My Bit of Earth

Chicken Hero

The chickens had an emergency Friday night, at least, according to them.

We normally leave their coop door open all day.  Among other things, during this dark part of the year, it allows them to put themselves to bed about 5:30 when the sky gets dusky.  Then when I get home from work, all I have to do is close and lock the door behind them.

Friday night, the Kid and I stopped at the library on the way home, so we were a little late.  As it was stormy and overcast that day, I fully expected the ladies to be cooped up.  But when I stepped into the backyard Tori and Gladys came bolting towards me.  I didn't have to be very fluent in chicken to understand exactly what they were saying--"Help!  Help!  Emergency! Help!"

[The ladies are irritated if they are not let out in a timely fashion in the mornings, also.]

I found Bonnie and Joni waiting at the coop door, which had blown shut preventing them from entering.  As soon as I opened it, Tori, Gladys, and Bonnie went straight in and were dozing within seconds.  

Poor Joni, on the other hand, could not get into the coop.  She kept trying to jump up on the ramp to get inside, but it was dark enough that she couldn't really see it.  After a few misses, I was finally able to coax her to walk up the ramp correctly.  

[We got four eggs today--these three and one this evening.  Yay eggs!]

But where was Etta?  By that time it was dark enough that I was having trouble seeing, but it seemed there was an out of place dark shape nestled up near our shed.  Poor little Etta had plastered herself to the wall, and was cowering against the mist and wind.  With extremely little struggle, she let me scoop her up and she nestled down between my chest and my arm as I carried her over and snuggled her into a nest box next to Bonnie.  (I often find them sleeping together there.)

[Little Etta, happy to be outside now that the sun is shining.]

I have to say, it feels good to be a hero now and then, even if only to my chickens.

Oatmeal and Eggs

The Kid eats an egg for breakfast every morning.  Or, he did, until our hens decided to take an extended Christmas vacation and just not lay eggs for the month of January.

We could buy him eggs, of course--and to some extent we have been--but part of trying to eat seasonally is living with the off-season.  And, although you wouldn't know it from the grocery store, in January, eggs are off-season.

So Sweet Husband--the morning chef around these parts--has been trying to get the Kid used to eating oatmeal for breakfast instead.  Oatmeal with a little frozen strawberries or other fruit.

Only, the other morning, Sweet Husband made too much.  So I dutifully took the extras out to the hens for a treat.

They were very excited about it, yet confounded at the same time.  I could almost hear their little chicken brains, "It tastes so good!  But it's stuck to my beak--help!  But it's tastes so good...."

In any event, I believe it was well-received, because each day for a few days after that, I found one of these in the coop:

Snow? Only If You're a Spring Chicken

If I were being generous, I would call it a dust of snow--not even enough to cover the sidewalk.

But the ladies were mystified by it this morning.  Everyone except Tori was born in early May, so they have yet to see real snow.  (Tori is the veteran of several real, honest-to-goodness snow storms.)  I encouraged them to venture out by putting some scratch in the snow, but none of them were having it.  When I left for work, they were all hunkered down in their snug run.

Five Little Hens Enjoying the Warm Weather

We are not even to the double-digit dates in January, and I let my child walk around outside barefoot for a few minutes this evening.  I'm not a negligent mama, it was that warm out.  

I can't get over the lingering feeling that there is something unnatural about having April in January.  Like, we're going to be in for it with a blizzard later or the bugs this Summer are going to be twice as bad or something....

Unburdened with such higher levels of thought, the ladies are loving it.  They were cheerful to see me this morning.  (Well, they're always cheerful to be fed, but--you know--more cheerful than usual.)

Of course, the super observant among you will notice that the title of this post references five chickens, when--when last we discussed them--the flock was comprised of six ladies.  The sad story can be summed up in two short sentences:  Florence escaped.  Moe enjoyed.

Even more unfortunately, we were down to only one chicken laying eggs.  Anyone want to guess which one?

Yup.  It was Flo.

And we had just gotten the Kid accustomed to an egg each morning for breakfast, which means...oh the shame of it...store-bought eggs.  

I'm kidding.  Mostly.  

It also means I'm chicken shopping.  I think we're going to try a few pullets this year.  I'm ready to be swimming in our own eggs again ASAP.

(Almost) Winter Chicken Keeping

Winter officially starts on Wednesday--the shortest day of the year.  With the short, dark days, the hens have all but stopped laying.  Most days we get one egg, sometimes two, sometimes none.  I miss the eggs, but I miss the ladies more.  

