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!