Lucy taking a break this past fall from doing…well, whatever it is that little dogs do.
Category: Farm Critters
Fun with farm animals
Re-coop-eration
My poor chicken coop was looking pretty sad. Not that it has ever been a jewel. When we moved here, it was a 3 sided ‘loafing’ shed on its last legs. We shored it up and enclosed the front, added a sliding door to the run on the side, and a window for ventilation. It may be coon-proof, but it certainly isn’t snake-proof. It’s not the best looking thing you’ve ever seen, but it worked for us for several years until we built a secondary coop. The front, as you can see, has clear corrugated material on the front to allow light in. The egg sign was one that I designed and painted when I was selling my extra eggs at a local farmer’s market. After reading several blogs and posts about painting structures and pretty coops, yesterday I grabbed some leftover red barn paint and some white trim paint.
In about 2 hours, here are the results below! Cost to me was pretty much nada, since I already had a lot of leftover paint on the shelf. Not bad, ya think?
Below you can see the little sliding door. I painted a little ‘X’ on the door to match the front door somewhat. I really like it. You can see little Dolly Banty and our Old English Gamebird/Silkie cross checking it out.
Moe Banty says, “I love it!”
Happy farming! ‘Til next time….
The Gradual Vegetarian
This is a post about butchering chickens. Yes, it seems to be a totally irrelevant title, but I assure you, it IS about putting up your own birds. First, let’s get down to business about processing your very own meat birds.
Let me begin by saying meat chickens, more specifically, Cornish crosses or “Cornish X”, are nasty and just vile. Sorry, there’s no way around it. When humans developed an animal that does nothing (and I do mean nothing) but eat and poop, it just has to be pretty gross. They are the smelliest, messiest, and nippiest chickens out there. They will eat non-stop and poop non-stop. They will gulp water until their crops are huge and pendulous. If they do run out of food and you don’t have any, expect your hands to be pecked to a pulp. It ain’t pretty. People who have grown up working in broiler houses often do not have chickens, and I can clearly see why. If you’ve had no experience with chickens outside of broilers, you’d never know that they are really NOT nasty critters.
With that out of the way, they are definitely the most efficient way to get a bird from an egg to your freezer in the shortest amount of time possible. I call them “meat with a beak”, because that is ALL they are ‘good’ for. They don’t roam, they don’t lay eggs, they just sit and wait to be served their dinner. Because of this and their genetic makeup, they put on massive amounts of muscle quickly. So, if you want a table bird as fast as you can get it, a Cornish cross is the way to go.
We have always used Cornish cross and it has always made a fine carcass for processing. When we process, the birds are typically 4-5 pounds after butchering. So, it’s a pretty big bird. We usually do not get a table-ready bird in 6-8 weeks because we do not feed them non-stop. This time around, the birds were about 3.5 months old, which is ancient for a broiler. The problem was that we just really weren’t ready with our new processing equipment, and the birds weren’t getting enough food to top out quickly. In other words, it was our fault.
Anyhoo, we got about 1/3 of the flock done yesterday. We worked on butchering equipment for about 3 days, and I am showing it off via the photo gallery I have posted below. The boards were all ‘upcycled’ from decking boards and an old rabbit hutch that we had. The stainless steel ‘sink’ at the “Evisceration Station” is actually our ridiculously expensive chimney cap that blew off early last year, approximately 3 weeks after installation. Don’t get me started on that damned cap. I paid way too much, had it supposedly installed by ‘professionals’, and I will be damned if it didn’t blow off in a March gale, taking along with it some bricks which dented my BRAND NEW METAL ROOF and subsequently bashed in my vintage patio table, that now cannot hold a drink on it, lest it end up in your lap. SO DON’T GET ME STARTED ON CHIMNEY CAPS. But I had decided that since I had shelled out so much money on the stupid thing that there had to be a great use for it, and sure enough, with a hole drilled into the center, it makes an awesome chicken cleaning table. You know what they say: When life hands you lemons, throw some chicken guts on it, and it will be okay.
