The Honeymoon is Over: Chicken Honesty

You know how at the beginning of a relationship you are always so excited to see the other person, and think that everything he/she does is brilliant and charming and all the stories are new and breathtaking? And how, after time and exposure, the gilt begins to wear off because, seriously - you've already told me this story three times before (and it's really not that funny)? And then you start to see how annoying and selfish that person can be, but you stick it out with them since the positives outweigh the negatives? And then in a few more weeks you're leaving the bathroom door open while you take your morning dump, with yesterday's eyeliner smeared across your cheek and sporting the world's most atrocious morning breath because, well...you just don't care?  Because you're all about honesty now, right?

 

Yeah, so that's sorta how we are with chickens now.

 

When we finally got our first flock of chicks, each fluff-ball was socialized daily, fed from hand and given a special name best suited to his/her personality. Special treats were lovingly offered each day, and every egg was a celebrated as a victory.

 

Fast forward three years later and we are so over that now. We currently have chickens that we've had for close to a year that don't even have a name.  And since we haven't socialized them properly they get all Benny Hill theme music on us (forward to the 1:07 mark) when we try to get close.  Bitches.

 

Don't get me wrong - I don't believe we loath having chickens.  It's just now that all the gilt has worn off and I can be 100% honest with you about it all.  To keep it organized, here are 5 truths about raising chickens that any experienced and honest chicken owner can tell you:

 

1.  Chickens eat a lot.  If you think running to the store because you ran out of dog food (again) is a hassle, just wait 'til you're feeding chickens...especially in the winter.  Since they have less to forage on during the cold months, our girls eat way more feed in the winter than in the summer - pretty much a new bag every week.  And unlike dog food (or cat food), the local gas-and-stop on the corner doesn't have a miniature bag of feed-n-scratch to get you through to the weekend.  No, if you realize at 7:55pm that you are out of chicken feed then you better haul ass to the nearest farm supply store (which closes at 8:00pm) to get that bag.  Unless you have enough stale cereal in the back of the cupboard to buy time.  Otherwise, get used to the folks at the feed store calling you PJ's-and-Crocs (because that's how they're used to seeing you).

 

2.  Roosters are assholes.  Seriously.  There is a reason the term "cock" is used to describe assholes.  People will tell you stories about roosters that were sweet and gentle and loved to cuddle, but they're lying.  Or drunk.  Or both. And notice how their stories are always in the past tense. Rooster have built in shivs, called spurs, on the back of their legs.  They will cut you!  It's just like Wolverine, minus the adamantium and six-pack abs and cigar and...okay, scratch that Wolverine thing.  Unless you are trying to breed chickens and raise chicks from eggs I really don't recommend keeping roosters.  Doubly so if you have young children around. 

 

3.  Chickens die. Okay, this one shouldn't be a surprise, right?  But lets just say that the death isn't always a convenient or peaceful one. We've had a stray dog wander on to property and personally pick out his own al fresco lunch (the owner that let that dog wander was a cock...see what I did there?). Occasionally one will go on a walk-about, while others disappear with nothing but a poof of feathers left in the grass (we suspect hawks in those instances). Sometimes there will just be one sweet little hen dead, near the front door, just in time for your elementary-aged daughter gets off the bus (fuuuuuck). Sometimes you find the body (or remains) after dark when you're locking up the coop. Sure, you could get to bed an hour later than expected by cracking out the shovel and giving it a proper burial.  But tomorrow is trash day...

 

4.  Chickens shit everywhere. No really - everywhere. High, low, sideways - it defies gravity and gets onto every surface. And even if you think you're all that and keep your chickens penned up (no free range poop for you, thankyouverymuch) guess what? You're going to go in to that pen for feeding and watering duties and bring chicken shit back into the house on your shoes. And then unknowingly smear it in the carpet.  Because you're too drunk talking about a sweet little rooster to notice what you've done.

