Dateline - May 6th, 2017.

Dateline - May 6th, 2017

I have been caught up with the business of life and its stresses and careless about updating the blog. To my dear readers, I humbly apologize. There is more story to tell yet about the doings of the past, but this just happened today so I thought I would share.

For those that don't know what an 'eggsong' is, the sound is hard to describe. The phenomenon is not hard to describe, when a hen lays an egg she 'sings'. The sound is almost, but not quite entirely, unlike singing. What it is, is an uncomfortable sounding cacophony of squawking and carrying on that sounds half way between pride and murder. When one of the girls sings, Coq Au is so disturbed by the sound that he starts squawking and carrying on with equal enthusiasm until he and hen calm down. This happens, as you can imagine, several times a day.

Also ... my lawn mower is broken beyond repair. Other matters more pressing in life have prevented me to do much about it, so I've let it go and the grass has reached nearly knee high.

So ... on with today's events. About noon I let the flock out to forage the high grass and enjoy the cool mid spring day. They wandered about while I busied myself indoors with this or that. I wasn't keeping a close eye, but they were quiet and that is usually a good sign.

A couple of hours into it and the clouds darkened so I figured it was a good time to get collect them into the run. Coq Au, Myrtle, Hermione, Hildegard, Lily, Petunia, Ermatrude, Mildred all went in like good birds. Matilda was not there, but that is not unusual. Lately she has been on the bottom of the pecking order and goes off to be away from the flock picking on her (this is a story for another day), but I always know where she goes and she gently comes to me for special treats and to be escorted by hand back to the run.

Hortense was also missing. ALSO not unusual because she likes to be by herself but usually can be found in a private dust bathing spot where she is pampering herself. This time, she was nowhere to be found.

I checked all of her usually 'me time' spots. Nothing. Waded through the tall grass of my yard with confidence that she was SOMEWHERE nearby unseen. I checked with my neighbor who cautioned me that the chickens have been wandering more into her yard (a gentle chide, they were not there now), and she went on to caution me to be careful of ticks while wading in my own tall grass (another gentle chide at the state of my lawn). I assured her that chickens are a great tool for keeping a yard low on ticks and asked her to alert me if Hortense turned up. With growing concern, I checked under the canoe, in the shed, near the compost, under all the bushes. Checked INSIDE the coop more than once. Made a half a dozen circles around the house ... nothing. Went inside, tried to think, back out for another circuit, nothing. If a predator had come along, I would've heard a great disturbance. If she wandered into the street (unusual), I would've seen a flattened bird. By nature, they don't wander too far, but if she was inclined, she'd be cautiously loping up the yards and I'd spot her. Nothing.

I went inside for another round of panicking.

Back outside for another circuit. As I am turning the corner from the front of the house and hear a particularly loud concert of chatter from the back ... eggsong and rooster in a duet that was an assault on the hears. As I came along that side, I quickly realized the 'hen' part was NOT coming from the coop but was off a bit to the right. Hortense came out from her hiding spot near the compost (a spot I had checked several times already) proudly announcing her accomplishment. Coq Au was in rare voice as his girl was NOT where she was supposed to be and had escaped his notice!

Flock reunited, egg collected, and I am very relieved.

Sometimes, my hens can be douche bags too.

Of Rolaids and KY Jelly.

Of Rolaids and KY Jelly

Everyone needs help sometimes. Even a strong leader can fall ill to some ailment large or small and be brought low for a time. A little help, a little recuperation, and a renewed attitude on life can do wonders.

One day, I walked out to the run to see the flock and tend to their needs. By and large, chickens are a lot hardier than they look and if properly fed and housed, they pretty much take care of themselves. Never the less, issues do arise from time to time and keeping a careful eye helps prevent minor issues from becoming major catastrophes.

Chickens have their own social structure and their own laws for dealing with issues. To the casual outside observer, trouble is usually responded to by hens fleeing for cover in all directions. While this is at least partially true, their social structure also gives the flock order and each hen plays a part. But if a hen is sick or injured, they will keep a distance from the others. Chickens, on their own, have no doctors. A sick or injured hen can put the whole flock at risk so they can have a natural tendency to pick on an injured hen, or chase away an ill hen. A sick or injured hen will also seek her own company away from the flock for these same reasons.

For reasons that weren’t immediately apparent, the alpha female, Hermione (also the smallest hen, oddly enough) was standing fairly still away from the rest of the flock. She is also Coq Au’s favorite girl so it was quite odd that neither he nor the rest of the girls were paying her any mind at all. Nor was she seeking their company. She is usually in the thick of things laying down the law to the other girls and strutting pridefully around, but today she seemed somewhat sullen. She was standing kind of funny too.