Each station has its own handheld sprayer with its own sprayer dock so that you are not stumbling over hoses or trying to balance your sprayer where you’re not going to get soaked with it. Trust me, been there, done that, and been soaked down WAY too many times to NOT have a reliable sprayer and a sturdy sprayer dock. All it is, is a little ‘c’ clamp so the sprayer handle hooks into it. On the Evisceration Station, the PVC bar across the top is drilled at the bottom with small holes. The red handle operates this flow, so you can turn it on independently of your sprayer. It helps to keep blood, feathers, etc. flowing towards the center drain, which empties into a 5 gallon bucket. Since the bucket fills up too quickly, we are going to put a screen at the bottom, add a PVC ‘drain tube’ out of the bottom side of the bucket. So, it will keep the funky stuff in and allow the water to escape.
On the cone/plucking station, on one side we used 16″ tall flashing to create cones with the bottom openings just large enough for a chicken’s neck to fit into. Next time, we are going to also include some ‘c’ clamps at the top to hold the chickens’ feet in place as they can even still manage to squirm their legs enough to get down into the cones (they are probably a bit too wide). On the other side, there are 2 sets of chicken leg sized slots that were cut into the top beam. The legs fit in the slots perfectly (we used a live chicken and measured its legs), and the feet prevent the bird from slipping out. On one set of slots, we attached a showerhead above it so that we can turn it on to help rinse feathers downward when needed, into the tarp. The hand sprayer and showerhead are, again, plumbed independently so you can operate them separately.
The whole process went very well compared to our previous butchering day experiences, with one exception. We currently do not own a plucker. We have rented a Whizbang plucker in the past and there is just no other way to pluck once you have used one. We just didn’t have time to build one, though we have all of the parts needed except for the rubber fingers. However, by next g0-’round, you can be darn sure that we’ll have one because hand plucking sucks! Even though this time we got the water temperature perfect and the feathers literally slid out, it still takes too long.
For those of you unfamiliar with the process, here’s a rundown of how we do things.
1. Start heating your scalding water. We use a very large, lidded stockpot and an outdoor propane ‘turkey fryer’ burner. Water temp will need to be 145-150 degrees. I let it get a bit over 150, because when you remove the lid, the temp goes down, and it also gets cooler when you plunge a bird into it. Add about a teaspoon of Dawn to the water, to break the surface tension of the chicken feathers. Getting water to temp will take a long time. Always do this first!
2. Sanitize cutting instruments/tables/coolers with weak bleach solution. You can look up bleach to water ratios online…I can’t remember them exactly, but this time I believe we did a 1:12 solution. It must stay on for 15-20 minutes to disinfect surfaces, then you rinse it off with water.
3. When water temp is ready, your equipment has been disinfected, and you have a layer of ice in your cooler, you’re ready to begin. We ‘do’ 2 chickens at a time. Chicken is put into cone upside down and head is removed with a knife. Once bloodflow stops, it’s off to the scalding water.
4. Dunk the chicken several times to fully saturate the feathers, then hold it under with exception to the feet. Feet are nasty and I don’t like to think about getting chicken foot funk in my water. After about 8-10 seconds, I pull the bird up and try to pull out a flight feather. Once these slide out easily, it’s time to pluck.
5. Head over to the plucking area and remove all feathers. It isn’t difficult, but it is the most time consuming part of the job. I try to get all the pinfeathers (if any) as well. However, pinfeathers and the little ‘hair’ feathers come out very easily after the bird has been aged in the fridge, so if I miss some, it’s no big deal. I then rinse off the bird with a strong stream of water.
6. Now it’s time to eviscerate (remove the guts and ‘butt’). I remove the feet first, then the ‘wicking’ feather and oil gland above the tail. I also remove the very last joint on the wing. No one eats that anyway. Then I make a cut above the crop by the neck, and loosen the tendons around the crop and trachea. Personally, I remove the crop at this point below any food that may be present. The bird is on its back. Spin it around, and I make a cut just below the breast plate but well above the anus (yeah, you don’t want to go there). Then you reach in, scoop out ALL the organs and now the only thing still attached is the intestine to that yucky ol’ anus. CAREFULLY, you cut around that, throw it all in the ‘gut bucket’ and now all that’s left is the lungs. They are fixed to the ribs of the bird, so you have to reach back in and scoop them with your fingers. Now rinse the cavity well, and then the outside, and place the carcass in the cooler and stuff ice into the cavity to chill it quickly. Cover with ice, and move to the next bird.