 

5.  Chicken Math = Crazy Math. You're just going to start with eight hens, right? Er, better make that 12. Shit, how did it get to be15? Fuzzy math indeed, my friends. Oh, you're going to downsize your flock? Let me know how that goes - because the universe hears you and calls your bluff and that is exactly when it will bend time and space to steer people into your path that are desperately in search of good homes for chickens they cannot keep. I even know someone who had unwanted chickens dumped on her property in the middle of the night. I kid you not. I've decided I'm not longer going to announce when we are wanting to reduce the size of our flock - it's a bit too much of fate tempting. I'll have to come up with some code phrase.  Maybe instead of saying "We're going to downsize our flock," I should say something like "I wish there was more chicken shit on the sidewalk."  It'd be sort of a reverse-psychology-meets-no-tempting-of-fate approach.  Legit.

I can easily think of four or five other things to add to this list.  But don't get me wrong, chickens are fascinating and entertaining and there is nothing better than home-grown protein.  It's just not always sunshine and roses.

Some days it's more like sun flares and thorns.

--Rational Mama

I (Beef) Heart Archives

Been looking at some of the stats for the blog...

Typically, we get an average of 50 page views a day (more if I'm posting regularly, less if I'm taking a break). During months with fresh content we average around 2,000 page views per month.

For the past several months the most-visited archived post is the one about cleaning out the chicken coop. I believe that has to do with a nice Reddit link posted by Anisa at The Lazy Homesteader. There is quite a number of visitors to the post describing when we slaughtered a chicken for the first time, too.

For a good portion of last year a lot of traffic ended up on the post where we caved in to air-conditioning during our rationing summer. Apparently, folks like pictures of the Wicked Witch of the West.

Much traffic comes to the site from searches such as "rationing in WWII" and "1940's women." No surprises there. What I have found very interesting, though, is that searches for "mock apple pie recipe" and "beef heart recipe" regularly appear in the top ten searches that lead people to the site.

Strange, no?


--Rational Mama

Spring Projects

Yikes! Spring has sprung here and that means we now have a seemingly endless list of projects to keep us busy.

Here's a quick rundown of projects completed within the last six weeks or so...

The grey is the base aluminum of the roof, which is approximately 100 sq. ft. in size.

TMOTH spent many hours sanding off, and then repainting, the roof of the camper.

Hopefully this roof rehab fixed the leaks in the camper roof.

There was the original 1978 finish on the roof, plus at least one other paint layer - not to mention the gloppy piles of caulking in areas. The smell from the sanding was absolutely horrible (the roof dust, not so much TMOTH) but the finished product is quite nice.


I've started several rounds of seeds and currently have some lettuce, radishes, spinach, kale, and mesclun popping up in the garden. I'm waiting for the carrot and beets to sprout.


I'm working on a series of screens to lean over the herb garden to keep the chickens out. I'm using a very simple approach of PVC pipes and wildlife netting. The chickens think it is great to dust-bath next to the lavender and oregano. For some reason, I think differently.

Finally, TMOTH constructed a very nice cold frame. I'd been missing the greenhouse from the old house, and we have a perfect location for a cold frame on the south side of the current house.

The cold-frame site.

We bought a series of windows from a local resale shop for $6 and had enough scrap wood laying around for the job.

Mid-construction.

A few hinges and such from the hardware store and TMOTH built a fabulous cold-frame for under $30.

The finished product: chicken-approved.

We still have plenty of spring projects on our list. The asparagus and strawberries are on their way, so beds need to be prepared for them. Plus the chicken coop needs a new roof and there's more seeds to sprout and...

Well, there will be plenty of topics for future posts.

--Rational Mama

Oh, If I Only Could...

A coworker brought this to my attention.

Oh, if I only had $150 to blow I would so buy this and put it near the chicken coop.

--Rational Mama

What's the Deal with Chickens and Roads?

So last Friday evening we received a call from one of Sissy's besties. Apparently, while waiting for the bus to depart from school she noticed a feathered chicken wing in the road and its former owner in the ditch. Bestie asked if Pat was still missing.

She was. It had been exactly two weeks since Sasquatch carried her off.

After confirming the coloring of the deceased chicken matched that of Pat, TMOTH and Sissy walked the mere 1 1/2 blocks to the school to check out the carnage.

Yup, it was Pat. Apparently she attempted to cross the road (from our side of the road to that of the school) and was hit by a car. Based on the evidence it had been a pretty quick death, and it must have happened sometime during that day, since her body was not present during the morning school commute.

She was brought home and buried in the back half-acre next to a trio of rose bushes.