Coming and going in the twilight, I don't see them much this time of year.  Due to family scheduling, Sweet Husband takes the morning shift feeding them.  They cluck at me disgruntledly in the dark as I grope around their coop for eggs in the evening.  If not for the weekends and the eggs, it would be like they weren't there.  

I blame it partly on our heated waterer.  When I was little and we kept goats their water was just in plain buckets.  Feeding and watering them was my responsibility--even in the Winter--and I had a little hatchet to break the ice in their water so they could drink.  

I don't remember minding, except on the occaision when I got too vigourous with the hatchet and the ice cold water splashed up onto my clothes.  Oh, it was so cold!

But there was some camaraderie to it.  They were my pals and the extra time it took to take care of them was...well, it was nice to have the excuse to linger.

I've made the choice not to put lights on my hens during the Winter to make them lay more eggs.  (I believe the break is good for them, and that they have enough to do staying warm.)  But it makes me sad that, particularly for this month or so of really short, dark days, it feels like I don't ever get to see them.

On Eggs and Molting

The flock (OK, mostly Florence and Gladys the Marans) laid 50 eggs last month.  They're back in business, yes?

I think we have three girls laying now, although I'm not sure.  Our initial system of keeping track of eggs per chicken worked really well when we had three birds that laid distinctly different eggs.  I've stared really hard and adjusted the light, but I can't tell the difference between "dark spotted eggs" and "sorta dark spotted eggs".

Ant then there's the question of who this third layer is.  We know that Gladys and Flo are laying, because we've caught them at it.  But who is laying the slightly lighter spotted eggs?

Is it Joni Mitchell?

Or Bonnie Tyler?

We can rule out Etta (I think her eggs would be smaller because she's a bantam), and Tori (we know what her eggs look like), but between these two, it's anyone's guess.

Speaking of Tori, poor baby is looking awful these days.  I thought I had seen a chicken molt before, but it turns out that whatever it was the girls did last Fall was but a pale imitation.  Little golden feathers all over the coop...big bald spots on her neck and breast...at first I was a little worried that the other girls were staging a coup d'etat, and slowly pecking her to death.  But, no.  She's just molting.  In a few weeks I should have my pretty, sweet Tori back.

Runaway

I should have realized it was going to be a weird day when I pulled up to work this morning and there was a bomb squad truck out front.  Nothing truly scary...an abandoned package at the adjoining highway patrol office--a false alarm.  But then the Kiddo didn't take an afternoon nap at daycare.  He was apparently happy all day, just not sleepy.  

And--because oddities come in threes--then I got home and found this lady in my front yard.  

She's not one of mine, just in case you don't know my flock by sight.  She was quite pretty though.  She was also obviously a little scared, and not without good cause.  With all the dogs in the neighborhood, she was all set to become a chicken nugget without prompt action.

So, with the Kiddo pinned to my hip, I began attempting to herd her into our backyard.  Two neighbors quickly joined the chase (because, really, catching a chicken one-handed is not-so-possible), and we eventually caught her and tossed her in with my ladies.

(To the experienced chicken keepers, yes, I know...quarantine, stupid.  I wasn't thinking with my thinking parts.)

Once introduced to the flock, the newbie (we'll call her Cherie--points to the person who gets it) proceeded to terrorize Etta, who hid behind Tori as fast as possible.  Then she cornered Joni and Gladys.  Joni made a break for it and escaped, but Gladys  just stood there and squawked until I chased Cherie away.  At one point my flock (of six!) was standing in a corner and Cherie had conquered the coop.  Although it's probably bad manners, I was a little proud when Bonnie (bless her 80's rocker chick heart) finally broke the huddle and harassed wee Cherie so that the rest of the girls could get to the food.

Cherie had been with us for about an hour when (just as I was taking some pictures for her "FOUND" poster), her owner knocked on our back gate.  I think both she and her owner were very relieved to be reunited.  And while I would have kept her on looks alone, I think my girls were very relieved to see our runaway go back to her home.

My New Favorite Thing

Countdown from 10 as I unbuckle the Kid from the carseat--like a spaceship countdown, because that's our game.  Jiggle the lock to open the back gate.  Grab the old quilt as we pass the porch, and spread it out one-handed because the other must keep the Kid pinned to my hip.  Plunk him down in the center, singing a silly song as I run to check for eggs--beautiful chocolate colored eggs that make me grin big as I marvel over them in my hand.

