked around, look at the horrible white death surrounding the outside and said 'nope'. Another head, another 'nope' and I was off to clear cars and shovel the driveway. At some point, Coq Au herded the lil flock outside. They stood in the mud briefly, danced around on the snow momentarily, then issued their collective 'nope' and all went back inside. Coq Au shrugged, and followed them.

Heavy rain? No problem ... they hunker down outside UNDER the coop. Hot sunny day? No problem, they bask in the shade taking their dirt baths. High wind? No problem, they huddle together outside in one mass.

Snow is 'nope'.

Medical Emergency!

Medical Emergency!

The rooster and I developed a philosophy of armed neutrality and things were running fairly normally. I mentioned we had our first egg in August and that the wait had been excruciating. The wait for the second egg seemed even longer because our expectations were now higher. Nine days later there was a second egg, and after that they began laying like champions!

Now, I want you to understand that I am a horrible cook. I can only cook well enough not to die. Never the less, it has been reported that I can cook a reasonably good burger and also know my way around an egg … not elegantly, but enough to manage breakfast. My long suffering wife understands that I am nearly completely devoid in the culinary arts and thus handles the brunt of the cooking … and she does it with fantastic results. But Sundays … I cook eggs for breakfast. She is delighted. No matter how bad it looks … no matter how bad it tastes … she is thrilled with a meal she didn’t have to cook herself and usually coupled with the prospect of NOT having to wash the dishes either.

The first Sunday breakfast consisting of eggs entirely from our girls was a treat. She asked me ‘What’s for breakfast?’ and I proudly replied ‘This morning we shall feast upon the unborn provided for us by our dark minions!’ In her bleary early morning state she merely replied ‘Great. Is there coffee?’

This was now the time when each morning, not only would I obsess over the doings of our girls, but looked forward to collecting the eggs. Coq Au only needed an occasional kick and was still not overly inclined to have a real dust up with me (yet).

There was a day in mid-November. Middle of the week and by then the season was beginning to turn. I remember it was overcast and there was spotty rain. I went out to the coop before work to collect our due, see to the girls, and … if needed … battle the rooster.

I opened the coop door and my heart immediately sank. Under their roosts was bloody stool. Not a little, yet not enough to make me feel every hen was affected, but certainly there. Copious, in fact. I looked hard. Studied the stool. The flock seemed okay, but this was not something to play around with. I went into the house, informed my wife of the issue, and told her I was calling in late … possibly out for the day from work. I knew she’d probably need to keep herself busy, so I encouraged her to go to work and I’d keep her updated about the situation. Normally morally opposed to skipping work, I called and let them know I was going to be out. The health and possibly the lives of those under the care of my household was at stake and this was reason enough to shirk my employment duties until I could get it sorted out.

Time felt urgent to me. Chickens are hardy, but never the less, when something is seriously wrong, they can go down a lot faster than a larger animal. I went to my books and my interwebs sources. Read three, maybe six articles (quickly!) relating to common chicken ailments and decided that whatever it was, it was most likely coccidiosis.

Coccidiosis is a common naturally occurring parasite that affects the digestive tracks of birds and many mammals. Very difficult for people to catch, not uncommon in livestock. Birds in the wild can carry it and even if you never let your chickens out of their chicken run they can still get it. I was reading that it often had a mortality rate in chickens of 70%. Even losing one life seemed tragic and I couldn’t fathom losing maybe six chickens. Also I was reading that it could do its damage in a matter of days. That told me the window I had, but that time was still of the essence. The only positive thing I was reading was that once affected, any surviving birds would then be immune and that it was treatable through medication.

A little reading and I learned that medication was available at my local Tractor Supply. They would be open a little later and as soon as the time drew near I would find myself driving the 12 miles to pick up their over the counter meds.

While waiting, I cleaned out the bloody stool as best as I could and decided that with no way to determine who was affected and no place to isolate them, I would have to treat them all. I also took the time to read up on the meds and realized that it was recommended for larger livestock, and not for chickens. The fancy chicken blogs came to my rescue and I read several anecdotes of successfully using the medicine and how to administer. I also read that one small bottle, put into your livestock’s water, would created 50 to 100 gallons of medicated water. With a three gallon waterer for my flock, I would need to carefully measure the dosage! Additionally, the meds would leach out vital nutrients from the hens’ bodies so I would be picking up a vitamin supplement also.

Once the morning progressed, I drove off, obtained my possibles, and raced home.

Measuring chemicals is not a strong suit of mine. My last science exposure was way back in high school when we watched such educational videos like “It’s an Atom, Charlie Brown.” So I was more than a little nervous about messing the whole thing up and causing more harm than good.

Even the smallest bottle of the mix would be enough to dose my chicken waterer for several solid years, so at least I had an incredible margin of error to get it right! With shaking hands I measured the miniscule amount of medicine, decided it was the wrong amount, dumped it, and tried again. By the third try I figured it was close enough. Then I added the vitamin supplement.

I don’t recall the name of the medication, but know I could find the information again when needed, but to this day, I’ll never forget the name of that supplement. Nutri-drench. It lingers in my mind to this day because in that moment of heightened senses due to worry over my chickens and paranoia of getting the meds right, I opened that bottle and the stench emanating from the product was indescribable. I had earlier cleaned out bloody stool from a chicken coop and the smell of that was pale by comparison. I steeled myself against the odiferous concoction and let loose an eye dropper full of the foul yellow-brown liquid into their water font. I hoped they were less discerning than I!

