Coors Light Coffin: Loss of a Chicken

It's been a while, so let's just dive in.

Today was terrible. Today was a day that makes you rethink why the hell you would ever raise chickens. Today was a day that you are thankful your little boy has no idea what death is and why mommy is crying. Today is a day you wish you could kill a dog and not feel guilty about it.

We woke up this morning and were all set to take a short trip to the lighthouse on Clover Island. Taylor has been obsessed with Nick's new show, Paw Patrol, and there was an episode about a lighthouse. I know where one is! Let's go! So while I'm loading my kiddo and my dog into the car, I hear the sound of a chicken screaming. Yes, they scream. It's awful. I look into my neighbor's pasture and see the other neighbor's dog attacking MY chicken. Now, yes, she should stay on her own property, but we have permission to be over there. And by "we," I mean "my birds" can go over there. It's neutral ground. Just cows and lots of poop to dig around in for the birds and eat bugs. With rage in my voice, I yell at the dog and he looks up at me and starts back for home, just after my bird jumps from his paw and starts for home. I could see in that split second she was in bad shape. Feathers on her neck gone. Very bad. She wouldn't come home, preferring to lay in the grass with the cows as she calmed down. I couldn't do anything so I continued with our morning and tried not to get hysterical.

The morning was fun at the lighthouse! Besides the part where the DOC had their crew out and to clean up trash in the same place we wanted to visit, it was fun. We headed home and I went straight for the coop, hoping our chicken returned to safe base.

She was there. And she was ugly. I almost puked. I also made an immediate mental note to not eat chicken for a while.

At this point I'm calling Keith and asking him to come home. I'm not sure I can handle this. He's wonderful and started to make his way home from his very busy day to help me and my chicken.

I pull myself together and call the vet. They deal with poultry. I tell them I'm on my way and load my chicken into an empty 24-pack box of Coors light. She was quiet, which worried me, but awake. We took her to the vet and I prepared myself for the exam and prognosis. I need to mention that Taylor was fantastic through this whole thing. He rubbed my leg while I cried and sat quietly while the chicken was examined. I was so thankful for his good behavior and realizing I had to talk to the doctor.

After an exam, the doctor tells me they will need to stitch her skin back together. She will be okay, as long as I want to pay the bill. Oh, right. This costs money. I let him run through the procedure of surgery, anesthetic, blah blah...I can see my chicken's neck hanging out of her skin...staples, stitches...she's closing her eyes! I interrupt him, "Is she dying right now? Is she going? What's happening?!" Bless Dr. Coleman's heart, he answers my questions as if this is a family cat we've had for 18 years. "No, she's just in a lot of pain and traumatized." Oh. Okay. He leaves and I wait for the total. I talk to the chicken and let her rest. Watching her little feathered and slobbery body go up and down.

The vet tech comes in. Nicest girl to deal with a hysterical chicken rancher. She shows me the bill: minimum of $700 to fix my bird, max of $1,117. Umm...what? I run through my mind, "Well, okay. I won't get new clothes, and we can cut costs somewhere else." Then the devil on my other shoulder whispers, "it. is. a chicken, Jenny. A. Chicken." I say, "What am I supposed to do?! Yes, do it. It's fine."

(Side Note: I was shocked this morning when I saw how much a popular diaper bag was and wondered why and who would pay for something this outrageous! Fast forward a few hours and I'm thinking about dropping $1,000 to save a chicken?!)

I pay the bill, expect to pick her up later that day and put her in solitary confinement for weeks while I administer costly medicine. It's when I get home and talk to Keith, my real voice of reason, that he tells me to just bite the bullet and say no. That's too expensive. I had to call back and say no, put her down. Put her out of her misery. Let that 24-pack box of Coor's Light be her coffin and be done.

And then I cried. Ugly cry. Over a chicken.

Now we have 5 chickens locked up and will not be free range anymore. And I have a neighbor I need to have a chat with.

Things Chickens Do...

Things Chickens Do...

Ah, we have passed the one year mark of chicken ranching and it's hard to believe how woven into our lives these crazy birds have become. I see some of my friends getting chickens and they post their adorable children with the little balls of feathers squished up to their faces and I smile and think, "just wait until they start shatting on your furniture." Instead I respond with something like, "yah for chickens," or whatever is nicer than what I'm thinking at the moment and wish them luck. Because that is what chickens do: they poop. They also dig, take dirt baths in the sandbox and lay some eggs, which are also, covered in poop. I am not discouraging anyone from raising chickens, as they have brought my family a lot of joy, but there are some things you may want to consider before daydreaming of peaceful afternoons watching your chickens peck the grass.

