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.
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| 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).
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| The day after. Poor comb. Poor feathers. |
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| 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.
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| 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...
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| 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!