7. After a chill in the ice for an hour or two, I take them out, and either put them in a giant baggie or stack them in a huge pan, cover with plastic wrap, and I leave them in our extra refrigerator for 2 days to ‘age’ the meat. This time in the fridge will make the meat super tender…at least in the case of young birds. If we’re talking about an old rooster or hen, you’d want to definitely boil it anyway, but if you have birds that are weeks or a few months old, after the stay in the refrigerator, you should have some very tender meat. I don’t ever skip this step.
8. After the 2 day aging period, it is then that I take them out, rinse them off again and cut them up into parts. It is very easy to slice them up at that point. Then it’s either time to have some chicken dinner or freeze them. I don’t like to leave fresh chicken in the fridge for more than 72 hours. You can put the parts in freezer bags, or double butcher paper. Some people also like vacuum bags.
So that’s chicken processing in a nutshell. If you want specifics on evisceration, you can watch the Joel Salatin (of Polyface Farms) video on YouTube. It’s very fast, so watch carefully. I don’t think I need to include photos of the actual butchering day because it’s all been done before, and done well.
So, just a few notes of DON’T’s for you:
DON’T forget to remove food and water the evening before you butcher your birds, unless you want to deal with poop and full crops. Gross.
DON’T forget to sharpen all your knives and have sharp kitchen scissors at the ready. Plainly speaking, dull knives make butchering absolute hell. Trust me. SHARP KNIVES, PEOPLE. SHARP KNIVES.
DON’T forget the ice! It takes a lot more than what you think!
And now on to the vegetarian part of this post….
After it was all said and done and we were hosing down all the grossness that goes along with butchering, I looked at Jason and said, “You know what’s great about vegetables? Vegetables don’t bleed.”
Of course, vegetables also don’t poop, they don’t have feathers or fur, and you don’t have to make sure that they have food and water every single day of the year. Over the past few years, both Jason and I have gotten to where we can hardly tolerate eating meat. Beef was the first to go. Sure, we still ate burgers and BBQ now and then, but we ‘paid for it’ every time with uber-exciting intestinal ‘troubles’. Then, it was pork. As much as I love a crispy piece of bacon, I’d ultimately end up with more, you guessed it, tummy ‘troubles’. It got so bad a few times that I vowed to eat nothing but hay, twigs, and sticks to move things along, if you know what I mean.
Over the past several weeks, we have really been doing very well on our veggie-heavy meals. Usually, there is no meat involved at all, and if there is, the kids will eat it. Well, last night I make chicken cacciatore with our fresh chicken. I made it chock full of organic bell peppers, onions, tomatoes and mushrooms…and chicken, of course. Well, we both found ourselves shoving the chicken to the side and munching down the veggies. I ate a bite of chicken and I wished I had spit it out. It just doesn’t even taste good to me anymore! It has nothing to do with the fact that I butchered it…this is about our 4th ‘batch’ of meat birds and I’ve never had an issue before. If I’m going to eat meat, I want to be the one to put it on my own plate. I just don’t want meat. I’m not going to vilify meat eaters even though I truly do believe that as a whole, our society eats WAY too much of it. Meat simply holds no appeal to me anymore. When I see meat, I can now see a dead piece of critter sitting on my plate. What’s more, it doesn’t taste good to me. What’s the point in that?
So, I guess I’m saying that my chicken butchering days are drawing to a close even after we have invested all this time and money in getting all of this done. Fortunately, the kids still enjoy chicken (for now), so we’ll do the rest of the birds, part them up, and use them in our meals. After that, the lovely equipment I just showed you may be shoved under a tarp and eventually sold.
Somewhere out in the chicken pen, I think I hear feather-muffled claps of joy.
Goodbye, Dovie
Today was another one of those sad farm days. One of those days when you’re forced to say ‘goodbye’ before you really want to. Our favorite hen, Dovie, had to be euthanized today. She was born in March of 2009 in a hatchery and she was special ordered from a man who never went to collect her and her sister at a feed store. So, she and the sister came to live with us. Both were Old English Game bantams, in a color called Lemon Blue splash. We had her sister until last year, when she disappeared during egg-laying season. Dovie was always the sweeter of the two, and Jason actually had her trained to fly on his shoulder so he could feed her corn out of his hand.