Visit with the chickens.  Mostly Etta, because she likes us.  Giggle at the occaisional curious looks or nip from Bonnie.  Knit while the Kid collects sticks and leaves.  Keep knitting when he crawls over to help with the yarn.  (Not actually as disasterous as it may sound.)  Hear dada's scooter from three blocks away.  Meet Sweet Husband's eyes with a smile, as the Kid crawls halfway across the yard--through the grass and dirt and who knows what else--to get swung through the air in greeting.

Herd the girls up for the night and let the dogs out.  Porter sniffs.  Moe finds a toy, and insists that Sweet Husband play fetch.  The Kid watches intently, already interested in doing everything like Dad does.

It's my new favorite thing.

Flock Notes--Eggs and Fuzzy Feet

Someone, besides Tori, laid an egg last week.  By it's dark coloring, I suspect one of the Marans, but I don't know which.  I've been really looking forward to getting some variation in our egg basket again.  I love the speckles on this one!

This month also marks a full year of laying for Tori.  From September 2010 to the beginning of September this year, she laid 179 eggs.  Not as many as Ingrid (who had laid 217 before she died in July), but a lot of breakfasts, nonetheless.  And the grand total for the whole year (counting ducks, chickens, and everything) was 778.  If you're like me and don't do math in your head, that's almost 65 dozen eggs!

Also, I finally got a shot of Gladys the Maran's fuzzy feet.  (Her sister Florence, the other Maran, does not have fuzzy feet, which is how we tell them apart.)  They're like little funny, feathery chicken slippers.  Cracks me up.

Outside is a Good Toy

I've been wanting to clean up our (sort of pathetic this year) garden for several weeks now, but for one reason or another it just hasn't gotten done.  This Saturday, however, I had a free morning and the weather was gorgeous.  The problem?  Sweet Husband was working so the Kiddo would need to be occupied.  I wasn't sure if it would work or not, but I spread out a big blanket on the grass, brought out a basket of his toys, and left him to it.  

I worked for an hour and a half, folks!  That's, like, forever in baby-time.

And his "toys" barely were touched.  He watched the chickens.  He picked grass.  He smooshed his hands around in the dirt.  He may have swallowed a few leaf particles, but that's just building his immune system, yes?

Garden clean-up was a success.  The weeds are rotting in the compost pile, and I'm thinking of planting a Fall garden of some kale and radishes.  And now that we know that "outside" is such a fabulous toy I suspect we will be spending more beautiful mornings there.

The Pecking Order

The Kiddo and I have begun an afternoon chicken watching ritual.  We usually beat Sweet Husband home by just a few minutes, so rather than rushing in to start dinner (difficult with a child attached to your hip), we head for the backyard to get some quality time in with the ladies.

One of the gifts of having a child is that you stop and see things.  I used to go out every evening and spend some time with the chickens, but I was always doing something--feeding them, scooping the coop, cleaning waterers.  Just by sitting and watching them, I'm learning all sorts of new things about my little flock.

For example, Tori has very clearly installed herself as flock leader.  Amongst the first batch of chickens, I would have never called her the head hen.  (They were a much more "hippie commune" flock to begin with.)  But now she rules with an iron fist.  Even Bonnie, my wild-child Buckeye, toes the line.  And when Florence (one of the Marans) tried to eat scratch without Tori's say-so the other day, she earned a sharp peck on the top of her head as a reminder of who's in charge.

But Tori's despotic ways do not seem to apply to Etta.  We've pretty much established that Etta is a bantam.  Due to her marvelous headdress, she's also a little hard-of-seeing.  Both are reasons she should be getting picked on, but Tori won't have it.  

I swear I'm not making this up.  Last Friday, I spread some food on the ground so the ladies would come closer (to the joy of Mr. the Kiddo).  Tori physically stood guard against the other four while Etta ate.  It was only after Etta wandered off that Tori ate a few bites herself and then, eventually, let the rest of the flock come close. 

The other four are less personable to date, although I'm sure they'll each do something to reveal themselves if I just watch long enough.  And maybe one day soon they'll start laying some eggs too, yes?

We're Apparently Not Very Good At This Part...Oh Well

Despite my dire predictions and wild guesses only one of this Spring's chickens--Patty the Buckeye--ended up male.  While his tail began to give him away sometime in mid-July, earlier this month it became official--Patty started crowing.

I vowed that this year there would be no trip to a farm out in the country.  Whether we ended up with one roo or seven, they were going to be dinner.  