We were all amazed that Pat was found so close to home after so long. If she was that close she could have heard all of our calling, all of Dockers' crowing and the dinner bell ringing (we literally ring a bell when we give the chickens cracked corn - it's our Pavlovian way of making sure they all come when we need to lock them in the coop yard).

Maybe she didn't want to come home. Maybe I had it wrong all this time.

Maybe Sasquatch didn't abduct her.

Maybe she ran off with Sasquatch - a love affair otherwise forbidden by chicken sensibilities.

Don't cry, big guy. You'll love again someday.

Somewhere, a lonely 'Squatch is crying.

--Rational Mama

CSI: The Shire

Friends, when one commits to owning chickens, one also commits to a laundry list of inevitable firsts that come with owning chickens.

• The first recognizable rooster crow of a young cock.
• The first egg of a young pullet.
• The first observed mating of said rooster and pullet.
• The first slaughtering of a familiar chicken.

You get the picture.

This past Friday (Friday the 13th, wouldn't ya know), we had the unfortunate experience of having our first UFO - Unexpected Fowl Obfuscation. In other words, a chicken has gone missing.

To bring you up to speed on the poultry of The Shire - as of last week we had one rooster and eight hens. On most fair weather days the chickens have free run of The Shire as long as a human is present on the property. Otherwise, they are sequestered to their coop and coop yard. Never have we, during the day, seen or heard any predators that might threaten chicken safety - the dogs of The Shire are quick to alert us to any interlopers. The chickens also have a helpful habit of remaining on (or at the fence line of) our 2+ acres, which keeps them safe from potential dangers on neighboring properties.

Friday afternoon TMOTH was working outside and completed a head count of the chickens around 1pm. When I arrived home after 4pm I soon decided to herd the chickens to the coop in advance of bonfire happenings scheduled later that evening. But, I discovered, the hens only numbered seven. Pat was missing.

We called. We shook the corn can. We rang the chicken dinner bell. No Pat.

Together with the girls we scoured the perimeter of the property, calling for Pat and looking for signs of foul (fowl) play.

No feather heaps. No blood trails. Pat was just...gone. And she has remained gone since.

Have you seen this chicken?

Since Friday we've completed several more futile perimeter walks.

At this point, I'm thinkin' alien abduction or Sasquatch. Or, it might possibly be due to the stray dogs TMOTH saw running nearby two days prior. Or even hawks or owls. But seriously, it's probably the 'Squatch.

Why did the Sasquatch cross the road? Hmm...

Since Pat was not a feathered favorite among the girls, there (thankfully) hasn't been much anguish about the loss. But Pat was a very productive hen, with pretty brown eggs and the most beautiful golden dappled plumage.

She was the alpha hen, so I wonder how much her absence will affect the flock. Does Dockers (the rooster), realize she is gone? Does he care? Is he now more paranoid about potential dangers?

And which hen will now rise to be the new alpha hen?

--Rational Mama

Bow Chick(en) Bow Wow

So...I kinda sorta introduced the girls to Internet porn the other day.

But don't worry...it was only animal porn.

Wait, that didn't sound any better. Lemme 'splain.

A few weeks ago I was discussing the status of the chicken flock (roosters crowing!) with my country-wise co-worker and how, in another month, the hens would start laying eggs. My co-worker made the very good point that, since the chickens were approaching sexual maturity, we should review the dynamics of chicken mating with the girls.

You see, chicken sex involves a lot of climbing and pinching and grabbing and squawking, and more than one child has been concerned that the rooster was "being mean" to the hens in the process.

So being a good homesteading mother, I had "the birds and the bees...and the chickens" talk with the girls one night. I explained how the rooster climbs on to the back of the hen, and then uses his beak to grab either her neck and/or comb. The hen squawks, the rooster pulls down his rear and...well...you can figure out the rest. The whole thing last roughly 10 seconds.

But seeing how kids have active imaginations and a thirst for knowledge, they wanted to know more. How does the rooster balance on the hen? Does the hen just sit there? Does he just hop off when done?

Naturally, I went to YouTube.

I can't decide if the plethora of chicken sex videos available are for educational purposes (as was our intent) or something...more...disturbing. Either way, the girls got their questions answered and I somehow managed to stay clear of any videos that might not be suitable for young viewers.

The timing of our conversation and video viewing was perfect, because about a week later we were the audience to one of Dockers' earliest couplings with a hen.