I brought the waterer out to the coop. Since it was becoming a damp day, and they weren’t feeling well, I decided to keep them in the coop and not even allow them into the run. I also wanted their only water source to be the font and not any rain collected puddles, since I wanted them taking the meds straight away.

The experts said we should keep them medicated for two weeks at least. Also, although there was no threat from the parasite or the medication, my wife and I decided to discard the eggs we had on hand and any they laid in the meantime. I hated doing that. To this day, I consider every egg they provide a treasure and try not to waste the gift they bestow upon my family.

About three days later, not a one of the chickens passed away and there was no more blood in the stool. We kept them on the meds for the recommended time and the hateful nutri-drench for another day or two after.

I am so grateful they came out okay. What didn’t kill them made them stronger. What didn’t kill me physically nearly killed me emotionally!

BONUS POST - BABY VIDEO!

BONUS POST - BABY VIDEO

My wife found this lil video of the flock when they were two weeks old and having their first oatmeal!

A Fateful Day.

A Fateful Day

I work an office job. Long hours, very busy, fairly stressful, and find each moment away from my desk doing physical things like fixing the forklift (I have no real idea how to fix a forklift!), moving product around, coordinating things with one department or another … but mostly at a desk glued to a phone and computer. Often with no time even to take a lunch, my wife understands that I really can’t take social calls. So when she does have occasion to call me at work, it is pretty damn important and I always take her call!

So it was on a day late in September. The weather was perfect and she was to spend the day in the yard harvesting what was left in the garden, preparing the ground for next season, and obsessing over our little flock.

The call came late in the morning and I could tell right away something was wrong. She collected herself and told me that Coq Au attacked her. We hand raised this baby. He takes food out of our hand with the most gentle care. I couldn’t believe it. I talked her down and told her she must’ve been mistaken. She tried to tell me how he was all a flurry of feathers and talons, but I just couldn’t see it.

Roosters have a reputation. They can be nasty. Some breeds worse that others and one of the deciding factors for us against Rhode Island Reds was their aggressive reputation. We had read plenty of stories on the fancy chicken blogs of roosters who were sweet as pie and even liked to perch on their owners’ laps. But we had also read the tales of sweet roosters gone bad as soon as they hit an age where their testosterone was in full swing. Guess which one we ended up with?

When I got home, before going in the house I stopped by the flock and had a close look. Everyone seemed normal, including Coq Au. They all gathered around and I presented some meal worms. While they were munching, and I had their attention a bit, I asked them what happened, but they hushed up and wouldn’t own up to a thing. I went to our front door, sighed deeply, and walked in. My poor wife was sitting their brooding. Her face dark, and I knew this had to be more than mere dramatics. She gave me the gory details. She was completely unhurt, but so unnerved by the situation that it shattered her idyllic vision of owning chickens and having livestock.

I’m a little more pragmatic in such areas, I like to think, and figured a rooster is a rooster and just needs to get out a little aggression once in a while and as soon as he learns who the boss is, there would be little trouble. She and I also talked over the minutia and I mused over factors like her floppy gardening hat … maybe he didn’t recognize her, or the hat was casting a shadow that caused him to fear there was a threat. I went over all of these things and as the days passed, she tried again and again to enjoy the flock.

But he kept it up. Not every day. Not every encounter. But randomly and with alarmingly increasing frequency. Then came the day he came after me.

I was out in the yard with the flock foraging. It wasn’t a total surprise, with the disturbing reports from my wife, I was keeping a bit of an eye out. But he looked at me. I spied him looking at me and I looked at him. We looked at each other and I could see the moment when he decided that the flock was his, and his alone. I saw the moment when he decided he could ‘take’ me. He reared just a bit. His cowl expanded in a showy display, and then IT WAS ON!

Quick as a wink it as feathers and talons and he was determined to do bodily harm to my person. I quickly recovered my wits and let fly with a booted kick. I missed. The bastard ducked. He came low. But try as he might, he just wasn’t able to penetrate the armor of my blue jeans. Another kick. I connected with him … a glancing blow to the chest. He was completely undaunted and lunged again. A few more feints, another swing and a miss on my part and then my kick landed squarely home. Right on his well-muscled breast bone. Drove him back a foot or so.

Now, it is very important to remember that I was not trying to hurt him. At no point in my life will I ever intentionally cause harm to an animal. I was placing my kicks as carefully as possible to land on his breast area … where he has the most muscle and where two fighting roosters would be connecting with each other. The force of my kicks was tempered, although solid, designed to be firm enough to send a message, but not the kind of force to punt him into next week.

The second thing to remember is that a determined rooster can ignore a well-placed kick that drives him back a foot or so and he will require a second, third, or possibly more until he feels he can not achieve the better of the battle.

That day, Coq Au required two well-placed kicks (and a few glancing blows) until he walked off. He did turn his head briefly and say to me “okay … I’ll LET you be in the same yard as me. FOR NOW!”

With that, my wife as completely vindicated and it became clear, even to my thick mind, that Coq Au Vin was determined to do mischief. Now, and likely for a time to come.

I knew this is what a rooster could become going into the whole affair. I was hoping against hope that he would turn out to be one of the ‘sweet’ ones, but I also knew a rooster is to be a rooster. Evolution made him who he is and it was now time to figure out what to do about it.