Category Archives: Chickens!

Colder

The days are getting colder
The air is crisp and cool
The hens are getting older
To keep them would be cruel

Soon winter winds will roll in
Snow falling close behind
We’ll only keep a few hens
To keep warm and confined

We started with the old gals
We sent them on their way
Then we retired our dear pal
Poor Blue’s seen her last day

Please try not to feel sad
Blue was a lovely hen
But finding eggs that smell bad
Well...I won’t do that again

We’re keeping dear old Pecky
To hatch eggs for next year
That rooster is so lucky
That he is in the clear

The chickens have been helpful
The eggs they laid were great
And now they will be useful
Supplying us with meat

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Blue’s Clues

“Baaaawwwk, bawk-bawk!”

Jake jumped up from the couch and raced to the back door.

“Blue’s doing it again!”

His dad came racing. “Get the gloves!”

His mom came rushing. “Nab the nets!”

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They ran out the back door into the sunlight, slipping on gloves and lifting up nets.

“Baaawwwk, bawk-bawk!”

“I think she’s over there,” Jake whispered, pointing to the tall grass behind the shed.

“I think she’s over here,” Dad said, pointing under the deck.

“No! She’s under there!” Mom shouted, pointing to the thorny rosebush.

They ran to the rose bush, but instead of Blue the Hen, all they found was a leaf.

Jake reached through the thorny roses with his gloved hand and picked it up.

SNIFF!

“It smells like mint.”

“The first clue,” said Mom. “There’s mint in the vineyard!”

They searched through the mint that carpeted the vineyard, but all they found was a tomato.

“The second clue,” said Dad. “There are tomatoes in the garden!”

They scanned the garden, but all they found was a sunflower under the cherry tomatoes.

“The third clue,” said Jake. “There are sunflowers in the pasture!”

They scoured the pasture, but all they found was a small screwdriver.

“What could this mean?” asked Jake.

Dad shrugged his shoulders.

Mom scratched her head.

“Baaawwwk, bawk-bawk!”

They all raced toward the sound of the squawk.

“Baaawwwk, bawk-bawk!”

“It’s coming from the garage!” said Jake.

Mom, Dad and Jake all walked into the garage.

Dad groaned.

Mom gasped.

Jake giggled.

There sat Blue the Hen, right in the middle of the toolbox, surrounded by 6 fluffy, yellow chicks.

“We found where she’s been laying her eggs,” said Jake, looking at Mom.

“We certainly did,” said Mom, smiling at Dad.

“We certainly did!” said Dad, shaking his head.

“Cheep, cheep, cheep!”

 

The Alarm Cluck

Ray and I were sleeping soundly when the first alarm went off.

“Co-co-coroo!”

It was 5am.

On a Saturday.

The sun was nowhere in sight. The sky was dark, dark, dark.

By the time the sun finally broke the horizon, Pecky had been crowing for an hour…maybe more…every 3-5 minutes.

“Co-co-coroo!”

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Yet, he doesn’t just crow at daybreak.

He crows when a car pulls in the driveway.

He crows when the Schwan’s man gets out of his truck.

He crows when we walk out with food and water, when we open the door and whenever he feels like it.

He’s territorial, protective and…maybe a little vain.

“Co-co-co-roo! Look what I can do!”

Now, apparently, he feels like crowing at 5am. On a Saturday.

Why does he do this?

Because there’s a change in the environment.

Because his internal clock is finally ticking.

Because he’s announcing to the homestead that he is here…just in case we forgot.

So when we want to get up early, we leave the door to the coop open. He’s able to strut down the ramp and wake us up.

But, when we want to sleep in, we shut the door at night.

He’s probably still crowing, but it’s muffled.

And…as soon as we open the door in the morning…he’s out and crowing his little chicken heart out.

“Cockadoodledoo!”
Look what I can do!
Through the night and day
I have much to say

Look Mom!

Joe came running up to the house with a ‘surprise’ hidden behind his back.

“You are not going to believe this!”

He slowly pulled his arms around and revealed a small pumpkin. The look on his face, the light in his eyes and the excitement rolling off of him in waves was so contagious.

It was a small pumpkin, but we carved it and roasted the seeds while talking about how it got there when we didn’t plant it.

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We really didn’t plant pumpkins this year. Not in the garden, not in the vineyard and definitely not in the swales.

But last year, we did throw a seed mix down behind the chickens as we moved them through the swales. And we did feed them kitchen scraps.

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Joe and I went walking in the swales to see what else we could find.

We found red and yellow raspberries…ripe and ready to eat. They were hidden in the tall grass and they were oh-so-sweet and yummy!

We found lettuce and mint growing wild.