You could do anything with Dovie…hold her practically upside down if you wanted to…and she didn’t care. There was only 2 times a year you couldn’t touch her, and that was when she laid her eggs. Dovie would go ‘missing’ for weeks at a time only to suddenly pop out behind a bush or patch of grass in 3 weeks with a full brood of baby chicks. And honey, you’d better not even think about coming near those chicks. Talk about a Jekyll and Hyde personality! My sweet little hen turned into a feathered, rabid attack dog that would take you on, no matter the size. She transformed into a huge, furious, puffy ball of grey feathers and increased her size by at least double. Then she would run and fly at you, dive bombing your feet and legs and screaming like a banshee the entire time. Other than those two times a year, she was her normal self.
What happened was that she prolapsed, which essentially means that her insides were now outside. More specifically, part of her intestines were protruding from her cloaca/vent (and, in layman’s terms….her butt. Not that chickens have an official ‘butt’, but anyway). Causes of this vary, but since she had been laying eggs, that is the most likely culprit. I already knew from past experience that this wasn’t a good thing, especially in an egg-laying bird. Yes, there are some treatments available, both surgical and non-surgical. However, the fact is, she is a chicken that is going to lay twice a year. This puts enormous strain on the area and can lead to another prolapse, even if repaired surgically. Plus, her prolapse was significant, especially for her size.
I called our veterinarian who told me the news that I knew I’d already hear. The outcome usually isn’t a good one; it’s a guarded prognosis. BUT, there was something I could try. He told me to pour table sugar on the protrusion. Yes, regular ol’ sugar. It pulls the fluid from the swollen tissues and allows them to retract to where you can reinsert the tissue to where it goes.
So, if you’re wondering:
Yes, I sugared a chicken’s butt
and
yes, I stuck my pinkie in a chicken’s butt.
With gloves, you should know.
So now, if I am on some kind of weird truth or dare game show where the host asks, “Have you ever poured sugar on a chicken’s anus*?” I can proudly answer, “Yes. Yes, I sure have.” Hopefully, that will win me some major points…perhaps even a chance at a new kitchen. Anyway….
Yes, the sugar does work! It takes time; maybe 30 minutes or so, and you have to keep on reapplying. It worked for a while, until she tried to go poop, and then it came back out again. In my mother’s words, she was just “wo’ out”. Her lady bits had too much abuse over the years.
I made the decision to euthanize. Were she not a bird that laid eggs a few times a year, the decision may have been different.
Jason and I both felt that it would be the best way to allow the vet to euthanize her. The idea of ending her life with a hatchet was just too morbid and disrespectful, we thought. So that’s what we did.
I am sad to see her go, but I am happy that I have both her daughter and her grandaughter, who has the exact same coloring that she had.
In the end, I am glad of two things.
1. I had several years of companionship with Dovie,
2. That humans don’t have to use the sugar remedy for hemmorhoids. So, very…very glad of that.
*I know, ‘anus’ is not the correct term, but let’s face it, it’s a funny word.
Goodbye, little hen.
Life with He-Man
I started this post 2 months ago. Two months ago, I had the majority of it written in my head, and a month ago, I had completely forgotten it. Post death due to procrastination. Then something happened that reminded me why I wanted to write this.
Let it be said for the record that I live with He-Man. I’m not kidding, and I’m not bragging, it is just a simple fact. My dear husband was blessed with some seriously strong upper body strength. It definitely has its perks, like for opening jars, moving furniture and stuff in general, and doing anything requiring a fair bit of strength. But life with He-Man also has some negatives, especially when he is married to someone with limp noodle arms. I ain’t no She-Ra.
For example, one day a few years back, I had bought an apple peeler/corer. One of those kitchen gadgets that you tighten to a surface with a clamp, you know? Well, He-Man attached it to one of my shelves for some reason or another, and I needed to move it. I tried to loosen the clamp. Uh uh. No go, not happenin’. I thought maybe I got my “Righty-tighty, Lefty-loosey” backwards. Nope, I was going the right way. After about ten minutes of no progress, I had to literally take a hammer and whack the poor peeler off of the shelf to loosen it. All the while I was muttering very, very bad words.
Another example, about two weeks ago, Jason had turned off the valve to the toilet upstairs for some reason and it needed to be turned back on to flush it. I tried to turn it….yeah, right. “Hand tightened” with him is equivalent to me using a wrench with a cheater pipe on it and beating the crap out of it with a mallet. He was trying to relax in his chair when I came back down, obviously defeated. “Well, all you have to do is turn it!” he says. I gave him that narrow-eyed look that only a wife can give a husband, and which a husband must come to understand, and he tromped upstairs and danged if it didn’t just turn for HIM.