Thing 1: The Poop

I've mentioned it before, I know, but my oh my, these birds drop turds all day, everyday and everywhere. I spent the summers with my grandparents, and both sets always had chickens running around their property. I will always have sweet memories of holding baby chicks, just hatched, in my Grandma Hughes' barn. The sweet smell of chicken manuer mixed with hay was always linked with memories of whispering and sharing a special moment with my grandmother. At my Grandma Bunny's house there were always birds of all kinds: chickens, ducks, geese. And their poop was all around, so much so that we just became immune to stepping in it with our bare feet-just wipe it off on the grass and continue on your way. Who's got time to put shoes on, let alone freak out over some chicken poop? Not me. So you would think that I would be well aware of the literal shit-show I was getting into when we brought home chickens, right? Wrong. I forgot all about their poop until it was on EVERYTHING! The new patio furniture? Crapped on. Our nice deck? Black tar poops I cannot get off! The playset our child loves? Also a gathering spot, also a bathroom for chickens. And in the grass you think it would be ok, but these turds are often larger than our 80lb dog's poops! What? I'm not kidding. Large. I was horrified when we had a friend over to meet Taylor yesterday and he said, "Look at all these chicken turds! There's one here, and here, and over here, and there, look at that one!" He would have gone on for a while if I didn't cover his mouth and kinda laugh off my embarrassment. And don't even let me tell you how mortified I am when I volunteer in Taylor's preschool classroom and while sitting down to sing a song, notice both of our shoes are caked with the organic material. So yes, they poop a lot, and it doesn't bother me enough to do a whole lot about it, but it is something to keep in mind with free range chickens.

This is the chicken hang out, especially on windy days. 

Thing 2: Ruin your Garden/Yard

Free Thatching! 

Dirt Bath!

Free range chickens have no boundaries, why should they? Everything to them is a place to roost, eat, sleep and do whatever they want. This is why it is important to block off anything you don't want them in and keep all food OFF the grass. The other morning I walked outside and was hit in the face with a wall of skunk smell. As I looked in the yard I noticed it was coming from the crime scene, which was our BBQ drip bucket, a mangled pinwheel and a piece of "flock block" (an open feeder block of food for chickens). It seems the skunk had tried to steal the BBQ drip bucket, ran into the pinwheel in the yard (Taylor thought that it was a perfect spot for it the day before) on its way out and was so freaked it sprayed and tore the pinwheel to shreds, right before it stole part of the flock block. Long story, but I left everything in the yard, including the large chunk of bird food. So now what do we have? Free thatching for the grass in one area. Um, hello, you birds have a mountain of good food in your coop, go eat that, why dig and dig for one tiny seed? Whatever. You're not pooping on the deck, so go for it.

As for the garden and sandbox, it's what chickens love the most. A perfect spot for dirt baths. Chickens don't clean themselves like most animals, with their tongues or take baths (obviously) like small birds in puddles of water. They bathe in dirt to keep the bugs off, and to cool down. Our garden and Taylor's "dirt box," and even our gravel driveway, is marked with craters where the birds hunker down, dig and fling dirt on to themselves. It's actually a sight to see, and I do like to watch them, but then they make huge holes and big messes (you gotta poop where you bathe if you're a chicken), as they must.



Thing 3: They are LOUD

In most cities you can have a few chickens and the main rule is you cannot have a rooster. I understand this, because as we have all learned from nursery rhymes and cartoons, roosters wake you up as the sun comes up, right? Wrong. First of all, chickens are loud, too. I'd say 89 percent of the time the birds are quite, but you get one that is separated from the flock and my God, you would think the worst car alarm was in your yard. Weird sounds come from their bodies, not just the typical "brrrawk," you'd think. Weird, alien sounds. Loud alien sounds. We have one chicken that stalks us during meals, Diva. She paces and flies at the window, trying to get in, all while making really loud chicken sounds. They are also loud when they want let out. Very loud. As for the rooster, he crows when the sun comes up, and it's a nice wake-up call, but he also crows at 2am, 3am, 4am and all during the day. Roosters are like feathered gang members, meaning they use their crow to claim territory to other nearby roosters. So while a rooster in the next pasture yards and yards away can be heard crowing, Elvis must answer back loud and clear that these 6 hens and this poop-filled yard are his.

Repeat Offender

Do not read this wrong, please. I adore "my girls." They make us laugh every day and they are really great friends for Taylor to run around with and talk to. They provide us with 3 dozen eggs a week and I also use them as conversations pieces (more often than I should, probably, but it's funny. People think having chickens is like having a tiger, so exotic.) They are relaxing to watch and have the weirdest mannerisms. If I had all the time and desire to do so, I would document their behavior like a chicken Jane Goodall. And when one dies or disappears, I am heartbroken. But it's also important to know what you're getting into. So if you're okay with cleaning out a dirty, poop-ridden chicken pen a few times a month, having your lovely furniture and kid's toys shat on and don't mind some noisy animals, then a feathered-high-five to you!

