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!

Growing Up.

Growing up

Time in the playpen under the heat lamp is that special time when new parents take pictures, obsess over the details, grandma visits, and baby chicks start feathering out, developing personalities and growing up.

 

By late April they were becoming larger, entering that awkward phase, and becoming antsy! Each day the playpen was becoming smaller and they were becoming eager to explore. By the beginning of May I was thinking on moving them to the coop, but a nervous mommy (my lovely wife) and a late spring cold snap had us keeping the girls inside until they were more than ready to face the big world outside.

Funny … it never occurred to us that the door to the spare room was too small to wheel the playpen outside to the run. We thought about bringing the girls (and Coq Au … you remember Coq Au. This is a blog about Coq Au) out there one by one. The cats were all in favor of this idea which only made herself and I all the more wary of ‘plan B’. Instead, we overrode democracy, out voted the cats, and instituted plan C. We got a large wicker laundry basket and a very large beach towel to cover it. I grabbed a nervous hen, my wife pulled back the towel, in went Ermatrude, and my wife covered the basket with the towel again. Next came Myrtle, but when she pulled back the towel, out popped Ermatrude. A few attempts, a few hens in, and it became a weird livestock version of ‘whack-a-mole’ with random little chicken heads popping out of the corners of the towel each time a hint of daylight was revealed and we had to time precisely how to pull back the towel, get a young pullet inside, and close it again before increasingly anxious chickens spilled out in all directions. This game became increasingly challenging with each addition. But, perseverance won the day and we got them into the basket. Coq Au Vin and all.

 

Out to the coop they went. We spent the day agonizing and fawning over every detail. Coq Au, although still but a young wisp of a cockerel, was already beginning to plot how to become a douche bag and how to wrest control of the situation from the obviously inferior humans (remember, we’ve dotted on him as much or more than any of the wee hens!)

 

I should note here that baby chicks are incredibly adorable. Roosters and hens are majestic in their somewhat frumpy way. But ‘teen’ pullets and cockerels are about the most awkward creatures that ever drew breath.

 

Never the less, they started showing their personalities. Hermione, the smallest hen, ran the show with the other girls. Hildegard liked to perch higher than everyone. Hortense like her ‘me’ time by herself. Myrtle could snatch and go with treats faster than anyone … bent toe and all. Coq Au Vin, in his quiet, watchful way, began to develop a sense of purpose in his black, black heart (which pumps not blood, like yours and mine, but a thick viscous oil of vitriolic hatred). He was beginning to decide that it was his personal mission to protect his girls at all costs and take utter contempt toward all things un-chicken! And he’s essentially right.

Well … so … we also noticed that they took to the habit of conducting morning meetings. It can not be told what they would discuss amongst themselves, they had a tendency to get real quiet as soon as anyone was in earshot. My wife did try to chair a couple of these morning meetings, but her authority, as recognized by the flock, was ceremonial at best and only lasted as long as treats could be distributed.

 

There would be more growing to do. And a lot of learning. The chickens had things to learn also!