A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Two, Barnyard Arthur and Mordred.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Two, Barnyard Arthur and Mordred.

I had noticed something in the ensuing weeks. Coq Au Vin wasn’t interested in attacking me or my long suffering wife. He was preoccupied with the growing struggle for control of his flock. While no real friendship developed during this time between herself and our elder roo, she was momentarily satisfied that assaults had dwindled in frequency to zero. Floki, for his part, had never given a thought to attacking either of us. He was somewhat skittish and spent the days bidding his time. Squabbles between the two increased in frequency but all seemed to be sorted out so long as Coq Au maintained the upper hand … err … claw … or talon … or whatever. He would best his son on each occasion, firmly, but fairly. Each time, Floki once bested, would disengage and Coq Au would never give chase more than a few paces secure in the knowledge that he was top rooster and Floki was a member, though a contentious one, of the flock.

There came a Saturday morning, however. Friday had brought the rains and with it, a wet morning. The chicken run was muddy. Not overly mired, but muddy. As per usual in the nice weather, I went out in the early morning to bring breakfast to the flock and decided to open the run and let them forage the yard. Coq Au dashed out of the door in a blur, past me with Floki in pursuit. I dropped the oatmeal in the yard and followed quickly after.

Our boy, our baby boy, our proud rooster had been deposed by the young usurper. He was a mess. He was soaked and covered with mud revealing an early morning fight. Not a dust-up, not a heated discussion with flared cowls, but a full on rooster fight.

In the growing light of the morning, he lay there near the house in the muddy grass. Floki, momentarily satisfied with his victory, joined the girls to collect breakfast spread across the lawn in front of the open chicken run.

Coq Au, while laying there, looked so utterly down trodden. He looked so small. So defeated. Not an ounce of his once great pride within him. Any vestige of fight had been utterly beaten out of him and my heart broke for the proud king laid low by his own son. I took a quick look at him and saw that other than the mud and a few nips to his comb, there were no visible injuries. In doing this, I was markedly shocked that not only did he allow me to approach without taking his usual battle stance, but he allowed me to handle him. Although alive and (mostly) well of body, he lay there limply while I gave him a quick examination. He was physically okay, but his spirit had been broken. I rushed into the house and explained what I had just seen to my wife. The morning bleariness of only a half cup of coffee cleared from her eyes and she shot out of the door with me to witness the deposed king laying there in the yard while the young champion strutted about. While a careful reader of this blog might expect that the vanquishing of her backyard foe might cause delight in my long suffering wife, I can assure you that the opposite was true. Upon seeing the pitiful shadow of his former self before her, her heart broke as deeply as my own. I took stock of the evidence in the chicken run and found gashes in the mud where the warriors stood battle. I saw a spot or two of blood that had splashed on the side of the coop where a blow to one or the other had been landed. I also had a look at Floki. Although strutting around, drunk on the adrenaline of a hard fight won, he was also largely uninjured, but with a few nips on his comb as well. At least, I thought, Coq Au managed to land a few blows in kind.

On this day, on this first day of regime change, my mind minimized the situation. Although my heart broke for Coq Au, I was under the assumption that it was typical barnyard rooster politics. I was surprised at Flock’s victory and beyond empathetic for Coq Au for his defeat, but I figured that this would be an end to the trouble and Coq Au would just have to be the submissive rooster after all. I was wrong. I was terribly wrong.

Coq Au had been a mighty, but fair leader. Although he ruled, everyone in the flock had a place and he saw to it that every bird was cared for. He mated most often with Hermione, but gave attention to most of the girls in the form of treats. Stray hens where chided and corralled to the safety of the flock, he growled at looming shaped flying overhead, and fought with any, including me, who he thought might be a threat to the health and safety of the flock. Floki had not learned these lessons as well as he should’ve. On that first day, the flock spent all day outside, but Coq Au was relegated to isolation. At any instance where he ventured near the flock caused Floki to give unrelenting chase. Not a few paces to ensure understanding as Coq Au had previously done, but full on chase with hatred until Coq Au fled in terror to a safe distance.