We have an electric fence between us and the neighbor's cows. One day Taylor calls to me, "Hey mom, come help me." I walk over to see him on the other side of the fence! He had snuck under the electric and barbed wire fence to chase the dang rooster. In my calmest voice I had to tell him to get LOW and come back into HIS YARD. Damn rooster. Bad influence on my girls and my son! 

These girls LOVE Taylor. They are so social and want to be around him all the time.  I laugh so hard when I watch and listen to him talk to him. The neighbors must think I'm crazy when I threaten time out for pulling the chicken's tails. Just another sentence I thought would never leave my mouth: Stop pulling their tails!? One more time and it's timeout!  He has had more discipline over his poultry handling than anything else.

Taylor MUST let the chickens out each morning. One day I did it without him and he FREAKED out. Biggest and longest fit EVER. One of the things I never thought I'd never be dealing with is a boy's desire to ranch his birds.

Things I wish Chickens WOULD Do:

• Peck Rock Chuck faces, or torment them. I think these animals enjoy each other's company. They coexist together and I wish a chicken would just peck their eyes so they would leave. Nope. They share food. Great.
• Lay different colored eggs. Our birds' eggs are brown, because of their breed (not because they are organic), but I wish they would surprise us with a fun colored egg now and then! Or lay gold. Whatever is easiest.
• Lock themselves up. Some nights I don't mind running out there with Taylor to lock them up, and I have some very kind friends who do the job for us when we are out of town, but sometimes I wish they could just do a beak count and then lock their own coop up and save me the trouble.
• Eat tackweeds/goat heads. 

Gold?!

Spring is here!

Spring is in the air here on our mini-ranch and nothing says spring more than the high-pitched chirps of a rock chuck. A lot has happened since my last post, so let me back up a bit before I unleash my furry.

Poor chicken.

Last month as the sun was starting to set, Taylor and I were playing upstairs near the sliding glass door. Usually about this time, the chickens make their way back to their yard and some even come up to the window to be creepy and spy on what we are doing. This particular night one of my hens came stumbling up to the window, like a soggy, drunk chicken looking for her key after a long night. I looked closely at her and realized she was ragged, had a bloody comb and a feather stuck right on top of her beak. She was a pathetic looking bird and right away I knew something had happened. Calmly, I told Taylor we had to go help the chicken. He knew the seriousness in my voice and stayed inside while I grabbed the slimy hen and hauled her inside. As soon as I picked her up I caught a whiff of the stench. It was a blend of cow patty and dog slobber. I also noticed that all of her belly feathers had been plucked out, as well as some rear feathers. I quickly checked for puncture wounds, knowing that this was the act of a dog (who will remain nameless, but I'm assuming the same dog who sent me into a rage a few months ago).

The day after. Poor comb. Poor feathers. 

She looks good! Can't even tell she was mauled.

I quietly took her upstairs to our guest bathtub and whispered to Taylor, "Do not tell Dad the chicken was in the tub." (I knew he would, but I would have rather he left that part out. And as soon as Dad came home that night and saw the towels in the bathtub, what was the first thing out of Taylor's mouth? "The chicken was in the bathtub, Dad! It has an owie!") I got the "stanky chicken" some water and ran around the house trying to figure out what to do with it. It was too cold to put her back outside and she needed to rest after all that trauma, so I made a cage with the laundry baskets and put her in the garage. I then made a frantic phone call to my sweet neighbor who told me to look for wounds and then just watch her until tomorrow. Thankfully the chicken made it through the night just fine and over the weekend she cleaned herself up really nice. Her friends came to greet her the next day when I brought her outside and even attempted not to look at her bare breasts, or the fact that a feather was stuck in the middle of her face. The looks good now, a little sparse on the feathers, but just fine.

Whoa!

In other chicken news, we have a hen who is fearing the end of the world. She has become a doomsday prepper and is ready to ride it out with a stash of eggs. How it started: as fall began to turn into winter last year, I had the great idea to buy another small coop and add it to the old one to make more room for the growing hens, hoping they would stop sitting on the fridge and use the "annex" as their place to sleep. Months and months passed and the only thing the annex became was a place for mice to hide in. I accepted the fact that I would have to continue to carry 3 birds to bed each night and even told Keith last weekend that we should just burn the annex down and patch the hole up in the coop where we made a nice entry for the birds. So yesterday Taylor and I went outside to enjoy some sunshine and I saw a hen run out of the annex. I thought it was weird and decided to look in the little coop doors to see what was happening in there. To my amazement I found a hen sitting on some eggs. "Ooh, isn't that sweet, Taylor? She's laying eggs in there." I took a picture and and posted it on Facebook hoping to share our little nature find to the rest of the world. Taylor became obsessed with opening the door and checking inside, watching the hen sitting on her eggs. I kind of got upset with him and told him to leave the door closed or she would get upset and leave. Well, she left and I decided to take a peak in the door and grab those three eggs I thought she was sitting on. I always like to wait until they are off their eggs to steal them, that way I feel less like a baby-snatcher. So I opened the door and had to bite my toungue as I said, "Holy shiiiieeeeesh. That is more than 3 eggs!" Taylor and I were looking at 19 eggs. Nineteen eggs! I'm not even sure if they were all hers or if that nesting box had a rotation system or what, but my god, that's a lot of eggs! After another phone call to my all-knowing neighbor, she said they would probably be fine. I agreed and Taylor and I went to work grabbing the eggs, marking them and putting them in cartons. After I called Keith, he was so grossed out and also pointed to the fact that if that hen was the only one doing all the work, those eggs could have been in there for up to 3 weeks. At that point I visualized myself with some stomach cramping and other side effects of bad eggs and decided to scrap them. No need to put ourselves at risk. I can buy eggs and save myself the diarrhea. So now we have another place to look for eggs. Crazy birds. PS Doomsday Chicken, your "bunker" is made of wood.

