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.