While I don't expect it to make sense to anyone else, I feel like it's important that we use the birds we raise.  First of all, although it's not expensive, it's not free to keep chickens.  Just getting rid of a bird after spending several months feeding and raising it feels--to use chicken parlance--unthrifty.  

And then there's the whole conundrum of eating meat in the first place.  I don't necessarily believe you should have to personally kill every animal you eat, but it seems like--somewhere in there, at least for me--we have to acknowledge that boneless, skinless chicken breasts don't just magically appear at the grocery store.  It feels hypocritical to re-home one chicken, just because I happen to know him, while simultaneously marinating chicken thighs in the fridge to eat with cauliflower for dinner tomorrow night.  (True story.)

To that end, I purposely kept a bit of distance from this year's flock of babies.  Once it became apparent that Patty was a "he", the date was set for the following Saturday.  We made plans to kill him humanely, and have friends over to enjoy some coq au vin.

But then, just in passing conversation, I mentioned our plans to Nice Farmer-Lawyer Guy.  

"How determined are you to eat him?"  he asked, "Because I could actually use a rooster right now."

My further mental wiffle-waffle probably makes for boring reading...he's such a pretty guy...and Buckeyes are an endangered breed...but we really can't just keep doing this every year...we need to just bite the bullet...but there's really not going to be much meat on him anyway, he'd be more useful as a breeder....  The bottom line is, Patty is alive and well--being admired by the young human ladies and getting hen-pecked by the young chicken ladies--at Nice Farmer-Lawyer Guy's farm.

And, once again, we're left chuckling about our rooster who--through such unlikely luck that you have to wonder--has escaped his death sentence.  Eh, maybe next year....

Let's Just Skip July Next Year--What Say You, Chickens?

July was a brutal month for my chickens.

You heard the story of Alanis's untimely death.  But what I haven't gotten to yet is that Ingrid died too.

We had just finished with the Kiddo's bath one evening, when there was a knock at the front door.  One of the neighbors had spotted one of our chickens (Florence the Maran) on the loose in our alley.  Flo was eventually recaptured, but when Sweet Husband went to put her in the coop we found Ingrid lying inside.

She was still alive, but so close to death that in the time it took Sweet Husband to turn on the hose to get her some cold water she stopped breathing.  It's a hard thing to be a full-figured, black chicken in the heat, I guess.  She had all the fresh water and shade we could give her, but two weeks of 100+ temps was too much.

Poor Tori--who is now the last hen standing of our original flock--has been a little lonely.  She has the little girls, of course, but they're not really part of her flock yet.  Or she's not part of theirs--however you want to say it.

For example, we have two long roosts in our coop for the ladies to sleep on.  The big girls always slept on the upper one together, leaving the little ones to the lower roost or the coop floor.  Now Tori sleeps on the upper one by herself.  (Which leaves the six little ones to squish onto the lower roost--it's a bit comical, actually, if you can get past the sad.)

And all the egg-laying duties have fallen to Tori as well.  While Tori has always been my favorite chicken personality-wise, Ingrid was the power-egg-layer.  (She laid 21 to Tori's 14 in July.)  The littles won't start laying until September or October, so we may have to buy some supplemental eggs in the meantime, which always bruises my pride just a little. 

But, on the upside, at least we did go ahead and decide to get some babies last Spring.  While we may have some gap, our little flock will go on, and that's a nice thought.

Post-Sleep Happies

As I get older, I've noticed that at a certain point my body just says, "Go to hell!"  

Don't get me wrong, I've always been a lover of sleep, but I used to be able to just push through both "tired" and "sick" like a mack truck when necessary.  Now, less so.  It's like, the spirit is still willing, but the flesh says, "Nope, uh-uh--either you can sleep on your own or I'll make you sleep, but either way, we're going to bed now."

Which is exactly what happened yesterday afternoon.  

I wouldn't say I was sick, per se, but moving made me nauseous, my joints were all achy...basically it just a big old red flag that it was time to get some rest.  

And wouldn't you know it, the world looks a lot better today.  It's a wonder what sleep, a sick day, and a bowl of fried rice (my go-to food for tummy upset) can do.  

Some happy things from my new, more bright-eyed perspective....

Fifty pounds of tomatoes....all canned (or dried) up and ready to combat the month of January.  They're local (they came from a farm just up the road), cheap ($1 a pound), and organic-esque (i.e. grown responsibly, even if they don't have the little round sticker).  I haven't counted how many pints it made, but it's a lot.