"Sexy rooster in da hizzle!"

And wouldn't you know, it looked just like what we saw on YouTube.

--Rational Mama

Crazy Honest Chicken

I've always been one of those people that prefer the truth, no matter how unpretty, to falsehoods.

Tell me the truth and I will deal with it; force rose-colored glasses on me and I'm totally unprepared to deal with the world once the spectacles are ripped away. I so very very much hate that feeling of the carpet pulling out from underneath you; when you are left viewing the world from a much different perspective after a violent readjustment.

I believe that living wide awake and facing the grotesque with the beauty is an honest, just way to live.

So when the big factory farms try to sell me packages of meat with images of happy farms and chickens living their lives in sunshine and glorious fields of green I get very pissy. The real reality includes enclosed, crowded chicken houses that require the chickens to wade through inches of fecal waste to get to automated food troughs. And then the insane assembly line at the slaughter houses, well...it's absolutely horrifying.

I don't want to support that reality. I don't want my money to tell the proprietors that this is all okay.

"You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

So, friends, a few weeks ago - for the first time - we slaughtered a chicken.

It was the first time in my life that I willing chose to end of the life of anything bigger than a spider (that squirrel on 10th Avenue three years ago sooooo doesn't count - I swear it was a kamikaze squirrel).

The deed had been on the radar for several weeks but we were, well...chicken. Choosing to take knife in hand and kill an animal you've raised since its early days is not an easy thing. The animal knows you, knows that you are a provider. And there's a reluctance, because the burden of making it an ethical, humane kill is solely on your shoulders.

It wasn't technically a spontaneous act, but one Sunday a few weeks ago TMOTH and I screwed up our courage enough to proceed with plans. And once the decision was made we got down to business quickly.

There are plenty of websites out there, dear reader, that go into the nitty-gritty details of how to slaughter and butcher a chicken, so I won't bother sharing the technical processes.


I will, however, tell you it was a wide-awake experience, with sounds and smells which are etched in the surfaces of our memories. The girls were present during the entire activity and participated when appropriate (mostly when it was time to pluck). It was a very quiet time, but there were no tears.


In the end, we had a seven-pound (dressed weight) chicken. Since Rock Star was a meat bird, she had met her market weight of three to four pounds at around six to eight weeks of age. Because we had been dragging our feet about the slaughter, she had managed another six weeks of growth beyond that. She was big.


When folks who were in the know later asked, "How did she taste?" my reply was always, "Honest." Crazy honest. There was no trickery or deception in that chicken meal.

Rock Star had a good life. She always had access to food and water and friends. She was often given treats and and had a clean coop. She was never fed the remnants of other animals, and she was never injected or fed antibiotics while in our care. Her slaughter was swift and done out-of-sight of her coop-mates. Her carcass wasn't injected with solutions of sodium nastiness.

She was an honest chicken.

Thank you, Rock Star.

--Rational Mama

Ode to a Rock Star

Oh, Rock Star.

You are a chicken loaded with personality.

You make happy little gulping noises every time you see us headed to the coop, hoping that we're bringing some yummy treat your way. And if we take the food dish away to clean it or refill it you pace around, making nervous little squeaks until we return.

You don't care for grass, but you like oats, corn and mulberries. Especially mulberries! Anyone who thinks that a Cornish Rock can't haul ass has never seen you move when we drop fresh mulberries into the chicken yard. It takes effort to lift yourself up and run, but you do it without hesitation for mulberries.

You like to be petted on the tail feathers, but not on the back or head.

You hate being separated from the other hens, but often don't have the physical ability to get yourself to where they are. Your girth has become a hindrance...I'm afraid that is the curse of the Cornish Rock meat chicken that you are. If you were a person I'm sure you'd be eligible to receive a free mobility scooter, just like they advertise on television.

Since you are not physically able to get up on the roosts, you're favorite leisure spot is the natural perch formed by the threshold of the coop yard door. Of course, this means you're blocking the entrance/exit for all the other chickens. Luckily, you're easy-going enough to let them just walk over you.

According to all the chicken manuals, you reached market weight sometime between six and eight weeks of age.

You are now 12 weeks of age. You have mobility issues. And you eat a lot of grain.

A lot.