I opened the run to let the girls out into the yard and she was reluctant to come out, but she did. I threw down some treats and the girls clamored over each other to get them, but she didn’t come near. I threw some in her direction and noted that she took a passing interest and did eat some. If she’s not off her food, then it can’t be too bad, but I watched.

Hens have a very distinctive shape to their bodies. Especially good layers, and Hermione was one of the best. She lays large eggs for a girl of her slight frame, but her shape was all off. The way she stood, the way she walked, it was almost penguin-like. By now, I had read and reread enough of the common chicken ailments to know that she was probably ‘egg bound’.

'Egg bound' is where an egg is stuck in the hen’s laying tract and can be anywhere from uncomfortable to downright painful for her. And … as per usual … if not handled properly … can be fatal. An egg bound hen can’t walk right, stand right, sleep right, or eat right and her laying tract can continue to become backed up. I spent the next half an hour trying to catch her without injuring her or attracting too much attention from an angry rooster and thus becoming injured myself! She was not at her best and disinclined to bunch up with the rest of the girls so a little gentle patience won the day and I caught her. She was terrified when I out the blanket over her, but that calmed her quite a bit. I brought her into the house, washed my hands, gently held her on her back in the bath tub and gently, very gently, probed her cloaca. Sure enough, there was an egg in there and for whatever the reason, she was having trouble laying it.

I released her back outside and went off to consult the mystic chicken gurus of the interwebs whose dread knowledge is the answer to all questions great and small and reviewed the possible outcomes. The best outcome was that she would pass the egg herself in a few hours to a day, but there were great cautions against just letting it go. The worst case was that she would continue to be bound up and die. There was NO WAY I was going to allow that to happen to our little devil-may-care punk rock girl! The middle ground would be to puncture the egg and thus let it break. While this would reduce the size and allow it to pass, extracting the shells would need to be done with practically surgical precision or they may injure the soft internal tissue of the hen and thus put her at great risk. This being my first go around with an egg bound hen, I was NOT going to go that route!

I decided that she would have to pass the egg herself, but that there were things to do to help her and I was willing to do them! I ran out to the store for some Rolaids and KY lubricant. I also called my wife and let her know what was going on so that she didn’t question why there was a chicken in the house. Oh crap … I let her go outside and would have to catch her again.

After a second half an hour with a more wary hen, I had her under the towel again. She was scared again, but calm. I brought her back into the bathroom and filled the sink with warm water. The experts explained that one of the causes could be stress and soothing the bird in a warm bath would help her tension relax. Who knew that chickens got stressed? Who knew they like warm baths? Well, no one explained this to Hermione because she had no interest in sitting down in the warm water. She stubbornly stood in the sink without letting her bottom come NEAR the water.

While this battle of wills played out in slow motion, I took a couple of Rolaids and broke them into small pieces. You see, one of the causes for being egg bound could be lack of calcium, and anyway, the extra calcium carbonate would stimulate the egg laying process. What the geniuses of the web failed to mention was how to get a stubborn hen to TAKE the pieces of Rolaids. So there I was. A confused hen standing in a sink full of warm water staring blankly at me while I offered her some antacids. You can’t make this stuff up.

Added stress be damned, a grasped her and got a few pieces into her beak. She was going to get better whether she wanted to or not and the union rep was not around for her to lodge a formal complaint! Next came the ‘fun’ part.

As per the best advice of the knowledgeable experts, I held poor little Hermione on her back again in the bathtub while I gently (and I do mean gently) probed her cloaca with a finger full of KY. Man, the egg was so near the surface and it was indeed large. Her vent did look red and swollen from the effort of trying to lay this monster that I felt like the KY would, in fact, do some good, but if anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be in my bathroom with a finger lodged a knuckle or two deep into the underside of a live hen, I’d have said that would have been a very unlikely scenario. But … here we were, Hermione and I, at the moment of a trust bond in our familial relationship.

After I felt like that spread as much personal lubricant around the affected area as I could and had gotten as many pieces of Rolaids into her as she was willing to take, I set her down on a soft pillow in a blanket with a warm towel over her so she could relax and de-stress. An hour later I repeated my failed attempt to give her a soothing soak and out her back to rest. An hour after that, herself came home.

“Where’s the poor baby!”

I gently shushed her and took her into the bathroom for a peek. After she was sure our little leader of the flock was resting comfortably, I explained what I had done so far and that soaking for fifteen minutes each hour was recommended, but that I was having trouble with that. With soak time approaching, my wife helped me. She held Hermione by the body, while I folded her legs in a bit and we got her to make contact with the water. We had to hold her in place with a hand on her back, as she remained perpetually unconvinced that a soak was a good thing. We were going to repeat the process through the evening until she laid her egg, hopefully by morning, but her time away from the flock was cut short.