We found wild mulberry trees.

There is SO much abundance on our land!

We’ve guerilla gardened in our own backyard with seed bombs and chickens.

We’ve forgotten what we planted and transplanted.

We’ve let Nature do that thing she does so well…grow. We’ve created a food forest for our boys to explore.

“Look Mom, raspberries!”

“Look Mom, chocolate mint!”

Look Mom…joy.

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Pumpkins in the swales
Foraging our own backyard
Sweet berries and mint

The New Nest

Sometimes I feel sorry
For our poor hen Blue
She wanders ’round the homestead
Looking sad and…blue

She tries to join her old flock
Those mean and brutal hens
The older ones are heartless
They chase her from their pen

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But then, when I’m most saddened
By her mournful cries
We find where she’s been laying
The eggs that we most prize

Behind the fragrant roses
We see her little clutch
And if we really want them
The thorns we’ll have to touch

It’s then I’m not too sorry
For her lonely plight
She’s repaid our love and kindness
With little thorny bites

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The Condo, the Apartment and the Studio

As the days get shorter and the temperatures start their downward spiral, we are preparing the homestead for winter.

Most of these preparations center around our flock. Last year, we decided to carry only 6 birds over the winter. It seemed to work out and we averaged 4-5 eggs a day. Enough for us to eat and share with our family.

This year I’m not sure what we will do.

In the meantime, we’ve made a few changes to the living arrangements.

The Condo

The leghorns and Pecky are all hooked up the chicken tractor. That’s right, the old gals got the boot.

At first, they were intimidated by their new condo. They needed a bit of encouragement to walk up the ramp, but once they figured it out they were quite happy with their new digs.

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The Apartment

The older gals were demoted to a small apartment in the form of an upside down blue tote with a hole for a door.

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They still have plenty of room in their pen, but they are definitely not happy, and they have no problem voicing their discontent…loudly and frequently.

The Studio

And Blue. Poor, poor Blue. She wants so badly to be a part of a flock. She’s tried jumping in with the leghorns several times…almost daily in fact. But they just don’t want her.

After hooking the leghorns up to the coop, she took to roosting on top of the ramp, hoping to be let in. They all just strutted past her, not even acknowledging her presence.

So, we took the little tote that they had been using prior to their move and made her a shelter.

Since she normally roosts right on top of the big pen, we put her studio apartment right next to the mean bullies who won’t let her rejoin their ranks.

Who needs ’em I say. Blue has the run of the place and can eat all the bugs, worms and scraps she wants. She has full reign in the garden beds and can munch on marigolds or amaranth whenever she wishes.

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Initially, I thought Pecky would be my favorite. But, while I still think he’s a beautiful bird, I’m more partial to our underdog.

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She’s become more used to us, even letting me pick her up without protest…occasionally.

I know there is a big clutch of eggs somewhere on the homestead as we’ve yet to find her new nest, but even that minor annoyance does not lessen my attachment to her.

She’s pecked her way into my heart.

Sad and lonely Blue
Wistfully watching the flock
Longing to belong

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Ostracized

Each time she opens up the pen
I jump inside to see
If any of the other hens
Have yet forgiven me

First they circle ’round me
Giving me the glare
And I know I’ll soon see
Their little nostrils flare

They haven’t quite forgotten how
I crunched on all their eggs
But I couldn’t get close to the chow
Not even through their legs

What choice did they give me?
What other way could I
Get enough food to be
Alive and not to die

So I guess I’ll still wander
And strut around the yard
One day they may grow fonder
Or at least let down their guard

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Switch-a-roo

Yesterday, we switched coops.

The old birds were moved to the strawberry bed. Their new coop, an upside down rubbermaid tote with a hole cut in it. The new girls were given access to the chicken tractor.

Our Red Stars laid two eggs today and looked at me with reproach when I collected them. I guess they don’t like their new digs.

The day finally came
We’d been planning so long
It won’t be the same
But they’re where they belong

The old gals are cast out
From their snug little coop
They’re angry and they pout
Their red feathers droop

Pecky keeps crowing
All day and at night
And each day he’s growing
More ready to fight

Why don’t they like it?
Their new living place
You’d think they’d have more wit
But that isn’t the case

Blue, she still wanders
From one place to the next
It seems that she ponders
Why her flock’s so vexed

They may refuse laying
For a week or for days
And then we’ll start slaying
Until every hen lays

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The Clutch

Blue has been disappearing.

She used to sleep on top of the big run, but recently she’s been…somewhere else.

The first time I couldn’t find her, I thought she’d been taken by a fox, coyote or other predator.

But then, the next morning…there she was.

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The second time it happened, I tried to find her.