It is time, Rock Star.

It is time.

--Rational Mama

Mulberries!

The tree closest to the chicken coop is a mulberry tree, and as of this week the mulberries are starting to become ripe.

I didn't learn the joy of fresh mulberries until I was an adult. Luckily, my girls won't have to wait that long. I see lots of cobblers and, possibly, mulberry wine in our future.

A branch of the mulberry tree overhangs the chicken yard. Apparently, appreciating mulberries isn't just a human thing.

Strawberry season stretches into mulberry season, which might just stretch into blackberry season, which is followed by apple season.

Life is good.

--Rational Mama

Profiles in Poultry

(Note: I have know idea why you might be seeing suspect spellings highlighted in yellow on this post...strange.)

Okay, so this is the post where I go off the deep end and you, dear reader, begin to understand just how much I like our chickens.

Dear reader, I sure do like our chickens.

As of today they are approximately nine weeks old, which means they're on the verge of officially graduating from being identified as "chicks" and will soon be more appropriately referred to as "pullets" or "cockerels." They are still a good two to four months from laying their first eggs (for those built with the required features).

An aside: I confess that I usually just call them "chickens." Or more specifically, "the chickens." As in: I'm going to go let the chickens out," or "Has anyone put the chickens in the coop tonight?"

The past two months we have raised these 11 chickens from wee chicks to their current, prepubescent selves. In that time they have shown their amazing chicken instinct and learned how to scratch, fly, eat worms, roost and roll in a dust bath all on their own. They also all have very distinct personalities and now that we have a good handle on individual distinctions and names we present to you the current occupants of the Rational Living coop.

The Black Stars

The Black Stars represent two of the six sex-linked chicks we purchased. Sex-linked chicks are hybrid of two standard breeds that can be sexed (that means you can identify their gender, get your head out of the gutter!) shortly after they hatch. Black Stars are the offspring of a Rhode Island Red male and a Barred Plymouth Rock female. Because of this, all our Black Stars (and other sex-linked chicks) were guaranteed hens. Our two Black Stars are Feather and Ms. Thang.

Feather
"You lookin' at me?"

Feather is a sweet, fairly friendly bird and is Sissy's pet (that really is the best way to describe the relationship).

Ms. Thang
...Because your conscience in cricket form is too easy to step on.

Ms. Thang distinguished herself at an early age as the feisty one that leaps into danger (or pecks at your hand) while others hide in the corner. She is very suspicious of humans and seems to be constantly watching and judging us. She's your conscience in chicken form and she is a very good candidate for Alpha Hen. We can tell the two Black Stars apart by the fact that Ms. Thang has deep-black feet with a near-white center toe and a mostly black (rather than pink) comb.

Speckled Sussexes

Helen and Holly, our two Speckled Sussexes, aren't technically sex-linked, but they were known females when we purchased them. They are both sweet, curious and patient birds that seem to have a genuine interest in human activities. Both were named by Eowyn, who is awfully sweet on them.

Holly
Sweet and spotty!

Holly was named after Eowyn's teacher this year, who is a sweet, wonderful lady. Holly the teacher has lots of freckles, and Holly the chicken has lots of white spots.

Helen
She has yet to make the sign for "water."

Helen was named after Helen Keller, one of Eowyn's inspirations. In the early days of chick handling Helen was less than compliant and reminded Eowyn of Helen Keller's behavior at the time of Anne Sullivan's arrival. Luckily, Helen has settled down nicely and loves to be in the companionship of humans. In fact, she's usually the first one to greet us when we approach the coop. Helen as fewer white spots than Holly.

Amber Star

The Amber Stars are the last of our sex-linked chicks.

Pecky-pecky
All of the nervous energy makes for a blurry photo. Just like with Sasquatch.

In the early days of having the chicks there was one yellow chick that really liked to peck. Peck the box. Peck the water dish. Peck the box again. Peck the food dish. Peck the box. Repeat ad nauseum. That's Pecky-pecky, whose name is a nice homage to Ramona Quimby's cat, Picky-picky. Pecky-pecky has a lot of nervous energy.

Tipsy
Tipsy really likes the camera and knows how to work it.