At some point, as evening approached, even though the lights in the bathroom were off to keep her calm and allow her to rest, she decided it was her new mission in life to kill the strange hen she encountered in the mirror. That hen didn’t look like anyone she knew and it didn’t smell like … well … it didn’t smell like anyone at all! So, she or her, one of them had to go!

With this new ruckus, we knew her time at the spa had come to an end. We were a little fearful of returning her to the flock, she was still egg bound, and now having been away from the flock for hours, the others might treat her with suspicion and pick on her. Fortunately, it was getting dark and the hens were looking to go to bed, so once they were in the coop, we placed her gently in one of the nesting boxes and hoped for the best.

I’ll never know if it was the calcium carbonate, the KY, the soak, or just time, but next day she passed the egg. With crisis narrowly averted, the flock returned to normal and Hermione resumed her place as the top girl, although Coq Au let her rest for a few days before resuming his particular brand of attention to her. At least he had that much class.

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!

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.

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!

Coq Au Vin - The Romantic; And Our First Egg.

Coq Au Vin – the romantic and our first egg

As they grew through that summer an into fall we began to notice how Coq Au was beginning to ‘Rooster’ and saw that it was (mostly) good.

There comes a time in every young man’s life that he ‘notices’ girls in a very different way. So too did that time come for our little Coq Au. The first real evidence of this was while hand feeding him treats, he gently picked up a tasty bread crumb from my hand and did NOT eat it! He lifted his head up straight and proud and ‘twirred’ I guess you’d call it. The sound is something like a cross between the coo of a dove with a bit of chicken-like baritone and a little more vibrato. He made this noise to call over one of the hens and he gave the bread crumb to her! He still does this to this day, whether it is a bread crumb (his favorite) a mealworms, a bug, or a blueberry stolen from the neighbor’s bush. My wife and I positively gushed with how sweet he is and how he puts the hens first! That is also still true to this day.

Around this time came what could not be mistaken for anything else but a mating dance. He began to dance. Whenever he was feeling enamorously infatuated with a particular hen, he would stiffen one leg rigid and dance in a circle on it around the hen. The mating commenced immediately after whether she was particularly inclined or not!

Naturally, this shocked herself and I a little, but hey, I had memories of this with our chickens growing up, so we got over it quickly. The hens took a little more time to get used to it … after all they were still new at this whole thing too! When poor little Hortense was mounted for the first time she fainted. That isn’t hyperbole … he mounted her, soon dislodged himself, and she just sat there. My wife and I rushed over fearing she was injured and she was limp and seemingly lifeless when we picked her up, but she quickly snapped out of it and came around. Who knew that chickens could faint???? She sat quietly on my lap for a bit until she recovered herself, a few special treats for her and off she went.

Hermione … on the other hand …

Hermione was growing to be our smallest hen, yet within the world of chicken politics, she was decidedly the alpha! She would pick on girls larger than her if they got in her way. Once everyone got the idea of this whole mating business she would literally squat in front of himself and present her bottom in what I could only guess would be a pornographic way in the world of chickens. What’s more, if he took an interest in mating with another girl, she would attempt to rush in and chase her away!

In those early days, he was so intent (like newly minted young men are) on mating as often as possible. It got to the point where when we’d open the little peep door in the early morning to let them out of the coop, he’d rush out first and the hens would remain hesitantly inside. They knew the first girl out of the door was in for a rape. They would draw straws, debate, conduct a short union meeting, take a vote, then ultimately push one of the hens out. While he was distracted, the others would rush out and perch on the relative safety of the old outside chair where they could continue the morning union meeting in peace.

Now, the correct ration for hens to roosters is about one rooster for a dozen hens. We had seven hens, so we weren’t too far off of the mark. There are good reasons to own a rooster for the health and safety of your flock, but if you only have … say … two hens … do not get a rooster! They will wear those poor girls out ‘knocking the bottom out of it’ at every opportunity! After a time, we noticed that several of his ‘favorite’ girls were ‘over-mated’. Meaning, he had rubbed the feathers off of their backs and continued until the flesh under was a little raw. In summer, they even became a little sunburned. Here is a photo, zoom in on the girls, those are bald patches!

 

Some corn starch on their backs helped ease their pain and in spite of my misgivings, my wife ordered ‘chicken saddles’ which, apparently, are a real thing! See this picture of some of the girls sporting their new saddles.

 

Apart from his sexual misconduct, Coq Au was also becoming a good leader in the real sense of the word. Chickens spend a lot of time gazing at the ground in an endless search for tasty morsels. Roosters do not. Coq Au has missed many a treat tossed SPECIFICALLY in his direction because he’s too slow to react about things on the ground and even if the bread crumb bounced off his chest, and he bends down to retrieve it, a fast hen from some distance away would RUSH over and gain the prize in a mere instant before his beak could connect with the object of his hunger.

