Hens Moved OUT!

Well, the girls have moved out!  I knew it was time when one of the hens kept trying to get out, and she even succeeded few times.  One night I went to the kitchen to get a drink of water around 10pm and heard a poor chick cry of distress (like the mother of a newborn, you begin to understand the different chicken noises. Weird, but true.)  So I poked my head out and one of the hens is OUTSIDE the pool chirping either to get back in with her friends or bragging that she had “flown the coop.”  I scooped her back up and set forth on getting the coop ready for their arrival. 

"Get me OUT OF HERE! I'm crowded, it stinks,
and I know what outside is like. Last warning
or I destroy your garage tonight with chicken
poop while you sleep. You've been warned."

Their first night in the coop was very nerve-racking for me.  First, they didn’t go into their coop by themselves, I had to run around and put them in there.  Then once they all got in there, they didn’t understand that if they went up the handy ramp ladder that they’d be in a nice little nesting box with pine shavings, water, food and a heat lamp.  They just curled up by the door and stayed there. I went out around 10pm to check on them and I swear it was like a scene from the final hours of the Titanic, where they were whispering their cold goodbyes and singing songs to stay awake and from dying.  So I kneeled in the 3 foot doorway, scooped them all up and blocked them in their warm nesting area.  Much better. Much warmer. Much more alive.

The next day I went to work researching how to get “the girls,” as I call them, acquainted with their coop.  The internet said to lock them in their coop for 3-4 days and then when you let them out during the day, they will always return at night.  I did this.  And let me tell you something. Keeping chicks locked up from a dog and an eager 2-year-old is something of a challenge. I had to lie to Taylor and tell them the chicks were in timeout.  They were kinda, but he took my word as gospel, maybe laughed at little at them, knowing that they received the timeout lecture too, and went on his way to chase rock chucks.  Which leads me to the next part of my “chicken ranchin’” journey…

God Damned Rock Chucks! You may know them as whistle pigs or marmots.  We call them f**k chucks, dirty rock chucks, mock chucks, rodents.  Taylor and I yell at them all day long after they chirp at us, “I SEE YOU, DIRTY ROCK CHUCK!”  He’s pretty good at yelling it too.  Unfortunately he also thinks anything small and brown that runs is a rock chuck, which is why he yelled at some old lady’s dog at the park, “I SEE YOU DIRTY ROCK CHUCK.”  Oh, kids…who teaches them that weird and rude stuff?  Hmmm…come along, son.  Rock Chucks are herbivores, which mean they only eat grass and burrow huge annoying tunnels. They have also claimed under our shed as their home.  Taylor and I spend our meal times now watching rock chucks stick their heads out, gather grass, and sun themselves and chirp.  And as soon as Taylor has his mouth full of food, out comes our mantra: “I SEE YOU DIRTY ROCK CHUCK!”  And to make it worse, they had babies. So the thought of killing momma rock chuck and leaving their fuzzy rodent babies motherless kinda breaks my heart. I blame Disney for this.  The good thing is they don’t care for chicken as a meal, but they do love a good mouthful of chick feed.  So now after I let the chicks out every morning, a ritual I love now, I have to take their food out and hang it on a nail under the shed.  (One is chirping right now at me.  He knows I’m talking about him.)

Rock Chuck coming out to see what the day brings.

Our "rock chuck hunting dog" a bit slow.  She's on constant
search for a 'chuck.

Now the chickens are out all day, running through the yard chasing each other, a bug or running from rock chucks and Tater. Taylor has been doing a better job of not picking them up by their wing, after a full day of timeouts.  He LOVES to hear them chirp and he figured out that if he holds them up by one wing, not only do they chirp really loud and crazy, they also flap their wings and wiggle their legs.  Oh, man.  I try not to think about what type of warning sign this might be and just chalk it up to my sweet son has figured out how to make the chicken chirp.  Now with much praise for being gentle to the chickens, and two minute   timeouts INSIDE (torture!) he is doing much, much better.  Phew. 

Our Girls

I’m not sure what the next step in my chicken ranchin’ journey will be.  We are enjoying them outside so much.  We watched one grab a worm this morning and run through the yard like a kid who just hit his first homerun.  I love to watch them scratch, peck and nestle into the rocks to get some sun.  It is a lot of work to clean out their poopy coop, change their water and food, make sure they are all in at night and worry about their wellbeing while I’m gone, but in some way I feel connected to my grandmother in all those things I do.  I understand a little more about why she never wanted to leave her animals or farm.  I understand that these birds, while dumb as nails sometimes, gave her a sense of purpose because they depend on their caretaker for survival.  I think she would be proud of me and I want to call her sometimes to tell her what I’m doing with my birds, but I know she’s there watching it all happen.  I cannot wait for them to lay their first eggs, which won’t happen for a few more months.  I’ll be sure to hold it up to heaven and shout “SEE!!! I AM A CHICKEN RANCHER, GRANDMA!” 

Stay tuned for more adventures on our chicken ranch!

Rock Chuck sunnig his belly.  The chicke feed up
on a nail, out of their reach. So far...