Tipsy rounds out our sex-linked chicks. Poor Tipsy was not in good shape when she came to the Rational Living household. At that time she was the same size as her box-mates, but had difficulty putting any weight on her right foot. As a result, she spent much of her time leaning against the edges of the cardboard pen and had difficulty getting enough food and water. During the first two weeks she was handled frequently as we helped feed her and made sure she had assisted trips to the waterer. When she tried walking in open space on her own she looked like a drunken sailor, hence the origin of her name.

There were a few days during that early period when we honestly didn't know if Tipsy would make it - she was listless and had labored breathing. But over time her leg healed (it's still not clear if she hatched with a splayed foot or if something happened when the store employee scooped her up for our purchase). Eventually she turned a corner, but because of her early troubles she is a bit of a runt; at this time Tipsy is still only two-thirds the size of her counterpart, Pecky-pecky. Because of this she looks a little small for her feathers and may never produce eggs. We're okay with that last part; she's a lap chicken and enjoys being feed by hand. And we are happy to oblige.

You didn't think that I was joking about that "lap chicken" comment, did you?

Buff Brahmas

The Buff Brahmas were our most mysterious chick purchases. Scooped from a bin vaguely labeled as "feathered breeds," they were a straight-run of (at the time) unknown breed. For those who don't know, a straight run is when you get an unsexed assortment of chicks; in your straight run you could theoretically have all roosters, a mix of roosters and hens, or all hens.

In their second week with us these straight-run chicks began developing feathers on their feet. At first I thought they must be Cochins, which was the only breed of chickens I knew of that had feathered feet. As they continued to develop it became clear that their appearance was not matching up with any Cochin breeds, so I did some further Googling and determined that they were, in fact, Buff Brahmas.

In the past month it has also become quite clear that at least two of the Brahmas are roosters, at least one is a hen, and the other...well...the other...hmmm....

Mr. Fancy Pants, Esq.

Mr. Fancy Pants is a young rooster (technically, they're cockerels until they turn one year of age) and has the most splendid display of feathered feet of any of the Brahmas. While researching what breed the mysterious four might be Sissy commented that the heavily feathered feet and legs look like pants - but not just any pants, fancy pants. Hence, a name was born.

Dockers
He's business casual when he wears a necktie.

Dockers is the second confirmed rooster among the Brahmas. He, too, has feathered feet, but not to the same extravagant level as Mr. Fancy Pants. Hence, he's a Dockers kinda guy (you know, Dockers are nice enough to wear to work but they wouldn't do for formal occasions). Dockers was originally the subservient rooster - he was about the same size as Mr. Fancy Pants and would back down after challenging him to a game of "Who's the Baddest Bad-Ass in the Coop." Over the past few weeks, though, things have changed. Dockers is now noticeably bigger than Mr. Fancy Pants and has a larger, redder comb and wattles. The power has shifted.

Cleopatra
She denies all rumors of being smuggled in carpet.

Cleopatra, or Cleo, is the confirmed hen of the Brahmas. She's a quite, timid soul that, along with Tipsy, is often at the edges of the flock. She's has to put up with a lot of male posturing and displays of machismo among her Brahma brothers, which reminded me a lot of Cleopatra putting up with Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony (can you tell what I've been reading?).

It's Pat!

The fourth Brahama, well, ummm, we have yet to determine it's gender. It's slightly larger than Cleopatra, but not as large as Dockers or Mr. Fancy Pants. It has a small comb, but it is bright red, rather than pink like Cleopatra's. Is it a he or she? Clearly, it's Pat!

Cornish Rock

Cornish Rocks are a hybrid chicken, a type of meat bird that grows about twice as fast as the above mentioned breeds. They are one of the most commonly used birds in the factory-farmed meat industry. Because of their high rate of growth these birds often experience organ failure and infections due to weakened immune systems. Combine that with over-populated chicken houses and less-than-ethical practices and most Cornish Rocks in this country have a miserable, abbreviated life.

Because of all these issues I had no intention of getting a meat bird, but when I was purchasing the chicks there was a constant peeping from a lonely little Cornish Rock chick. It was the sole occupant of it's bin. I'm a sucker. Yep, you know what happened.

Rock Star
She's the Janis Joplin of the coop.