Was she roosting in a tree? No.

Was she hiding in the swales? No.

Was she sleeping under the chicken tractor? Again, no.

Then yesterday, while I was watering the chickens, I saw her running from the back of the house.

Maybe she’d been sleeping under the deck.

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As I walked toward the garage to refill my watering can, I noticed a small gap in the tall, ornamental grass by the house.

I got closer and saw a patch of white.

I crouched down and peered into grass…and there it was.

A big clutch of eggs.

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Twenty-two to be exact.

Almost a whole month’s worth.

We weren’t sure what we should do with them. They didn’t smell but…

So I sat down and did some research on Backyard Chickens, one of my favorite go-to sites for questions on all things chicken. It hasn’t steered me wrong yet, and the forum is chock-full of great questions and answers.

I found a question posted by someone who had found a clutch of 15 eggs in an old dog crate. She asked the question I needed an answer to: How long do eggs last when left outside?

All of the answers said almost the same thing: test them first, but eggs can last for weeks outside.

Another site I sometimes go to for answers brought up a great point: What did people do before refrigeration existed?

And all of the sites I visited said that hens don’t start incubating their eggs until they have a clutch, or 12-14 eggs.

Hens lay up to 1 egg/day so it would take weeks to get that many.

If any are rotten, the hen knows and will roll them out of her nest because a chick cannot hatch from a rotten egg.

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So, rather than throw them away, I tested them.

I did the float test. If they sink and stay on the bottom or stand on their ends…they are still good to eat. Only four floated.

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This method is not foolproof, so I cracked the eggs one by one into a bowl.

If the yolk is a deep golden yellow, the eggs are still good.

I poured the good eggs into another bowl to scramble–shell and all–cook and feed to the chickens for a calcium and protein treat.

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If the yolk is brown, that means they are rotten.

Curious, I cracked one of the eggs that floated.

It was perhaps, the biggest mistake I have ever made.

Through the horrible haze of the more-than-disgusting smell, I barely noted the dark brownish, greenish yolk.

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It smelled awful.

I mean really, really awful. I will never again say “It smells like a rotten egg” unless I am referring to an actual rotten egg.

Nothing smells as bad as a rotten egg.

It was so disgusting that I ran outside gagging and dumped it in a bucket along with the other three that floated. I’m gearing myself up to go back out with a ziploc bag, or maybe 10, to try and seal the smell off from the rest of the world.

No one should have to experience that horrible, horrible smell.

My diffuser is now running full speed, filling the house with a lovely, lavender scent. I’ve scrubbed my hands and bleached the counter where some of the egg white fell.

I don’t think I will ever be able to smell pleasant smells again.

A stinky rotten egg
Watering eyes and gagging
Worse than any stench

Drenched

When I looked out the window this morning, my first thought was that the swales and pond weren’t doing their job.

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Water ran in a small river from the back of our property out to the road. I had flashbacks to the time before we put the swales in and a moat would surround our house whenever it rained.

The chickens squawked and Pecky was crowed angrily, at least it seemed that way to me.

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I couldn’t blame them. I’d be unhappy if my home was filled with water too.

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Ray and I moved them to higher ground and tried our best to appease them with extra food and kitchen scraps.

The older gals were even more flooded but at least they were able to climb up into the coop to stay dry.

All the leghorns have is a tarp.

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After we got them situated and soothed their ruffled and wet feathers, I went out to see what was going on with the swales.

Why weren’t they working the way they should? What had gone wrong?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing had gone wrong. In the wee hours it had started to rain, and by the time we woke up, it had rained over 4 inches.

Our swales were full and our chickens were victims of a good drenching.

The North swale surged into the South swale, just as it should.

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North swale

The South swale was full and streamed into the pond, also full.

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Pond

Then, the water had nowhere to go but out to the road.

Hence, the river.

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Poor Blue didn’t have a tarp. It never dawned on her tiny chicken brain to take cover under a tree or in the little house we have for her in the garden. She just stood eating amaranth and clucking.

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Joe splashed and played in the water, excited by the creek meandering to our road and the giant puddles in the yard.

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He pointed out a colony of ants frantically climbing blades of grass in a desperate attempt to get to dry land. Curious, Joe and I did some googling to learn more about these strange (ant)ics.

Apparently, it’s a survival instinct. The worker ants work together to form a raft or a bridge to get the rest of the colony and queen to safety.

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Our planned lessons for the day were put aside to learn all about floods, storms and other weather events as well as strange ant behaviour.

So we spent a long time looking through weather books and reading about all kinds of storms.

Raining, pouring down
Water swirling ’round
All the hens are soaked
But none of them have croaked