On that day, on that first day, Coq Au … previously the least friendly bird in existence, sought his refuge on the porch with my wife and I. This poor soul, so full of pride and fighting spirit, actually approached us to sit on our laps and take food from our hands. He was like a baby chick again seeking the warmth and protection of the people that cared for him. When the blue sky of afternoon wore in the greys of evening, the flock drifted in to the coop and to the comfort of their roosts. Coq Au was determined to stay out and with his great apprehension, I eventually corralled him into the run while the other birds were inside. I watched from a distance to see if, once it became dark enough, if he would go in as well. He did not. He stood on the nesting box peering into the window and I knew he would not be going in on his own. Once dark enough, I crept in and gently cradled him in my arms and placed him inside on the roosts. The other birds, including the now mighty Floki, were asleep.

That night I thought over matters very deeply and decided that I would see how this played out, but with intense observation. The next morning, when I went to the run for the morning ritual of breakfast, I found Coq Au hiding in a nesting box … head in and tucked down in protection of his extremities from whatever assault Floki had visited upon him in the early morning light before I had a chance to intervene. As he sensed my presence, he dashed out of the coop to the outside run door begging to be let out. Floki gave immediate chase, but being on hand, I shoved Floki aside and allowed Coq Au to slip through the door to the safety of isolation. It was clear in that moment that if he didn’t get some spirit back into him, he’d be tortured by this new dictator who seemed devoid of any sense of caring for even the least member of the flock of which he was now in charge.

I spent that day and the next several days redoubling my efforts to find a home to adopt out one rooster or the other. One friend had chickens, but the ordinance in their town already prevented roosters. Another friend with hens had small children and was reluctant to take a possibly aggressive animal. Bruce was already top-heavy with roosters. Any contacts that WERE willing to take the rooster would only be doing so to have him end up in the stew pot. If the ultimate fate was for one of these two roosters to meet an end, my wife and I had decided a long time ago that the emotional burden of such an act would be our responsibility and would not be shucked off to someone else for the sole purpose of sparing us the visceral heartache of committing such an act.

I became desperate to try anything to save both lives. Here is what happened over the course of the next several days and weeks.

First was observation. Herself and I carefully watched every aspect of this and the details of the doings of the roosters and the flock. More on this below, but understand that we weigh every decision with serious thought regarding the animals in our care.

Second was hope. We desperately hoped that there was some way in which we could encourage the birds to coexist without sacrificing the life of one or the other.

Third was planning. We anticipated several possible outcomes and planned to execute the possible solutions as seamlessly as we could.

Fourth was action. We put our various plans into action as soon as we made a decision and kept the possibilities open for whichever direction needed to come next.

In observing, a new ritual developed. In the mornings we would let Coq Au out and while one of us were home, he would be on his own through most of the day. We both saw the continuing pattern of unrelenting torture that Floki was determined to inflict upon Coq Au and knew that if Coq Au did not gain confidence, and Floki calm down a bit, that one of them would have to go. We also paid close attention to HOW each rooster behaved with the flock when given the chance to be with them on their own terms in absence of the other. Each night, when the flock would go in, Coq Au would attempt to bed himself down perched on one of our porch chairs. I knew he was terrified of going into the coop at night, but I also knew a night outside without the safety of the run would be a death sentence for him. So a cradled him each night once it was dark enough and brought him to the roosts and just as on the previous day, he would make the mad dash out of the run in the morning to avoid the persecution rendered upon him by Floki. It was a sad sight, and although I can’t claim to have witnessed it myself, my wife is sure she also had witnessed Floki mount Coq Au on an occasion or two to cement his dominance over the defeated creature.