Now, back to spring and those damn rock chucks. If you remember my postings from last year, I was on quite the chuck-hunt. I had killed 3 and while I wasn't too proud of killing an animal, I was on more of a high that I was a better shot than my husband (to be fair, I have more opportunity to shoot at them, since they are up and about while I'm home) and that we was so impressed with my skills. That's how weird we are now. You move to a ranch and while I may not be the best cook, I love to impress my husband with my rock chuck sniper skills. I'm pathetic. But the main point here is that while I was killing rock chucks, they never let up. For real? If my house was involved in numerous drive-bys, I would leave. So my new strategy this year, since I'm not too excited about killing more animals (and they seem to only want to come out when Taylor is up, and I am all about gun safety and teaching Taylor the responsible use of a gun for a grown-up, I'm not sure I want to explain why the Rock Chuck is "sleeping" and why we can't go outside until Dad comes home.), is to chase them out with urine. I know, gross, right? But so is hauling out a huge, hairy, bloody rodent body. My friend told me by-product of asparagus gets them to move out, so my new plan is to do just that. Pack your bags rock chucks because what is coming to your shed in a red solo cup is NOT a nightcap...

There are at least 3 under there! Grrr.

In other spring news, we have a new rooster hanging with the hens. His name is Elvis and he is a beautiful looking bird. Larger than Romeo, and therefore more aggressive in his tactics, but he has not figured out how to get in our yard, yet. He has no shame, either, as he freely "gives hens piggyback rides" while Taylor and I eat lunch. I'm telling you, I should pay admission at our lunch table! I've got cows head-butting, roosters giving piggyback rides, hens trying to trick a pheasant rooster, rock chucks sunning themselves and a squirrel who is intent on eating a towel in our yard (we use it to clean off the slide, but this squirrel is convinced he can shove the whole thing in his cheeks and make great use of it in his home.)

The calendar official turns to "spring" in a new weeks, but it is here, on our ranchette. Full speed ahead!

What is love?

Romeo in the Willow

Nature is a bitch. I'm going to just say that. I'm also going to come out and just say that if you really wanted to know if your husband loves you more than you will ever know, don't wish for flowers or a new ring. Just get a few chickens, let them shat allllll over the place (even on his beloved beer fridge) and just see what he does. If you wake up to a chicken coop and no chickens, then he might not love you as much as you thought. But if he just complains a little bit and keeps most of his gripes inside because he knows you love those feathery shit-factories, then you know he loves you. Point? Keith loves me. Mother Nature? Not as much.

Romeo getting a snack
with the hens

After a windy night a few months ago we woke up to the sound of silence. It was odd. Romeo, our adopted rooster, was not crowing at 3am. We waited a day and then Keith mentioned he hadn't seen our horny little rooster strutting his stuff lately. See, Romeo always slept in our willow tree. He never went back to his coop across the pasture and he never tried to shack up with his ladies (typical, right? He must have always "had an early meeting"). He always went into the tree, snuggled up and went to bed at 4:30pm every day. You can even see the pile of poop under "his spot." And since he never slept where he could be protected, then there wasn't much we could do. Isn't that like some men? You can't help them unless they allow themselves to be helped. So when it was windy, he couldn't stay in the tree and that's how it ended. Fortunately we never found a body. I would have been a mess if I found his beautiful body, headless like most of our birds have been found, laying in our yard. And since we didn't find a body, we held out hope for days. Keith even said to me, "I'm betting he comes back." He never did. He left a pile of poop and some feathers. And 7 very upset hens. But dang, he did live a good life. My sister in law said it perfectly, and if he had a little tombstone I would etch it in stone: He lived like a pimp. Well said.

Broody little hen. I steal her dreams
of baby chicks daily. Sorry...but the eggs
are so yummy!