Rock Star is a behemoth of a bird; she is at least 1/3 larger than her same-aged peers. She got that way because these birds are literally breed to eat all the time. There have been times that we've had to physically separate her from the food because she has overstuffed herself to the point of ill health. Because she's so large her legs have a hard time supporting her when she walks. So, she spends a significant amount of time on the side lines until she summons up the strength to walk...to the feeder. She eats because she is unhappy, and she's unhappy because she eats.

Raising Rock Star has been an eye-opening experience. We have provided her with the best care we could manage and still she is on the edge of suffering. I can only imagine how much worse off Cornish Rocks raised in factory chicken houses must be. She really does earn her name; the life of a rock star is to live fast and die young. Because of this learning experience, even Eowyn has mostly stopped eating chicken in restaurants (we won't buy chicken at the grocery store because of these and other problems with factory-raised chickens).

Ultimately, we will have to do the deed with Rock Star. She will be our first experience in home-butchered poultry. Until then, she's buying time sitting in her favorite spot - roosting in the entryway to the coop yard.

Of course, that means she's blocking the entrance of the coop for all the other chickens.

Sigh.

--Rational Mama

Chickens!

Friends, I can pinpoint the exact moment I decided I wanted to someday have my own small flock of chickens.

It was way back in the late summer of 1996. TMOTH and I, fresh newlyweds (we married young and there wasn't even a shotgun involved) took advantage of a nice morning by riding our bikes up and down the hills of central and east Lawrence. Or rather, coasting down and huffing and puffing up the hills of central and east Lawrence. Eventually, we found ourselves at the property of my then academic advisor, who owned a decent two acre spread at the junction of where "town" and "country" met. My advisor showed us around his old farmhouse and garden and introduced us to his small flock of chickens.

My recollection is that there were a dozen hens of various breeds, frolicking and clucking happily in the large fenced yard surrounding the coop. It was clear that each and every hen had her own personality, and their proud owner gestured and described their behaviors and antics as they came our way. The birds were so pretty and quirky and I immediately fell in love.

It was that night, as we settled down into our small, married student housing apartment, that I first spoke to TMOTH about wanting chickens someday. We had already established dreams a small homestead, so chickens fit quite well into that plan. But that plan was sooooo far out it was hard to believe that "someday" would ever actually happen.

Fifteen years later, friends, I finally have chickens.

After acquiring a ready chicken coop in the move to the new house we were initially on the fence as to how to approach the chicken issue. Just for eggs, or meat, too? Chicks or pullets? Small flock or large flock? Rooster or no rooster?

Recognizing that we have so much to accomplish to complete even basic tasks before seasonal deadlines (prepare the garden, clean and repair the coop, etc.) we decided that whatever approach we took this year we would NOT do a big straight run order for the production of meat. We still weren't sure, however, if we wanted to dedicate ourselves to the raising of chicks, or if we'd just try to snag a few pullets off of Craigslist.

And then, the day of the first big coop cleaning, the girls and I went to one of the local farm supply stores...and they had chicks.

Dammit if chicks aren't so cute.

After cooing and handling and talking for a good while the girls and I left the store with an understanding that later in the week (when a new shipment of dual purpose chicks came in) we'd head back and buy around 10 chicks for our own flock. We'd consider keeping one rooster, but any extra roosters and possibly up to five other chicks would eventually become dinner.

But then the next day I stopped at another local farm supply store for chick supplies and they had plenty of chicks. In fact, they were expecting another shipment of chicks the next day, and so were needing to sell some of their dual purpose chicks.

I'm such a sucker.

Bird's eye view of the chicks at one week of age.

I came home with six sex-linked laying standards (guaranteed hens), four straight-run "feathered" variety dual purpose chicks and one Cornish Rock (straight run). For those counting, that's 11 total birds, with six guaranteed hens and five possible roosters.

Wait, maybe this is also technically a bird's eye view...

The addition of a Cornish Rock was a bit of a surprise, since I don't like the possibly unethical growth-rate of it and similarly-bred "meat" birds. But it was the only one left in it's tank...and I'm a sucker.

So now several times a day we're checking on the chicks in the basement (it's still too cold to move them out to the coop, which still needs work anyway). We change their pine bedding every other day and have to freshen their water several times a day, as it is apparently great fun to stuff the waterer with pine bedding. It's amazing how quickly even the dual purpose chicks grow, and almost concerning how quickly the Cornish Rock is growing. They each have their own personalities, and most of them have acquired names via the girls.