And so we hoped. Hoped that intense care, good food, and daily rest would help Coq Au regain confidence. As hope faded, two minor squabbles erupted between my wife and me during this time. The first came when the realization washed over us that *if* we were not successful in adjusting the attitudes of both roosters to a level of coexistence, that one would have to go. Although I was inclined to favor Coq Au, I mentioned that he might have to be the one marked for death depending upon which we deemed to be the ‘better rooster’ in terms of the health of the flock. My wife, both of usnow in an emotional state from days of caring for a broken rooster, literally raised her voice to a shrieking pitch to the effect of “If you decide to kill our baby Coq Au, we’re not eating him, we’re going to bury him!” She was overcome with the sheer injustice of such a decision, and although she was not wrong, I had to decide what was to be the best course for the health and future of the entire flock. What troubled me most was, that although Coq Au was better at ‘roostering’, now that he had been broken, could he be the leader he once was, even if Floki had been dispatched? The next spat came on a day when we were both to go to work and no one would be home. I was going to leave Coq Au in the run, even if it meant facing Floki all day, rather than risk him falling prey to an animal while neither of us were home. I figured he would spend a miserable day hiding in a nesting box, but be alive. My wife called me while I was at work that day to explain that she was leaving for work shortly herself and that she had let Coq Au out … my thoughts be damned, she did not want to see the bird tortured any more and felt that he would be safe enough outside and if not … the fate of a predator would be better than the daily torture he was experiencing. Bless her heart, when she put it in those terms, I saw that she was right, and so it was.

So we planned, and acted. Each day I came home, I found that Coq Au, whether we were home or not, was safe and sound. I would find him in usual spots and he always had food, water, and special treats available for him each day. Each day he would come to me for comfort, and each day I observed that he was not determined to die, but was so depressed that neither did he thrive. He ate, but with no flock to share his treats with, he took no pleasure in it. He wasn’t even inclined to crow anymore.  In the evenings upon coming home, I would let the girls out while isolating Floki inside the run so that Coq Au would have some time with the girls. He delighted in their company, but did not have the same strut he previously had.

As for Floki, since he seemed so determined to continue his reign of terror, I decided the ‘humiliate’ him in front of the flock (Coq Au included). This is a real thing. This is an actual technique to use to try to calm aggressive roosters, but usually for establishing your OWN dominance over the flock rather than establishing one rooster over another … so I wasn’t sure how this would ultimately work, but it does sometimes calm down an aggressive rooster.

The technique is this – catch the rooster (no easy feat) and hold him upside down by his thighs. The blood rushes to his brain and he calms down. Then, while holding him thus, parade him like a spectacle before the flock for a good half an hour. Let the flock see him in this state, and let him see how he is being handled before his girls.

Here is a picture of my triumph over Floki.

 

While this may seem like a medieval form of justice, I assure you that the rooster is unharmed and chickens tend not to understand the subtleties of our modern sensibilities.

After this, once he calms down, cradle him in your arms and give him treats for another ten minutes or more. Yes, this was my triumph, but it was not Coq Au’s. Although Floki maintained a healthy respect for me, his attitude toward Coq Au did not change.

I let this go on for a good two weeks. Each night coming home from work to spend the evening until dark with the flock. Allowing Coq Au time with the girls, humiliating Floki from time to time, and carefully observing who would be the better rooster. Although I had trepidation about Coq Au’s abilities for the future, since his spirit had now been broken, he was still healthy and Floki turned out to be a less suitable rooster that Coq Au had been in the past. Floki did not corral stray girls. Floki was a clumsy lover at best causing the girls to yelp uncomfortably and attempt to spurn his advances. Floki did not seem interested in keeping watch of the sky when the girls were foraging.

I tried very hard over the course of two weeks … regretfully allowing Coq Au to be tortured at times … to save the life of both roosters. But no amount of intervening had any effect on Floki’s attitude toward him, and I passed the sentence of death upon him. My wife wholeheartedly agreed with the decision and we settled into the idea of the hard task before us … the final plan if all else failed. The slaughter of an unrepentant rooster, and Floki was that rooster.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part One, A Separate Peace.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part One, A Separate Peace

Now that we had two rooster, a new political landscape needed to develop in the confines of the chicken run. Herself and I had read and experienced the stories of others with multiple roosters and were calculating all of the possible scenarios.

Harkening back to my fading childhood memories, our old rooster Romeo, a Rhode Island Red of great dignity and leadership skills, was a stoic character who was normally disinclined to fight. It should be noted that the circumstances of the chickens my family had in my youth were slightly different. We had more property, more hens, and more time and space for that flock to roam and forage to their hearts’ delight. Also we had more trouble with predators, so everything in life is some kind of trade off in one way or another.