And this is where my chicken love story starts. A few days later I put the chickens to "bed" which means 4 of them are smart enough to find their way back to the coop and go in, and 3 of them sit on top of the beer fridge outside and poop all over it while they watch us eat dinner. Just like every night before, I carried 3 chickens to bed, locked the door and that was it. The next morning only 6 chickens came out of the coop. Great. My neighbor had been telling me about a huge Red Tail hawk that has been picking off chickens in her yard, and since I didn't find a body again, that was the logical conclusion. But because I don't deal with death or anything sad very well, I made myself a chicken love story: See, the hen was so upset that she had to share Romeo with all those hens. She wanted him for himself, and he wanted to settle down, maybe make a nice family away from the craziness of the coop. So they made a poultry pact: Romeo told her he would leave in the night, leave a few feathers and head east. After the wind settled down and the moon came up a few nights in row, she was to leave and find him. Together they have a lovely life. She doesn't judge his past and he loves her and her beautiful brown eggs. The end. Now I have 6 chickens.

Life on the Ranch

This next sentence may seem a bit selfish, but here goes: Why couldn't that one hen that "ran off" be the one that DIDN'T lay eggs or DIDN'T sit on the fridge? She was an egg layer and she put herself to bed. Good picking, Romeo. Damn.

"Polly Pocket" holding strong while Diva tries to kick her
out of the warm spot.

Chickens first snow

Chicken visitation rights.

He's still got the magic touch!

Hard to Shake a Tail Feather Somedays

Taking our chicken to bed after dark

We all let things into our lives knowing that one day, they will leave us. And maybe if it’s just not your day, they leave you before you leave them. And if it’s REALLY not your day, they get eaten by the next door neighbor’s dog that is not on a leash, like, ever. Wait, okay. These chickens bring out the philosopher in me some days, but most days they make me worry about their tail feathers. Here’s the story behind my latest heart palpitation and why Keith told me, “This is why I never wanted to get these birds!” (Which we all know was spoken in pure “heat of the moment” and worried for my own feelings. He loves those hens. HE DOES!)

It has turned winter overnight here it seems and with it, cold temperatures and lots of rain. Thursday started off kind of dreary so we went for a nice run, Taylor, Tater and I and then turned in for a nice restful afternoon. After Taylor woke up it was so nice at 3pm we got bundled up and went outside to play, which I normally wouldn't do, but it was sunny, so I felt we should take advantage of it while we could. Pushing Taylor on the swing, singing songs, yelling at Tater to stop being barking at the cows and then that sound of a chicken being attacked. You might think you don’t know what that sounds like because you've never had chickens, but you know what it is as soon as you hear it. And when I did I knew what was happening.

Time OUT: A little background for you that don’t know: We live in what some call the “donut hole” of Pasco or as the city has renamed it, “the island.” Whatever it’s called, it means we live in a weird section in the middle of the city that is still the county. So with that brings different laws and an extra charge to have my garbage taken from our house. The leash law is one of those rules and my neighbors, who are nice but beside the point, have two dogs that wander up and down our street. You’d think it would be nice to take walk along our “country” road some days, but with the risk of being attacked by a dog (or my dog pulling me by the leash to bite fight it) and the risk of stupid cars driving 45 miles per hour down our street, we don’t walk. We deal with it, but I’ve also had some friendly conversations with other neighbors about how the Sherriff has been called on those dogs. And it’s not the dogs’ fault! They want to guard their home, I get it. What I don’t get is why you would let your dog wander around the ‘hood and not only risk it getting hit by a car (which has happened to the young German Shepard, which is why it walks with a limp), but the risk it attacking someone. Well that limp did not stop that German Shepard from getting ahold of one of my girls and doing bad things. Back to my story…

So I heard this sound and turn around certain of what I am about to see and my eyes do not disappoint. The girls have a bad habit of following Romeo to the other neighbor’s pasture and mingling with his chickens and cows. He’s cool with it, so we let it happen and it’s fine. Country life at its finest: Mi Pollo, es su Pollo. What I see starts stream of obscenities: the dog has a chicken under its paw and it’s going at it and the hen is screaming. I’m screaming and throwing rocks at the dog and there’s poor Taylor, just swinging in the swing staring at me. I get the dog to stop and that’s when I get a rage inside of me! I pull Taylor out of the swing, try to get Tater to get into the house (who, by the way, is so freaked out she rolls over and makes me pick her up to get her inside) and with Taylor in the stroller, I RUN down the street while texting Keith some rapid texts about what I’m about to do to that dog. Poor Keith. He was in a very important meeting and here is his crazy wife running down the road, screaming and sobbing, threatening to kill the neighbor’s dog while his son is being pushed down the road in a red stroller. He just had to wait it out…and carry on with his meeting. Okay, so I get to the neighbor’s house and bang on the door. A younger girl answers and I, as calm as I can, say/yell

 “can you call your dog IT’S EATING MY CHICKEN!” 