The chicks at two weeks of age. Keep an eye on that black one perched on the food - she's watching...always watching...

As a homestead-experienced co-worker summed up, "It sounds like you have pets, not chickens." That may be true for the time being, but things may change as the chicks become more independent and roosters start to defend their territory. Eventually, a spare rooster having a bad day becomes dinner.

In the meantime, we better get hustling on the coop since the days will be warming and these little peepers can be awfully loud (especially at night). We'll be putting up new roosts, rehabbing nests boxes and getting the pine bedding ready for the deep litter method.

Let the chicken fun begin!

--Rational Mama

It's a Dirty Job: Cleaning Out the Chicken Coop

Lately, the sun has been shining and daytime temperatures have gotten well into "shorts weather," as the girls refer to it. We've been listening to the woodpecker pecking away at a new nest opening and at night (and sometimes during the day) we could hear frogs chirping down in the dry creek. Clearly, spring was here, which could only mean one thing...
It was time to clean out the chicken coop in preparation for our own chickens.

Grade A spiderwebs, no?

I knew this wouldn't exactly be an easy task, since, based on the accumulated..."debris"...in the coop it appeared that the previous owner postponed the last scheduled cleaning of the coop in anticipation of his own move. Now we were stuck with an overdue coop and when I mentioned cleaning it to TMOTH he said, "Have fun with that."

Whatever, the girls were excited about getting chickens so I knew they would help me. Right?

In light of the thriving population of mice inhabiting the coop (and the possibility of hantavirus) I decided safety was the best approach and declared that anyone helping with the coop clean-out would need to wear a long sleeve shirt, long pants, a handkerchief over their hair, washable shoes, eye protection, work gloves and a disposable face mask. I take contactable zoonotic pulmonary viruses seriously.

Ready for hantavirus...and Ebolavirus, just in case.

Unfortunately, I chose the warmest morning in nearly six months to undertake this project, which meant once I announced that today was THE day for the project the girls were no longer interested in helping me and instead decided the rope swing was feeling neglected.

Funny that I should feel like the Little Red Hen while cleaning the coop, no?

Today is a good day to shovel.

Anyway, I started by using a broom to sweep down the copious amounts of spider webs (and dust) and then moved on to the shoveling. I began shoveling next to the coop door, and the loads had a certain satisfying cleaving pattern. Based on how quickly that section went I was sure I'd be done in no time.

Of course, since I'm new to chickens it never really occurred to me that the worst part would be under the roosts. By the time I got back there I was melting and the goggles were fogging up (not to mention, the claustrophobia was kicking in). Unlike the area near the door, under the roosts was a good five-to-six inch moist and smelly layer waiting for me. Ugh.

Suddenly the shovel loads were not quite as satisfying.

I had been placing my shovel loads into our old plastic wagon, which straddled the coop door. We don't yet have a wheel barrow so this was the next best thing. Unfortunately, I filled the first load so heavily that the wagon's bulging sides lodged the wagon in the door frame. So...I had to squat (nearly putting my face in the wagon contents) to lift the load up and over the door threshold.

Don't overfill your wagon or wheelbarrow, people. Lesson learned.

My plan was to dump the wagon contents in a corner of the back half-acre, since the manure was still too "hot" to add directly to a garden. Unfortunately, the path required for that plan meant that I would have to pull the 100+ pound wagon of manure uphills several hundred feet.

Change of plans.

I decided to dump the wagon contents at a closer corner of the back half-acre which would require uphill pulling only after the wagon had been emptied. Genius! Well, genius except for the part where I forgot to get my foot out of the way before switching directions.

After getting the first load dumped (and being thoroughly drenched in sweat and dust by now) I decided that my goal to finish emptying the coop that day may not happen. Instead, I resolved myself to get at least three wagon loads out.

And three loads it was because after the dumping the third load I realized that a wagon wheel had broken. Sometimes the universe helps you stick to your plans.

Wagon broken. Watch out for the cholera.

A week later (and on a much cooler day) I finished up the worst of the coop cleaning. Now we just have to hose everything down, replace the roosts and get bedding, feeders and waterers installed.

And, of course, get chickens. Which we may or may not already have...because sometimes I'm not a very patient person.

--Rational Mama