In those days, when chicks were born, my parents would let them be and integrate into the flock naturally. There were more hens … enough to keep a rooster busy. I do recall one occasion when a rooster was born and he came of age. I don’t recall trouble with the two roosters fighting and thus they coexisted. Until the day my parents realized that the new rooster had developed a ‘sub flock’ of himself and a few hens. This is also natural and not an issue except that while Romeo would dutifully lead the hens into the coop and to their roosts at night when the sun was setting, the young rooster-come-lately would lead his sub flock to the lower branches of the trees at the edge of the forest. This is the least safe place for chickens to be in a world of raccoons, foxes, weasels, stray dogs, and all manner of other dangers to be. My parents culled that rooster very quickly and the political divide was no more.

In these modern times where I am a fully adult person (don’t laugh, legally and physically, I am), I had researched proper ‘chicken math’ and understood the ratio of one rooster for about a dozen hens is the right mix. Here we had TWO roosters only seven hens between them. Although this could be a problem, herself and I considered every anecdote we had read and seen to help guide us through the near future.

Two bachelor roosters. There is a roadside farm stand along the highway about a dozen or so miles from us owned by a kindly old Italian gentleman who really knows his way around produce. One day when we stopped there (before we had obtained any chickens, but we had already been considering it) we noticed that he had two fully grown roosters right there near the entrance. They were loose. They were hunkered down by the shrubbery as content as could be without causing a moment’s concern for anyone. We asked the proprietor about the curious circumstance and he explained that although he does not keep any poultry on his farm, his brother had encountered these two ‘spare’ roosters that were due to be culled. Spare roosters are as welcome as the plague, because normally they only cause trouble, but in a moment of sympathy, this man’s brother collected the doomed roosters and he had agreed to ‘adopt’ them for so long as they caused him no trouble. The two roosters, with no one but each other for company, were fast friends and lived quiet peacefully by the farm stand. But … this should be made very clear … there were no hens for them to compete over!

We had checked in with other poultry keepers and discovered three main themes.

1)      The sub flock. This is a scenario that harkens to the situation I described from my youth. More than one rooster is OKAY provided that you have enough hens to avoid too much trouble. While the roosters may have the occasional dust-up over political affairs, the dominant one will keep watch over the main flock while the other(s) will develop smaller ‘sub flocks’. This, of course, would be the best scenario, but with so few hens and no room to properly have many more, we felt it was very unlikely to turn out this way.

2)      The submissive rooster. This was the scenario we were hoping for if the first could not be achieved. The dominant rooster runs the flock. A few initial fights and the other rooster(s) capitulate to the superior rooster. Peace is obtained, but only the dominant rooster has breeding rights while the other rooster(s) maintain a quiet existence on the outskirts of the flock.

3)      Cull the extra rooster(s). Some will cull the extra roosters as soon as they realize they are roosters, carefully sexed while still chicks, or raised separately for the table to be butchered when they are just about old enough for their first crow. Occasionally, if the older rooster is now past his prime, he’ll be culled, but by then the meat is too tough and is only suitable for soup stock. I had even read on forum poster who explained that when extra roosters were born, they would cull the gentle, easy going roosters and keep the angry, aggressive roosters because they were much better suited for warding off predators.

We decided to wait and see. Here’s how it went.

Initially, Coq Au would chase Floki a bit and ‘explain’ to the lad that he was the dominant rooster and that Floki had better get used to that idea. Coq Au was never overly cruel, but firm and fair in exercising his understanding of control. Floki would run a bit of a distance away, and would longingly watch the doings of the flock from the outskirts. Herself and I were starting to be concerned that our little boy would not have a quality of life and began considering trying to adopt him out to someone with hens, but no rooster. But, so long as there was no bloodshed, we were reasonably content with the notion that even the life of a submissive rooster would be a good life.