She calls the dog and that’s when I get Taylor out of the stroller (because I don’t want him bit by those dogs) and walk to the corner of my chicken-friendly neighbor’s pasture. A pile of feathers. GREAT. GRRRRRRREAT! I’m sure the dog has killed the chicken and eaten the whole body, leaving a pile of black and white feathers. I’m livid at this point and leave for home, sobbing. I don’t know if to call the Sherriff, who will probably laugh at me, or what to do. If you don’t know, once a dog gets a taste for chicken, all birds have an expiration date. 

I decide it’s the risk of having free range birds and just chalk it up to that. I head up to Lowe’s to fix the holes in the fence and just figure we’ll continue on our way, thankful that at least I know why I will only be locking up 6 chickens tonight. Then after I have a nice Mexican beer with a lime, I make dinner and watch the rest of my girls come back through the fence in the one hole I left. Then I count them, just out of habit. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Wait. What? 1, 2,…3, 4, 5, 6..7? WHAT? I run outside and see them-ALL 7!!!  They’re all alive. One beer does not make me miscount and/or see chickens that are not there, so I call Keith and tell him the good news. The chicken was attacked and the pile of feathers I found was from her neck and tail. When I threw the rock at the dog and yelled at it, it must have stopped just for a long enough moment for the hen to run away. Thank goodness we went for a swing that afternoon. These damn chickens… 

Her Name is Lucky.

This might make you laugh and think, “Wow, this is what her life is like now,” and yes, I think that too. An hour before the “chicken problem” commenced, I was crying, no, sobbing at the Katie Show listening to a family who had lost their little boy to cancer. So yes, chickens are not that big of a deal, but I can’t help but love them.

Lucky, minus some feathers on her tail and neck.

In other news, we put an addition on the chicken coop and they hate it. So now I have 3 chickens I have to put back in at night. And what’s even more terrible/awesome is my other very kind neighbor agrees to lock up my birds when we are out of town and carries my girls to bed when we are not there. Now that is a good friend/neighbor!

"Take us to bed, please."

The chickens still go in the pasture and the neighbor’s dog is in a kennel. I don’t blame anyone really. My grandma always told me that was the way farm life goes, the loss of animals and such, but dang. When you let anything into your life, you risk losing it. And yes, these “things” are feathered, they make a mess all over the yard (their poops are bigger than dog turds, NOT JOKING!), but they are so much fun.

Here are some more pictures of our birds…

"Girl, I told you if you laid another egg in my nesting box I
was going to teach you a lesson!"

"Hey, look up here...I've got a present for you..."

Fridge Chick and Dirt Baths

"Fridge Chick" who keeps a nightly watch
over the beer. "Braaaawwwwk"

The time has come to assess the housing situation. We did the research, we read the books and we knew that when all 7 chicks lived it would create a housing revision. We also hoped that maybe they would be fine all snuggled up in their little coop, loving one another like a big, feathery love next. And that might have been true, but when you add a dude to the mix, chicks get crazy. Our chickens have outgrown their coop and we need to add on. All six go in at night like good little chickens. They go up the ladder, very slowly, like people boarding an airplane. They sit in their assigned chicken sleeping seats on the cedar-flake floor and close their little eyes. All six. Where is the 7th? Well, number seven pays close attention when the other chickens go to bed and breaks off from the pack to go sit on top of our outdoor fridge. I think there is some chick drama going on in there, because she is not feeling welcome anymore (I blame the rooster, of course.) We first noticed this when I went outside to lock up the birds and she did her creepy “brrrraaaaawk” when I stepped into the darkness. It freaked me out so bad! So I picked her up, snuggled her while we walked and threw her in the coop. This happened again the next night too, but this time I failed to tell Keith about it so when he went outside to grab a nice cold beverage from the fridge, he got a “welcome home” greeting from the chicken. I had to laugh as some four-letter-“fowl” words escaped his mouth and he jumped back. And now it’s a ritual. Put the kid to bed and then walk outside, grab the chicken and lock them all up. I even give her nightly lectures: telling her about how I have spotted raccoon poop, smelled skunk spray and do I need to remind her of Baby Chick?! She needs to be locked UP at night, but the bird is stubborn. She’ll be back there tonight. Oh, well.

Our chickens hanging with the neighbor's cows.

In other chicken news, we have named our rooster. He is not leaving anytime soon as has been smart enough to fly into the tree at night to stay safe and watch over his girls, so now he has a name. We mostly call him “dirty rooster,” or some other horrible names when he starts crowing before the sun is up, but his official name is Romeo. He’s pretty sneaky, that rooster. Taylor and I went to leave the other morning and he had them down the front driveway! Um, no. We don’t go down there, chickens. I told Keith about his dirty plan and he informed me that maybe Romeo was hosting a party in our neighbor’s barn and he was bringing those roosters some new chicks. It’s like some weird chicken fraternity/sorority exchange dance. I start to think about the music they would play (country? Or some old-school rap?), the drinks (fresh well water, I’m assuming, spiked maybe with corn juice), snacks and God forbid they spend the whole night doing the chicken dance. Either way, that rooster has a plan up his wing and I’ll be damned if he lures them into someone else’s pasture!