Patty the (indisputable) Rooster's tail.  He's kind of mean, actually, but he's pretty to watch as he prances around.  (And maybe he's the only one?  Maybe?)

Knitting projects that can be done bit-by-bit while entertaining a small child.  Would you believe that I finished this sweater in less than two weeks, almost all in stolen moments?  And got a decent chunk of a chunky blanket finished as well?  I wouldn't have thought it possible myself, except that I did it.

Also, last but not least, the laundry is folded.  At our house, one major casualty of having a child has been that folding and putting away laundry doesn't happen a lot anymore.  It was our least favorite chore before, and now, well, I consider just keeping up with washing it a big acomplishment.  But since I was feeling better this afternoon, I tackled the mountain...literally.  (And then realized I'd missed what was in the dryer, but ah well....)

Attempted Bird Murder...Again

Actually, calling it "attempt" "again" is not entirely correct.  Last time Moe completed the bird murder.  This time it's only an attempt, so far, but we may have to amend the charges in the next few days, depending on how the victim fares.

Which is my way of trying to inject some gallows humor into a very sad occurrence at the Hacienda tonight.  'Lani, our Easter Egger,decided to escape from the chicken yard, just as Moe was out for his dinner time pee and patrol.  

'Lani actually looks much better than I thought she would.  I was inside with the baby for the fracas, but according to Sweet Husband she played dead rather than fighting back--a move that probably saved her life.  

But it's still dicey as to whether or not she's going to make it.  She has a few wounds on her back and neck that are not pretty.  We considered putting her down, but decided she was still whole enough that it was worth taking a wait and see approach.  We cleaned her up, and she's currently resting by herself.  (She can't go back with her sisters until she's healed, as they might peck at her wounds.)  The plan is to reevaluate tonight and tomorrow.  I don't want her to suffer, but I do want to give her a chance.

And the criminal?  Is sleeping sweetly on the couch.  As much as I hate that he hurt one of the girls, he was just doing what's in his nature to do.  Can't blame him much for that.

While we've done our absolute best to keep him away from the hens, I've always kind of known that one day bird or dog would slip through our defenses.  What surprises me--and what's worst in a lot of ways--is that he didn't finish the job.  That probably makes me sound heartless, but the thing I hate the most about living with animals--more than any chewed possession or ruined tomatoes or anything--is having to make these life and death decisions for them....so let's all send good recovery thoughts to Miss 'Lani this evening, yes?

Update:  She died sometime last night.  Darn it....

*Sigh* Chickens

Any one want some chicken noodle soup?

Kidding...mostly.

The tale of my exasperation begins with Tori.  Last week she decided it would be fun to be a mama, and went broody.  I was actually a little worried about her.  It's hot, after all, and sitting in a broiling coop all day (on eggs that weren't even all her own) seemed miserable.  Not to mention the fact that broody hens = grouchy!  

I spent a few days carefully shooing her off the eggs, but, by the end of the week, it seemed she wasn't going to give up.  After consulting with my chicken experts, I decided that the best way to "fix" the problem might be to work with it, instead of against it.  I decided to get her some fertilized eggs and see if she could hatch them.

Friday afternoon, I asked Nice Boss if he would bring me some from his roosters-welcome flock.  (Side note:  Like, four people in my office have chickens now--love it!)  He agreed to bring me a dozen on Monday morning.

Although I was initially hesitant, the idea of watching Tori raise babies quickly grew on me.  She's not a very good layer.  On anything less than a completely for-fun farm, she would have been served up with gravy by now.  But she's certainly sweet, and maybe, I thought, her mothering skills would make up for her lack of eggy prowess. 

Just as I was starting to get excited, however, Tori came out of the coop Sunday morning and greeted me like we were best pals again.  Her broody spell was broken.  And Nice Boss's eggs?  Became a double batch of chocolate chip cookies.

Then this afternoon, I went out to pick some basil for dinner and look for ripe tomatoes.  On really hot days, we like to let the chickens roam the whole yard--that way they can find the coolest spot.  I wasn't worried about the garden, because the only thing we really have growing right now are tomatoes.  The hens haven't ever cared much about those in the past, so I figured I was golden.

Ahem.

At first I though--just from the sheer destruction--that this had to have been done by the squirrels.  But a few perfectly beak-shaped holes told the true tale.

I love my girls, really, but....*sigh* chickens.

Bad Girls

I feel like "Bad Girls" by Donna Summer should be playing as you all scroll through these shots.

Because, each in their own way, they so are.