So YESTERDAY, we had something happen that reminded me why I wanted to write this. Here we are at 7:25 a.m. I am furiously trying to get two dogs, two guinea pigs, and two fish fed, two kids in the car with all their stuff, me in the car with all MY stuff, and He-Man comes to the back door with a dead-looking broiler chicken in his hand. Uh oh.
He has a funny look on his face. A limp chicken is in one palm, and a machete in the other.
He says,”Well, I had a little accident this morning.”
Me: Uh huh.
HM: Well, see, all the chickens were running at me and wouldn’t get out of the way, they flipped over all their food dishes so I tried to push them out of the way with the food bucket, and….(voice trails off)
Me: Uh huh….and?
HM: Well, I accidentally hit this one in the head with the bucket. But see, it’s heart is still beating, and I just thought maybe it would make it.
Sure enough, on the chicken’s right temple was a growing purple welt just above the eye. Now, in HM’s defense, if you have never seen broiler chicks come after food, you would really be shocked. In fact, it’s such a crazy thing, that as soon as I figure out how to upload a video of them at feeding time, I’m posting it. Broiler chickens would eat 24 hours a day, non-stop, and if they ever eat up all of their food, no matter if they were only out for 5 minutes, they will run at you like an all out chicken feeding frenzy. You literally cannot walk into the pen; you must shuffle your feet unless you want to crush a bird. It is like walking into a living sea of crazed and rabid white birds. You also have zero chance of getting any food in the food dish if you don’t pick it up, because you have 24 big chickens all attempting to get INTO the food dish at once.
So, in He-Man’s defense, what had happened was that there were 24 big, hungry birds that ran at him full force. When they did, they flipped over one of their three food dishes which proceeded to launch about 2 cups of chicken food slurry (it had rained the previous night) through the air. With the flying slurry and the chicken landslide, it’s easy to see how things can get nuts. Which is how one of the chicks got clonked upside its poor little head. When he swings a bucket, to him it was a gentle swing. To the chicken, it’s a 5 gallon Bucket O’ Death. Shouldn’t chickens have an innate fear of buckets anyway? So, He-Man gave the poor chicken a concussion and now here it lay in his palm, possibly ready to go to the big 10 Piece Chicken Dinner in the Sky.
I picked it up, and it cracked open the other eye. It was breathing and the heartbeat was strong, so I told him to put up the machete and stick it in one of our brooder boxes to give it time to recover from the accidental clonking. Sure enough, when we came home that afternoon, said Concussed Chicken was up and going strong, albeit sporting a little ‘shiner’ on the side of its head.
So maybe He-Man will never make a successful poultry farmer, or at least he shouldn’t have 5 gallon pails at his disposal. Well, we can’t be all things, can we? The chickens did some revenge, though. When he turned around to go put the bird in “CICU” (Chicken Intensive Care Unit, pronounced “Chick-U”), the food slurry that the chickens had launched in the pen had splattered across his entire back.
No words

My fearless, wasp killing husband in a severe thunderstorm. You sir, are my freakin’ hero.
P.s. there is a can of spray in his other hand. I was, conveniently, behind glass to avoid ticked off stinging insects.
Meet the chickens
So for today, let’s meet the M.L.C. chickens, shall we? It’s been long overdue. Let’s start with the roosters, or perhaps more correctly,the cockerels.
My pure-bred Silkie cockerel, Mr. Pufflepants, to the mid right. He was hatched last March and came from Ideal Poultry in Cameron, TX. His color is called ‘partridge’. Though I had several males in the group, he struck me as the best looking. The things I look for are fully feathered feet, as little ‘hard’ feathering as possible (esp. in the tail and feet), and a small frame with upright stance. As you can see, he really thinks he is HAWT, as they say. Really a stud. Never passes up an opportunity to do what roosters to best, besides crow, that is.
And now, we have Ernie the Wonder Chicken. Ernie was a wonderful gift from our fellow animal lover, Heather. I’ve talked about him in past posts, but Ernie is a ‘Showgirl’ chicken. He has the naked neck gene borrowed from a Transylvanian Naked Neck chicken with the silkie feathering of….a Silkie, of course. He is the father of all of the Showgirls that I have hatched. Funny, the older he gets, the more he looks like he has a mullet. Oh well.
