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’!

The unsinkable Wayward Jones

If you aren’t familiar with Wayward, you’ll need to do some reading first.  Simply type ‘wayward’ into the search bar at the top, and read through the first 3 posts listed.

But if you ARE familiar with her….

So about a week and a half ago we had a good ol’ Texas-style Arctic front blow through here.  That is, one minute it’s a little chilly and the next minute it’s mind-numbingly COLD, your blood coagulates with ice shards,  and any exposed body part will likely fall off of your person.  These climatic changes are preceded by a 200 mile-per-hour wind and rain that falls horizontally. (maybe I’m exaggerating just a tad)

The chickens were out and about that day, and I really thought nothing of it.

Backstory:

Wayward, after the death of her sister, has become a most ‘chicken-y’ chicken.  She no longer tries to thumb for rides to Mexico, and, with the exception of running circles around pine trees, is pretty much a normal chicken.  If there even is such a thing.

So, imagine my surprise when I get a call early the morning following the Arctic blast from my neighbor, Mrs. M.

Mrs. M:  There’s an animal down here….I think it’s a ‘peke-a-poo’.

Me (groggily): A peke-a-poo?

Mrs. M:  Well, I think it is…it’s black and white and I think it’s stuck in my gate.

Me:  A peke-a-poo?

So, I’m thinking now that I’m going to go down the road to find either a dog stuck in her fence, or, more likely my crested Cayuga duck who is now black and white and can escape our fence. Something I really would rather not do at 7:45 in the morning.

I walked up the road in the freezing cold.  I stood in front of her metal entrance gate, which isn’t all that big, searching for the peke-a-poo/duck. I felt pretty stupid standing there because I couldn’t see a thing besides a black metal gate.

Then I looked up.

A very familiar puff of white and black met my eyes.

Wayward had flown the coop yet again, and here she was roosting on top of my neighbor’s gate.  I really thought she’d learned her lesson after her sister’s fatal road crossing incident, but obviously I was mistaken.

Most annoying was the fact that she jumped out of my hands and began to run (in circles, of course) around me and I couldn’t catch her.  Here I am in the icy morning, chasing a chicken, and no more than 15 feet from a deadly road.  I haven’t had my coffee and I’m pretty perturbed that I am having to chase down a mentally challenged bird.  Otherwise, it MIGHT have been funny.

Finally, after about 5 minutes of playing ‘Chase the Chicken’ (NOT a fun game, by the way), I was able to snatch her up.  You would have thought that she had no idea who I was.  You know…the human that feeds her twice a day, every day, for the past year. The human that has rescued her from practically committing suicide no less than 4 times.

I wonder if there’s any support group for owners of challenged chickens?

*edited to read “ARCtic.  Good grief.*

All good things…

…as they say, must come to an end.

I have never written a chicken obituary/memorial before, but I figured that I owe one to this particular bird.  The other day, as we were coming home, Jason spotted a familiar chicken that we all know and love….in the middle of the road.  Quite flat, actually.  I am glad I did not see it.

It was not THE Wayward Jones, but rather her sister, who apparently, even though she was warned of the dangers of hitchhiking and living loosely, still ventured too close to the road.  I COULD mention the age-old joke here…but out of respect, I won’t theorize why the chicken crossed the road.  Actually, now I suppose we’ll never know.  Anyway, Ms. Jones was interred September 17th, 2010.  Casseroles, chicken scratch, and donations to P.A.R.C. (Persons Against Runaway Chickens) will be accepted.

In other news, it is finally cooling down enough that I have made progress around the farm.  Tonight, we have been working on adding a top to the chicken yard.  A couple of weeks ago, I found the headless body of one of my barred Rock hens, which is indicative of a raccoon murder.  Let me say here that I do not like raccoons.  Sure, they may look all cute and fuzzy, what with their little people-like hands, thick fluffy coat, and ringed tail.  But behind their mask lies a cold-blooded serial killer.  Let’s not mince words here.  I won’t go into detail about what I would like to do to the ‘coon, lest you think I am just a cruel person.  So, to avoid further bloodshed, particularly for the ‘coon, we are putting a ‘lid’ on the outdoor run out of wire.

I have been lazy in my garden.  I haven’t pulled weeds in weeks and haven’t really cared to.  Jason made the comment the other day, “Nice bed of Bermuda you’re growing here.”  I couldn’t argue.  If I were TRYING to grow Bermuda, it couldn’t have looked much better than the thick, jungle carpet that has now dominated my old lettuce patch.  BUT, now is the time to plant, so I hope to take new pics and show you what will be in store for winter.  I am planning on having a really kick-butt winter garden this year, mainly by really utilizing row covers and my chenilles.

In farmhouse news, it’s really nothing new.  Please, please, please, if you do repairs on your house, have them (or do them) professionally.  And for crying out loud, please don’t use the cheapest parts you can buy.  Our poor heat pump/blower was apparently brought over on the Ark, and probably the same model used by the ancient Egyptians.  Ok, maybe those time periods don’t coincide.  Whatever, you get the picture.  Our kitchen faucet is leaky, the kitchen sink is made out of white plastic (what masochist picked THAT out???) and the supposedly new septic tank is overflowing.  Not complaining, just venting.  Anyhoo, it boils down to I am about to have to spend a good chunk o’ change to have a new heatpump installed, so that we don’t freeze to death this year.  I mean, last year, our house was at 58 degrees.  I’m sorry, but I don’t care to live in a meat locker.  Thank the Good Lord for all my quilts.  I looked like some sort of strange chrysalis all winter last year, wrapped in about 14 quilts, along with thermal underwear, a full set of clothes and 2 layers of socks.  I didn’t go anywhere without my throng of quilts.  THIS YEAR (I’m pulling a total Scarlett O’Hara here), with God as my witness, I will not freeze again!  We are going to insulate the house.  I hope they blow 5 feet of insulation in the attic.  I want so much insulation, it is scraping the rafters.  I want so much that it is spilling out of every vent and pore of this house.  I can’t say enough about good insulation.

I think I will end my post here.  Hopefully, next go ’round I will have some sort of interesting pictures for you all.