The chickens are still producing eggs, but we do have one broody hen. Each morning Taylor bounds out of bed and wants to “go check for eggs.” We went out there one morning and when we opened the lid there was a hen still sitting in there. She’s a broody little broad, so we usually just push her off, but that day she wanted nothing to do with us. She let out a awful chicken scream that made Taylor cry. She even tries to peck us when we reach for her eggs (one of those eggs are hers, the others are not). I’ve gotten brave and just push her back so we can steal her eggs (she does NOT need to be incubating those). I feel kinda bad for doing that, but she just yells at us and struts off to find the rest of the girls and that rooster. But this is an everyday occurrence now. I hope she learns that she will not be allowed to hatch any eggs. Just lay your egg and get OUT. Thanks, chicken.

And ol’ table layer is still doing her thing every single morning. It’s fun to give her some good morning pets and let her lay her egg on the table. Taylor checks up there for it and we put it in the fridge. Another sign that the coop is too small…or another sign these chickens are odd.


Good Morning, Chicken!

 

Few minutes later, an EGG! Taylor thought it was pretty funny
the egg was still warm. Kinda icky, kinda awesome.

The smoke here is terrible and we spend less time outdoors with our girls. If we are not outside, they are next door on the neighbor’s property with the rooster. They have a great big pasture full of green grass and I assume some of the best bugs in the donut hole of Pasco. But when we do go outside, their ears perk up (yes, they have ears!) and they run to the fence to greet us. We watch them slink under the gap in the fence and then just wander around to be with us. They love Taylor! They run with him, let him chase them and yell at them. Taylor isn’t too keen on them roosting on his play toy ladder, but I do laugh when he yells at them. The chickens have also taken to giving themselves dust baths in Taylor’s dirt box. So among the trucks and tractors are these hens hunkered down in the fine dirt, throwing it to dust themselves off. It is a sight to see if you have never seen a chicken give themselves a dust bath. Then when they get up and run off, they leave big billows of dust as they go. Romeo must not have allergies…

Below are some pictures that tell more of our story. It's a pretty good life out here.

Dirt Bath!

 



A little help from Taylor...

This doesn't need a caption, does it? Funny.

Feeding the girls some "scratch." They run when they see that cup full of good snacks!

One morning I awoke with the awful realization that I didn't lock up the chickens. I quickly got dressed and ran outside, hoping I would not find a pile of feathers. When I opened the door, there they were, just sitting on the table in the cold morning air looking at me, as if to say, "You stupid girl. Yes, we are alive, but we had one hell of a night." Whoops, sorry about that.
 

LOVE

We found a nice rooster feather one day and I thought it would be fun to tie it to a stick and fly it like a kite. Now that I look at this, my son is running with a sharp stick in his hand, with the potential of poking out his eye...Seemed like a good idea at the time. I was just glad he was feeling well enough to run! :)





 

 

Chicken Challenges

It seems I have to start this blog entry with some very sad news. No one likes to be woken up by their husband at 6am while he is holding a Lysol wipe in his hand, hanging his head, but that is what happened a few weeks ago. Poor Baby Chick was murdered in our yard. She was pulled from her little rabbit cage and taken to chicken heaven with all the other farm animals. I am so thankful that Keith was observant enough in the morning while making coffee to notice something was wrong and took care of it before Taylor bound outside to “check for eggs.” I actually really cried, a lot, more than I thought I would, over Baby Chick. We didn't have room for her and she wasn’t mingling with the big girls very well, so it was a hassle to keep her locked up separate, feed her separate food and get scratched every single morning and night while getting in and out of her cage. Keith and I felt so guilty that we didn't take better care of her, getting her into a permanent home, but we did the best we could at the time. Thankfully Taylor had not noticed she was gone for a while. She was fun and beautiful and I wish I could have seen her grow into a big chicken, but as my grandma always said, “that is how it goes on a farm.”  Sadly, today Taylor was running around the coop chasing chickens when he stopped, looked up at me and asked, “Where’s the little one?” My mommy brain said a bad word and I asked, “The little one what?” even though I knew the answer; I just wanted to be sure I didn't give up any unnecsaary information. So he answers while holding a long tree branch in his hands, “The little baby chick.” Oh for God’s sake. My eyes got watery and I started to spin a story the best I could to shelter him from the worst kind of explanation. “Well, she went with some other baby chicks. Someone came and got her and she went to a new home.” He stood there, processed that, and then got distracted by a hen and ran after her. Phew. White lie for a little white chick and a sad mommy and daddy. Ugh.

Rest In Peace, Baby Chick, "The Little One."