Now for the newest addition, thanks to another chicken addict such as myself! I traded some Showgirls for a couple of little bantams. This little guy (he is as small as a dove, almost) is named Moe Banty. If you don’t know old country music, then you’re just on your own when it comes to figuring out where his name came from. Anyway, he is 8 inches tall and bulletproof. Classic ‘short man syndrome’. He is just a pet and that’s all. No baby bantams planned. Still not certain if he is an Old English Game Bird or a Dutch, as there are very similar color phases in both, but it really doesn’t matter anyway. He was only born this year, so he has a LOT of filling out to do still. Ought to be a very pretty boy over the next year.
And now for some hens. I do not name everyone; only the ones that strike me with their personalities for some reason or another. Here is my current favorite Showgirl, Lolly Popp. I’m sure you can figure out the name. Looks like a licorice lollipop attached to her body. I’m planning on hooking her up with Pufflepants for more lollipop looking babies. She is still young and ‘feathering out’. Ought to be a pretty stunning bird when it’s all said and done!
Now for my hen of choice #2. This is Phyllis (after Phyllis Diller). She is Lolly’s half sister. She is from a January 2012 hatch.
Ah! almost forgot my #3 hen. I haven’t named her, but she is out of Mr. Pufflepants and is Ernie’s favorite, too. Her mother was unfortunately killed by a fox last year. She is a bearded partridge Silkie. She is almost a spitting image of her mother, but even better! Her tail and feet feathers are very full and silky textured. Exactly what I’m looking for.
Now for some of the older hens in my old laying flock. The youngest birds I have in that pen are 2 years old. Here is my very oldest hen, a Plymouth Barred Rock called Doris. There WERE 3 Dorises (Dorii?), but now we’re just down to the one. She was rescued from a hoarding situation in July of 2009, and I believe that she is 4 years old, possibly 5. She has the somewhat annoying habit of pecking your legs, but it’s only for attention. In fact, all of the Dorises I rescued did that. My new Barred Rocks do not. She also has a very distinct call that differentiates her from my other Rocks.
Now, here is Buffy the Buff Orpington. Buffy was the sole chick I kept from a group of B.O.’s that we raised for a friend back in ’09. She has never, ever thought of herself as a chicken. Or a human. Or anything. She is her own self, and NOT a group player. It took me weeks to get her to finally hang with the flock and quit running off. She still lays a nice brown egg.
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT (I just wanted to say that) Here is our pair of geese. They also came from the hoarder’s house. I believe that they are also 4 years old. I thought for a very long time (years, actually) that I had a male and female. Well, they certainly ACTED like one was a male and one was a female. Now we just call them Ellen and Portia, and sometimes, Oprah and Gayle. You know, whatever. All I know is that this year both geese are laying, so it’s twice the eggs for me. I do feel sorry for them, though…they want a baby soooo bad. I did let them hatch out a tiny duck once which they promptly squished. 
And here’s one of our broiler chickens. We butchered them at 8 weeks (a couple of weeks ago now), so they have now gone to that big coop in the sky. Actually, the deep freezer in my barn. Anyhoo, they are delicious, let me tell you. There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, like home-raised meat.
To finish, here is my little cutie pie, Abraham. Abraham Lincoln, to be exact. The kids said it looked like Lincoln to them, so Lincoln it is. I said I would never, ever get another Polish after the whole Wayward Jones saga (If you don’t know about Wayward, just do a search in my blog for her stories) I have no clue why I chose to torture myself with another Polish chicken. I just couldn’t pass up that little face though, ya know?
Hope you enjoyed the pics. This is certainly not all of my birds, but the select few.
Keep on cluckin’!
And the wind….cried….Ernie….
I’m not exactly sure when I became the Crazy Chicken Lady. Probably about the same time that I began to decipher the chicken language. I could tell what a chicken was doing just by the sound it made. Found a bug? Excited peeping noise. Rooster found a bug? Excited clucking to get the ladies to come around. Frantic peeps? Obviously a lost chick looking for mama. Growling sound? Chicken unsure of what’s going on. The list goes on.
But I knew I’d really lost it when I started getting telepathic chicken messages. Allow me to explain….