In those days of Floki’s early adulthood, I began to notice a strange but encouraging dynamic developing. Even with so few hens, and Coq Au being so good at keeping a watchful eye, there would always be a girl or two that would wander off to seek their own foraging in a different part of our small yard. Coq Au would usually keep company with the larger part of the flock and round up stray girls when necessary. But now, with an additional rooster, Floki would keep the watch with the stray girls. Perhaps, I thought, a sub flock was possible in this micro environment, even with the bad chicken math.

Another strange occurrence was happening around that time. Whenever I would collect the flock to go into the run, Coq Au would invariably take up the rear, just in front of me, but behind the girls to help collect them … while at the same time, squaring off with me if he thought I somehow became aggressive. But with this new situation, Floki would lead the parade of hens. Taking the point position, they would follow him while Coq Au made sure all was well from the rear. Our two roosters were actually creating a cooperative effort in flock management.

One day, as I was standing on my porch, with the flock about ten feet away in the sun, some small bird of prey – a cooper’s hawk, I think – swept down out of nowhere. This hawk was too small to carry off a hen, but could’ve caused some real damage. Hens went fleeing in all directions for the cover of shrubbery and the like, but Coq Au Vin, full of roosterly aggression LEAPT into the air in an attempt to get to grips with the offender who was full on the wing. Floki ALSO made a half hearted youthful attempt to get to grips with the hawk. Coq Au may have even landed a talon on the invader, it was that close. The hawk flew off and the roosters and I went about the business of collecting the hens and soothing shattered nerves. We paraded back into the run after that.

This should be made clear. The events of the hawk happened within the span of an instant in time. It was the damnedest thing I had ever seen, and although I am glad to have been on hand at the right moment to assist, my slow human reaction was no match for my two roosters! Medals were awarded and full military honors given.

On a side note, I am not handy with a camera, that’s why I have so few pictures on the blog. I do not have a good picture of Floki, but Floki grew up to become an Adonis in rooster form. He stood tall, well proportioned, and looked like the original model for every weather vane ever produced. To be fair, Coq Au, although not as tall, is also a magnificent looking creature and more barrel chested. From the few photos, you can see he is a powerful beast, indeed.

As the weeks passed, however, things began to take a turn. By and by in subtle degrees. I first noticed that Floki, when watching the stray girls, would try to get ‘the sex’ on the sneak. He was NOT accustomed to doing a proper mating dance and had NOT learned how to be a proper, gentle lover the way Coq Au had become. A hen would often squawk and spurn his advances causing Coq Au to immediately charge over to put an end to the situation toot sweet. Floki would keep trying, however and this was causing some friction.

It is the habit of chickens to go into the coop at night as the sun sets. Sometimes, pecking order plays a part, sometimes not, but they generally filter in one by one until one or two hens are left in the hard. As the sky darkens, they make their way in as well. The usual circumstance is for Coq Au to go in first (I consider it likely that this is because after the stresses of watching the flock all day and listening to the incessant chatter of the hens about union meetings, egg quotas, gossip about broody-ness and what not, he’s had quite enough and is content to turn in). Hortense is invariably the last to go in. As I’ve described ad nauseam, she is not at the bottom of the pecking order and has no political issues, she mearly regards her alone time as sacred and enjoys a few moments peace for herself. But the new trend was for Coq Au and Floki to be out after the girls (including Hortense) have gone in. They would be arguing. A back and forth squabble of roosterly squawking would occur. It really did sound like a heated conversation. One that reminded me of an old anti-drug PSA of a father confronting a son about drug use, but in our context, the conversation went more like this:

Coq Au: You were trying to have sex again with one of your aunts. What’s wrong with you? Where did you learn that tape of behavior? ANSWER ME!

Floki: I learned it by watching YOU, dad. I learned it by watching you!

Things began to come to a head one Saturday while I was out with the hose cleaning the chicken fonts and providing fresh water. Both roosters squared off directly, only Floki was NOT inclined to back down. Cowls were fully flared and they came to blows. A goodly blast from the hose calmed them down. The troubling part of this was that Floki was no longer content to be chided, he would need to test his meddle directly in pitched battle.