But he’s built that way. He’s meant to keep his head up. He’s watching the surroundings so his girls can eat in peace. Many times he would growl when a dark shape loomed over head which served well to alert me of a predator taking wing on high long before I had seen it myself. If I wasn’t immediately at hand, he would lead the girls to the safety of tree cover or the run.

He would also corral the girls to keep an eye on them. More than once I witnessed my wife spot a girl that had strayed away. She would sharply call his name “COQ AU!” he’d look at her directly with his full attention and squawk once or twice … she’d follow with “Where’s the girl?”, to which he’d look around and squawk again. Then she’d point in the hen’s direction and state pointedly “Go get the girl, Coq Au, go get the girl!” He would then invariably march off on that direction and scold that hen the whole way back to the flock!

With the girls and the rooster now just about fully grown, we were desperate to look in the nesting boxes to find our first egg. Each morning we would interrupt the union meeting to explain the situation and that upper management was becoming increasingly concerned over the lack-of-egg issue. The hens’ union rep ensured us that work would be on schedule and not one minute before regardless of the pressure of top brass!

Then ... one fine day late in August, it happened! Our first egg! Tiny it was. Perfectly formed. I waited for my wife to get home just so I could show it to her! There were special treats all around and praise for the hens, the union rep, and even for Coq Au! We fried this tiny egg and each had a small forkful. I remember well the taste of farm fresh eggs from well cared for hens and though small, the half I ate was not a disappointment. For my wife, this was a first experience and she was profoundly affected by how different and wonderful it was compared to the usual eggs one gets at the store.

 

Yes, we were well satisfied with our little flock. We figured the bliss of this moment would go on forever … but it was not to be … there were still more changes to come.

Learning To 'Chicken'.

Learning to ‘chicken’

So … that summer wore on and when closely watched, the little flock would forage the yard looking for treats and enjoying treats from our hand. The more they gather in tasty plants and bugs, the less feed you go through and the birds are all the healthier for it. Ermatrude even learned a new game. She would hop on my lap, I’d give her some meal worms from my hand and once they were gone, she would hop off, walk around to the other side of my lap and hop back … convinced that I would believe she was a totally different hen and thus get more meal worms. And y’know what? It still works every time.

They’ll eat almost anything and my wife was surprised when she broke up a heated discussion between the girls about WHO was going to get to eat the toad one of them caught. They also learned that when mommy has her shovel out, they get worms! Here is a pic of Hermione ‘helping’ my wife dig in the garden.

Apart from what you’d expect chickens to eat … they might also try:
mice
wild strawberry
Bit of paper plate
An old cigarette butt
Your shoe laces
That weird spot on your hand
Apples
Churches
Gravy
Very small rocks

And on and on. Do NOT give your chickens things they shouldn’t eat and PLEASE consult one of those high-falootin’ chicken blogs to get a comprehensive list! But, since I am touching on the topic … if you’re the sort that perfectly trims your lawn, weeds every day, and sprays around chemical pesticides … whether you have chickens or not … STOP IT! I could go on and on about the health benefits of the dandelion alone as a food source for chickens, people, and bees alike, but I won’t unless pressed into the issue. Your yard, even a small one, will be a wondrous mini ecosystem if you simply let a few native wild plants grow, mow a little less often, and STOP using chemical pesticides!

We were very much waiting for TWO IMPORTANT milestones … 1) For our first egg and 2) For Coq Au Vin to crow his first crow.

Now, you have to understand our little patch of suburban NJ. Everyone has somewhere between a quarter acre to an acre. Fairly tight little bedroom community. In my neighborhood there are elements that like to have parties into the small hours of the morning. Not raucous affairs, but some late night noise and carousing. Truthfully, nothing is over the top and I bear it with only small annoyance and my wife with a little less than small annoyance. A few fireworks are present at almost every holiday from Memorial Day through Labor Day plus a few on New Year’s Eve and the like. My wife and I are early risers, but it’s not really anything more than an annoyance.

With this in mind, she and I would often sit on our porch in the early morning watching our little flock enjoying the gathering light of day. On these mornings in the summer of 2014, my wife would gaze lovingly at Coq Au … our son … our hand-raised baby … and gleefully say “C’mon, baby … crow! Crow for mommy!” And then came the morning that he did just that. Flapped a few mighty flaps, crooked his head skyward, and exclaimed for the entire neighborhood and a strong declaration to those nursing their hangovers “FUCK-A-DOODLE-YOOOOUUUU!” A few open summer windows slammed shut and it was a proud and deeply satisfying moment for herself and I!