Last year, we had a little bout of Arctic air blow through in late November. The winds whipped at the pines mercilessly, and temps dropped rapidly when the sun disappeared. As the night wore on, the lights flickered on and off frequently.
I had hatched out a late batch of chicks a few days prior. Not really the best idea to hatch out anything so vulnerable that late in the year, but that’s what happened.
About 3am, after a very fitful attempt at sleep, my eyes flew open. Our ceiling fan wasn’t moving. It was pitch black. There was something…something…something pecking at my brain. My mothering instinct was on overdrive, but it wasn’t something with the kids….I was forgetting something….what is it, what IS it……..OH MY GOD, THE BABY CHICKS! No electricity meant no heat lamp, which meant no heat for 14 tiny 2 day old chicks in a barn. I jumped out of the bed and ran to our barn, fully expecting to find 14 frozen bite-sized chicken nuggets in the brooder. Miraculously, they were piled in a fuzzy little heap, all very much alive although pretty disgruntled. I gathered them all into a plastic tote and hauled them into the house by our woodstove. Putting a towel on my lap, I took the 14 little fuzzies and wrapped them up until I felt that they wouldn’t keel over from hypothermia and then put them back into the bin. Listening to 14 peeping chicks for the remainder of the night wasn’t exactly what I’d describe as peaceful. Fortunately, the wind ended with daybreak and electricity was turned back on. No baby chicks were lost.
Was it just my mothering instinct? Or did the chicks send out a “Hey moron, we’re freezing out here” psychic message? Another example:
It was almost midnight, and I was in bed about to fall asleep. Suddenly, I heard a tiny, muffled sound of a rooster crowing, or at least I thought I did. Not any rooster, but Ernie specifically (trust me, once you’ve been around chickens long enough, you can distinguish their voices). How odd, I thought. Ernie never, ever crows at night….
THE DOOR! I forgot to shut the stupid coop door! I ran out to the coop as fast as a half-asleep person can and sure enough, the coop door was still very much wide-open with my very favorite hen sitting completely unprotected in front of it. Naturally. Did Ernie really crow? He’s certainly not revealing anything. Or am I slowly turning into a chicken myself?
One thing that is sure to get my attention is the sound of a baby chick in trouble. They tend to make an extremely annoying, loud pitched ‘PEEEEEP PEEP PEEEEEP’ to try and solicit some sympathy from Mama Hen. One day, right at dusk, I kept hearing a noise. A very familiar and annoying noise.
“Do you hear that?” I asked Jason.
“Yeah, just a bird,” he said, as he went back to reading.
I sat and listened for a few more seconds. My chicken senses were awakening.
“No. No it’s not, either,” I said.
I walked out to the front yard to find (surprise, surprise) a newly hatched 1 day old baby chicken who was very much lost and twice as confused. How it ended up all the way from the coop to the front yard, I’ll never really know. Regardless, “Big Mama Hen” came to the rescue that day. I swear, they seek me out, they really do. Oh well.
There’s probably not much need for a chicken psychic. Then again, maybe I could start the Psychic Chicken Network Hotline for chicken owners. (“Mrs. Jones, the reason Doris is acting so depressed is that she’s really wanting some vegetable scraps. Wait, hold on….can you hold Doris up to the phone again, please? Mmmhmmm….She is also telling me that you’re buying the cheap pellets again. Is that true, Mrs. Jones?”)
Until next time, keep on cluckin’.
Talkin’ Turkey
Whew. Been a WHILE. Sorry, it’s just too hot around here to even think straight. But, I wanted to tell you a bit about our turkeys.
At the end of February, we brought home eight baby turkeys (AKA ‘poults’). Cute little boogers they were! Unfortunately for them, and, little did they know, their fate was a sealed deal from the get-go. After all, Broad Breasted turkeys are really only good for one thing, and that’s putting on a bunch of muscle really fast (AKA ‘meat’). So, fast forward to last month. It’s June, and those cute little turkeys are now the size of a small sedan, with huge reptilian legs and the biggest bird eyeballs I’ve ever seen. There’s just something about being stared at by a turkey that’s somewhat unnerving…..(do they know their fate???)