I set about the business of attempting to find a suitable home for Floki. Extra roosters are next to impossible to adopt out, so I was still hoping that they would resolve the issue between themselves without resorting to bloodshed. Hopefully, one good battle would be all it took for one rooster to prevail and one to learn to be content with his place in the world.

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.

Prologue: Which Bathroom is He Supposed to Use?

Prologue: Which bathroom is he supposed to use?

Things were going very well. Each minor crisis was met with a renewed vigor, the flock spent another summer without incident, Lagertha was becoming almost as large as the fully grown birds, and Coq Au Vin and had settled into a workable routine with each other. We avoided each other for the most part with a distanced mutual respect and once every two weeks or so he decided that life would not be complete unless I delivered to him a good booting. You could tell in the days leading up to it because he would posture in front of me and this will be difficult to describe. When chickens forage around, they are bent over, searching the ground for morsels, and pick up this or that tasty bug, treat, cracked corn, or whatever. They look intense, but serene. Coq Au rarely forages, but when he does, he also looks intent and serene. As I’ve described before, he usually doesn’t eat what he finds, but calls a girl over and gives the treat to her. Sometimes it is only out of a sense of his inner altruism, sometimes he launches into his weird stiff-legged mating dance. But on the occasions where he is posturing for a fight, he bends down with the same intensity but with an underlying seething hated that causes his movements to almost tremble. He’ll pick up something useless like a piece of straw and put it back down with equal muscular tension. As he does this he grumbles under his breath: “I’m gonna pick up THIS piece of straw … and now I’m gonna put it over HERE! Then I’m gonna pick up THIS piece and put it over THERE! THAT’LL show YOU who’s the *REAL* boss of THIS yard!” … and on and on. That’s how I know a flurry of talons and feathers is only a day or so away and a good booting is in order. On those days he pleads with me. “Please, sir … oh please. My life can not be complete on this day unless I’ve had a sound kicking!” and I am forced to oblige.

Thus, life went on in this way but the nature of the flock was about to be drastically changed, and for a long time to come.

While watching the flock foraging the yard one fine autumn day, I took special interest in how lil Lagertha had grown.

“She’s magnificent,” I thought. “Just look how much greener the beetle-sheen is on her black feathers than the older girls! Her legs and tail feathers are becoming stunningly long too, and … ah crap.”

Disheartened, I turned houseward to ignore the issue I had discovered with the deep, deep wish that I was wrong and that it would just simply go away if I closed my eyes hard enough. My respite was short, though.

The following day, herself and I were out in the yard to make the decisions on early fall activities. What plants needed to be pulled, what summer junk needed to be tossed or put away, etc. The flock was once again out foraging and basking in the early autumn sun. My wife outwardly began the same conversation to me that I had with myself only a day before. I had said nothing to her, she was musing the same way I had been.

“Look at how beautiful Lagertha’s tail is and how tall she’s getting!”

“That’s because ‘she’s’ a rooster, my love.”

“Ah crap!” my lovely bride said in complete echo to the tone that played in my head yesterday.

With our mutual discovery of the same problem, I could no longer keep myself in denial. She had just seen the same thing I had seen and confirmed all of my suspicions and fears.

We made no decisions that day except to change her name from “Lagertha” to “Floki” (a tricky, enigmatic character from the same Vikings program that she and I were enjoying from which we had chosen the name “Lagertha”.

Little did I realize at that time just what an epic struggle was about to befall our household. This was the harbinger akin to the mythic tales of old that belie a story of Arthurian proportions.

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.

Childhood Can Be Heartbreaking.

Childhood Can Be Heartbreaking

When I was small and my parents had decided to get chickens, they had fixed up an old outbuilding on the property, obtained the needed supplies, and the neighbors kindly had given them some fertile eggs. We incubated them in the house with a small incubator and witnessed the hatch before our eyes. I am so grateful for my parents for growing up how I did and getting to see the things that a lot of kids miss these days.