From Florence and Gladys--I can't tell them apart anymore, but there are two that look just like this--who remind me forcefully of Niobe from the Matrix movies.

To sweet Etta, who has a Jessica Rabbit, "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way...." vibe.

To Joni Mitchell, who, if she could sing would sound just like Joni Mitchell, all gravelly and rough and gorgeous at the same time.

And the Buckeyes, oh my little rocker chicks!  Bonnie (front) is still the smallest of the bunch.  She scampers around like a wee spy girl, popping out of tomato beds when you didn't even realize she was there.  Patty (rear) is an attack chicken.  She has no fear what-so-ever, and has now pecked both Sweet Husband and I, hard.  (We're beginning to suspect....but I'm done trying to predict.)

[The Kid has started to notice the chickens....no bad girls for you, little man!]

But although the bad ones have been fun to watch, it's still the good, older hens that are pulling their weight in eggs.  Alanis is taking her break right now, but Tori laid 23 eggs, and Ingrid laid 26 this month.

The Flocks Have Self-Integrated

Research indicated that it was absolutely a bad idea to integrate baby chicks with full grown hens before the chicks were at least twelve weeks old.  Like, bad as in lots-of-dead-baby-chicks-bad.  So, although it's quite the dance to maintain two separate flocks in our city backyard, we weren't planning on putting all the birds together until at least the 4th of July.  

But then Saturday we had to leave town for a family reunion....

It had been a few days since the big girls had been out to forage in the yard, so I decided to lock the chickies up in our chicken enclosure and let the big girls free-range for the day.  But it seems I underestimated how attached the big girls are to their space.

When we got home late in the afternoon, Tori and 'Lani had flown over the fence and were in the chicken yard with the babies.  Everyone was still alive, unscathed, and scratching the ground contentedly, even Bonnie the Tiny Buckeye Chick.

Always one to push my luck, I decided that if everyone had managed to stay alive for the afternoon, we'd see how they'd do overnight.  It's been three days now, and--while I can't say they're all the best of friends--everyone is still thriving.

Just in case, I made a little safe space for the babies.  They can get through to their food and some quiet time, but the big girls can't squeeze through the "door".

I honestly don't know if this would all work out so well a second time.  I attribute it partly to flock characteristics--my big girls are sweet and docile, the chicks are wild little bad girls.  (Truly, Patty Smyth pecked the...mmmm...out of my hand the other day!)  Whatever it is though, it's working, so we humans are just going to go with the flow!

The May Egg Layin'

Alanis--our little Easter Egger who has been laying pretty blue eggs without a break since early October--has finally given up the ghost this month.  She laid nine eggs in early May, but is now clearly taking a very well-deserved rest.

Ingrid, the Maran, is nothing more or less than an eggy powerhouse.  She laid 28 eggs this month--almost one a day, which is good enough for me by itself.  

But the really impressive part is that--in my nerdy stats keeping--I'm starting to get enough data to see bigger trends, if you can call them that.  Ingrid's lifetime total since she started laying last September is 170 eggs.  With both other birds right around the 120 mark, either they're lazy or Ingrid is a rockstar.  (I choose to believe the latter...it's more fun.)

If this is a preview of what's to come with the Marans, we're going to have all kinds of pretty chocolate colored eggs once the baby Marans start laying this Fall.

At 23 eggs this month--and small eggs, at that--Tori just can't keep up with Ms. Ingrid.  Fortunately for her though, she landed on a "farm" where looks and sweetness get you everywhere!

Their Ghetto Sun Porch

I've gotten so ghetto about this year's chickies.  They're absolutely picked up after and well fed and watered.  But, whereas last years chickens got a pretty brooder and a cute coop, this year's are getting, "What do we have in the shed that I can tape and super glue together?"

Case in point, their new front porch.  They need to be outside on warm days, but they're not big enough to be completely free in our yard without supervision.  I had a roll of chicken wire and a baby on my hip.  (Doesn't that sound like a country song?)  So I tacked the wire up around the front of our shed and opened the door.

You can't see it in these pictures, but there's an awning over the top, which is just perfect for protecting them from predators of the flying variety.  There's still the possibility of a cat, but--other than sending Moe out for regular patrols--there's only so much I can do to protect them from that.  And they can get back in for a warm-up under their heat lamp too, so that works wonderfully.

So far, the chicks seem to approve.




The big girls--who are let out for foraging a few hours each evening--have been mildly interested in the babies, but they're even more interested in finding dandelions.  We won't integrate the two flocks until the babies are quite a bit bigger.