Anyway, so the turkeys are huge, lumbering, hungry critters. Yes, they will barrel down upon you for food, and you’d just better have some handouts, that’s for sure. One fine June day, I was in their pen (after feeding them, of course), and I discovered that their water bin had shifted and needed a little help. Well, the turkeys had finished gulping down their meal, and now all eyes (*huge, huge, hungry eyes*) were upon me. As I was fiddling with the stupid water pan and splashing turkey mess all over myself, the largest tom (with the largest eyeballs) snatches my glasses. Yes, right offa my face. And he runs. Fast.
Now, I’m not completely blind, but just enough so that I begin to panic when it hits my brain that a 25 pound bird is escaping with my eyewear. My expensive and delicate eyewear. Why, oh why, did I ever think that rimless glasses would be a good idea? After a few tense minutes and a few very naughty words, I managed to wrestle the glasses away from the tom. I shot him a “Marked for Death” look. He looked at me quizzically. With his huge, unforgiving eyes.
Not long after the Glasses Incident of 2011, the toms decided it would be fun to learn to escape their pen. If you think that a 25 pound bird can’t clear a good four foot fence, let me inform you of something. You’re wrong. So, little by little, they became more and more brave. First, they were just pecking the grass by the pen. Then it was walking on the driveway. Then they discovered the fig tree. Then it was the watermelon patch. There is a darn good reason that you build fences on a farm. Sadly, the fig tree and watermelon patch are two things outside of our garden fence. I didn’t mind the figs being eaten so much. Well, except for one (little) thing. It made their poop black liquid. A lovely tarry shade in an unbelievably copious quantity. More on this in a minute.
So, one day, I let my watermelon patch get a little dry. Not really hard to do in a record drought, by the way. The next morning, I noticed that it really looked bad. Not just dry and crispy bad, but there was just something missing. Yes, the leaves of the watermelon vines were….gone. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that turkeys adore watermelon leaves, since the next evening, there were 3 toms in my melon patch, one with a leaf still hanging out of his beak.
Now, I tried to count to ten and think calming thoughts. But I’d worked hard on growing these melons despite a drought, and here was this passel of turkeys chowing down on my work. I ran into the patch, waving my arms and screaming. They looked at each other as if to say, “God, what’s HER problem today?” I (gently, yes, really) booted a turkey behind to get them into gear. Then they got the picture. All three toms lumbered off as quickly as they could to the fig tree. Now, our fig tree is about 20 foot in diameter. The turkeys went one way, and I was right behind them, still waving and hollerin’ and now shaking a stick. And, rather than continue towards their pen, they decided to keep going round the tree and…ended back up in the melon patch. Now I was really hot and aggravated. I tried again. We ended back up in the melons. Getting dizzy from circling the tree, I decided that playing “Whack the Turkeys ‘Round the Old Fig Tree” just wasn’t for me. So, I had to enlist the help of Jason, a can of dog food, and my kids. (Note: No actual whacking of turkeys took place. No harming of animals occured, unless you count the inevitable indigestion that the turkeys experienced after running around after engorging themselves on watermelon leaves)
So, fast forward a couple of weeks. Remember the tarry fig poo? Imagine that all over the floor of your workshop. The turkeys are nuts about dog food. They figured out that the dog food came from the shop, and helped themselves to a sack of it, all while pooping all over the concrete floor. But, we weren’t only limited to black poo, we also had copious amounts of lovely red poo, which was from the turkeys ingesting some of our lovely red dirt when eating their food. Nice, really nice. So, the other day, after finding 2 turkeys in his ‘man cave’ and about 10 ‘turkey explosions’ on his floor, Jason went a little nuts on the turkeys. I can’t tell you what happened since I was asleep, other than Jason threw his back out, and there were quite a few turkey feathers in the shop.
At any rate, it was high time to butcher the birds. BB turkeys are usually butchered at 4 to 5 months, and we’re getting closer to 6 months. I won’t go into too many details, but two troublesome toms equal about 9 pounds of breast meat, which is aging in my refrigerator as I type.
But don’t think that I dislike turkeys, because I don’t. I actually love turkeys, and they’re just as friendly as can be. The moral of this story is…higher fences. Definitely higher fences.
One last story:
One afternoon we drove up into the driveway after a day of shopping. There, sitting on our golf cart, on our seats, were two toms. They didn’t budge. Throw in a miniature set of golf clubs and a couple of hats, and I could have had a really nice picture to show you.



