The following spring, one of those hens hatched her own babies and to this day it is one of my mother’s fondest memories watching them emerge from the coop for the first time … little yellow fluff balls … their mother gently calling them outside and patiently teaching them how to scratch around and all. I saw these things when I was young. I delighted in collecting the fresh eggs. I watched where I stepped when barefoot in the yard. I witnessed my father dispatch predators in the coop. But there are sometimes little things that you don’t pick up on as a child that you understand later. I’m not sure if it was my parents, the times, or my own moral compass, but I find myself instilled with a strong sense for nature in all its forms. You don’t change nature, you understand it … and … when it is YOUR flock and YOUR patch of nature that you are responsible for, you manage it. You gently help shape it, but it is a light touch where less is more.

Two days after Lagertha hatched (one chick out of fourteen eggs … my light ‘touch’ needed to be just a little more involved) she emerged from the coop under mama’s watchful eye. I had read accounts of roosters and/or dominant hens picking on new babies so I watched with careful eye as often as I could. Mama stayed close by, always clucking with a gentle cluck. Some of the other girls were annoyed by the new member that would one day have full voting rights with the union and they sometimes tried to assert themselves over the baby. Mama was always there, but what about Coq Au?

Turned out, whenever lil Lagertha ran afoul of one of the hens and Mama was a pace or two too far away, she would dash under Coq Au’s legs and he would stand watch while the offender would then skulk away! For all of his faults, he’s a good chicken daddy as well.

So, chickens maintain their own politics and it was only a light touch they needed in this matter. They’re never going to act like people, in order to manage things, I have to think more like a chicken. If a hen picks on another hen, it is just politics so long as no blood is being spilled and no one is injuring on another.

But … I have a human heart. The great and powerful Oz once counseled the Tin Man that hearts will never be practical until they become unbreakable. Each night, the flock would hop up on their roosts as normal while mama and baby would bed down together in the nest. Touching to see, and a reaffirming of life. As each week passed, Lagertha grew larger and grew more and more feathers. Then, one fateful night it happened. I went out to the coop one evening and heard the most mournful cry I could ever hear emanating from within. I peeked through the window and saw that mama had had enough of child rearing. Little Lagertha was quite big enough and she wasn’t going to ‘baby’ the young chick anymore. Mama had climbed up onto the roost with the flock and Lagertha, still too little, but fully feathered, was left crying in the nest. I fought every one of my instincts to keep myself from pulling mama down, or attempting to put Lagertha up, or to keep from bringing the crying hen into the house for the night for special treats and a warm pillow. Lagertha had to learn to ‘chicken’ and that sometimes is hard. This particular situation was made harder in my mind by that fact that had more eggs hatched, Lagertha would’ve at least had siblings to share her misery and to turn to for warmth and comfort. But the poor baby was on its own to face the politics of the flock. A singular member of her generation.

She cried at night for a few days … less and less. Mama and baby were still inseparable during the day and Lagertha’s Aunt Hortense, who normally likes to be by herself, palled around a bit too.

Eventually, Lagertha grew big enough to squeeze in onto the roost with the big girls, but it was a hard few days to watch.

For me, the experience is like how you feel when you witness a small child whose balloon has gotten away from them. Maybe they cry, maybe they laugh, but for them the world quickly moves on. I always feel more devastated for the child witnessing the balloon escape than the child does themself!

Chicken Network Saves The Day.

Chicken Network Saves the Day

In my last post I mentioned that herself and I have ‘kept tabs’ on some friends and acquaintances who also keep chickens … or were seriously thinking about it … for the purposes of gifting spare hens, trading stock, and getting practical advice from direct sources, rather than relying on the gurus of the interwebs. Our own little ‘chicken network’ so to speak. Little did we know we’d be using it so soon and for reasons completely unrelated to our own birds!

There are times when I feel that my wife and I over think and over analyze before taking on a project, and honestly, chickens are pretty easy to raise. So much so that they are considered a ‘gateway’ livestock amongst the homesteader types. Well … it turns out there are reasons I am glad we over think these things!