Next topic: Dirty Roosters. I didn’t get or want a rooster on purpose. They are loud, sometimes very mean and I didn’t want any fertilized eggs. Sick. But who decided to come over and socialize (read: deflower) our girls? Our neighbor’s free-wheeling rooster. He is one lucky rooster, all 7 hens to himself while he lures them into his pasture under the fence. I’m waiting to see my hens asleep in the dirt trying to cool down while he is smoking a cigarette in the pasture, blowing smoke rings, giving himself high fives and Tweeting about how “busy” he has been. I will say this: he isn’t mean, he is quick to get “the job done” and while he gets the girls out to his pasture, it keeps them from taking gigantic chicken turds on our deck. I guess he can stay. But once in a while I will be taking in the view of our little ranchette, like a lovely sunset, and in the foreground there he is, just going at it with a hen. Thanks for that, rooster friend.

Tater and The Rooster. She doesn't try bite it, she just runs it almost to death. She just wants to PLAY!

When you decide to get an animal you don’t really take in to account all the issues that may come up. When we got Tater I didn’t realize I would be constantly searching for my other shoe or cleaning up dirty clothes she packs into the front room when we leave her alone. As with chickens, I was not aware of the amount of poop I’d be dealing with and I was also not aware of what a disgusting issue soft-shelled eggs would be. I remember my grandma feeding her chicken oyster shells to firm up their shells, but I never saw why. I have seen why. And it’s nasty. While this one chicken (she will remain anonymous since this has got to be embarrassing for any chicken) has since figured out how to solve her own problem, we were dealing with a “yolky water balloon” as Keith calls it, for a while. You’d be walking through the yard and run across what looked like a water balloon with a yolk and when you lean down to inspect it, you have to hold back barf. To give you more detail (as if you wanted it), the first time I noticed this problem was when I was outside with Taylor feeding the chickens. I walked along the fence line and noticed what looked like to me as a condom with a mandarin orange inside. I was furious! What neighborhood kids thought it would be funny to throw a condom with a mandarin orange in my YARD! I was ready to unleash some kind of unneighborly assault when I realized one, we don’t have any neighbors close enough to launch a mandarin-filled condom and two, cows (our closest neighbors/culprits) don’t have access condoms or eat mandarin oranges, so that’s when I picked it up. And then that’s when I freaked out and almost puked. A change in feed and just dealing with the issue has finally got us to a beautiful stage of “7 chickens, 7 hardshelled eggs a day.” Phew. That was icky.

While this is a harder soft-shelled egg, this is what it's like. Ick.

So, with 7 eggs a day, you’re looking at about 49 eggs a week, give or take some breakfast emergencies or dropping/breaking of eggs (note: we have a hen who always, ALWAYS, lays an egg on a glass-top table on the deck. I tried to put stuff up on the table so she would not get up there, but she would push it off and lay an egg on the table top. The egg would either break or get a pretty large crack so I decided to just put a towel up there for her. Problem solved. I get a nice egg, she gets a place to sit and sometimes if you’re lucky, you get to witness the laying of an egg. They stand UP and lay the egg! Whoa. That’s using gravity. It’s weird, but pretty awesome.) we have a lot of eggs!  After trying and tiring of eating eggs in all different forms for breakfast, I asked my friends if they wanted some. Wow-what a response! Now I’ve got a little side job of delivering ranchette-fresh eggs around town. I’m just thankful we can spread the love (literally love: those eggs are fertilized and good), and I don’t have to throw any out.

That is what life has been like lately with the chickens. They are so much fun and I adore them. Taylor has the best time with them, running out each morning about 10 times to check for eggs. We let them out of their coop around 8am, but they don’t lay an egg until around 9am after they get their morning “exercise” and meet and greet with the rooster. They are so funny as they run out, taking the same route around the garden beds and running to the slide that has some water in it to take a drink as if it was the best chicken liquor in the world. Then they eat some grass and slowly make their way into the pasture.  I do have two girls, the one that lays on the table and The Stalker, who like to stay on the deck and yell at me while I drink my coffee. The other 5 are out with their rooster. After they all do whatever they do, we can collect the 7 eggs until around 10am. Taylor even sticks his hand under the hen’s butt and steals the eggs so they don’t think they need to sit and hatch them. The hen is pretty pissed off, but she’s gentle enough just to make a weird chicken noise and let Taylor root under her feathery fanny for an egg.  It’s odd, I will admit, but it’s pretty sweet and funny. Then the squeal from Taylor, “TWO EGGS!” and we are off running into the house to put them in the fridge. And that’s my morning. Awesome, right?

Until next time…

Friendly Chickens

The egg the chicken laid under the Coug sign on our first Cougar Football Thursday of the season. It wasn't good luck, but it was still fun.

Momma Chicken Rancher and Mini-Chicken Rancher

After we got back from The Cabin in Idaho, Taylor  picked up this chicken and brought her inside. He missed his girls so much! But Dad did take very good care of them while we were gone.