When we had purchased our first chicks, and by that time had researched every aspect we could ad nauseam, I was surprised to discover that we had to sign a form stating that they were not pets and we were required to take a minimum of a half a dozen. You can read about it in an earlier blog post. There are reasons that various towns do this! It is the height of foolishness to buy a cute baby chick as an Easter gift for a child! It is also a bad idea to attempt to keep chickens in the house, they are messy, loud, and destructive (even more so than our two cats and our pig). By requiring a purchase of a half a dozen or more and signing a form it helps reduce impulse buys. Also, there are several classifications of chicks a person can buy at the feed store in the spring. Most notably, sexed and unsexed. Also, laying hens or meat birds. You should really know what you are doing and make decisions about what kind of chickens you are going to buy before stepping in. I know it is hard to resist the peeping little fluff balls under the heat lamp, but you must not buy on impulse! Now, we have a fully functional coop and run and know what we’re doing, so if my wife came home with a couple of chicks, I would be mildly upset over the impulse, but we are equipped to deal with them.

My wife has an acquaintance in the Jersey City/Bayonne area of NJ. For those of you not familiar with this area it is a very urban section of NJ right across the river from NYC. Sure, it is houses and duplexes, but all with tiny, tiny yards if they have yards at all, close neighbors, and all the appropriate city ordinances. My wife’s friend is an animal lover with a huge heart who basically lives on her own in such a house. Although not in daily contact with my wife, she would keep up with the posts on Facebook.

My wife got a call from her one day out of the blue. She was upset and the city was going to fine her if she didn’t get rid of her chickens.

WHAT CHICKENS???

My wife called me at work and told me that her friend had eight chickens that needed a home and what could we do about it? I lovingly told her that it would have to be a discussion for when I got home. Once I arrived home I plied her with the detailed questions of what happened, what was the back story, what were her expectations, and every aspect I could consider to get ahold of the situation.

Turns out … it was something like this. Her friend had apparently wandered into a feed store in late spring. Most of the baby chicks they had were sold and only a few left … now getting onto a week old, the feed store would have to put them down. She had scooped up the eight unsexed chickens of various breeds, purchased a heat lamp and feed, and took them home. She had intended to put a small coop in her tiny, tiny yard and keep the chickens. Now, about five weeks later, she still had no coop, the chickens were four roosters and four hens, some bantam, some full size. One rooster had turned feisty so she locked him in the bathroom, and the neighbors had complained to the city so she was ordered to remove the illegal livestock. That … is the situation that befell us.

Well, upon hearing the initial story, I was reluctant to take a non-heritage bird into our flock, but figured a hen or two extra would be no matter and we’d adopt out the rest via the chicken network. But with four roosters??? If we took a hen or two for ourselves, we’d be making bad chicken math even worse. So, we made the calls, posted the pictures that her friend had sent us (beautiful birds!) and tried to convince anyone to take eight birds including FOUR ROOSTERS.

 

Nearly all of our contacts said no. They either had too many roosters, thank you very much, or lived in a town that allowed them to have chickens but no to roosters.

But then we reached out to Bruce.

I briefly described Bruce in my last post, but let me go just a little farther. As I had said, he is a tall, burly man that comes from old farming folk. Within his large, somewhat gruff appearance dwells the heart of a man truly at one with nature. He’s an animal lover, but also with the old school farm sensibilities that allow him to deal with animals on their level, rather than anthropomorphizing them into ‘little furry people’. When my wife and I had been around to visit him a season before we discussed with him the possibility that he may want to start his own flock and that we’d be glad to help. And so, when we called on him over this issue we discovered that his old beloved dog, who was of great age, had passed on and it grieved him sore. He was happy to have this new project full of life and agreed to take the birds.

We coordinated the exchange where my wife’s friend would come by with the adolescent flock and Bruce would pick them up. Once my wife’s friend saw the gentle soul of the tall man before her she knew her babies would be in good hands.

Chicken network came through, TWO friends were helped along the way, and eight young chickens had a hope of a good life on the farm. My wife and I were most pleased.

Epilogue: Bruce is also a bit of a photographer and we’ve had a chance to see the chickens grow along the way. Being from farm stock, he has his own chicken network and was able to trade one rooster for two hens that helped balance his own chicken math. We’ll check in with Bruce again a little farther down the road!