October 7th, 2009

Day 7: Chicken Out, Chicken In

So, how about an update on the chickens?

Last time we discussed our flock, Lulu had died. That left us with Gladys and Martha Stewart, who adjusted to life as a power duo just fine over the next two months. There was no weird social behavior due to losing a third of their population, nor any evidence that the disease that killed Lulu had spread to them.

Then, about six weeks ago, we noticed they had mites. We’d had a long stretch of wet, hot weather and everyone in our household, in fact, suffered from parasites. Lilly, despite regular doses of FrontLine, contracted fleas; I had a chiggers; and the chickens got their mites. No big deal, right?

Only when it comes to fowl they are a big deal because they cause a rapid decline in health to the point where the birds develop symptoms such as no longer moving or breathing or making us eggs. This is condition is known, in animal husbandry, as “deadness.” How do I know this happens? Let’s just say we ended up one Martha Stewart short of a Gladys-and-Martha-Stewart-power-duo.

I know. I know. It seems like our chickens are dropping dead faster than dinner in an Agatha Christie novel. (Don’t I mean “dinner guests in an Agatha Christie novel?” No. I mean “dinner in an Agatha Christie novel.” I was assuming roasted chicken would be the main course. I guess I should have mentioned that.) But this time, instead of trying the “wait and see” method regarding this strange development, we did our best to intervene.

The chicken’s natural way to deal with these infestations is with dust baths. There is a dry patch of dirt in our yard where I’ve noticed, when they are out, they take these, so I tried to encourage them to visit this spot as often as possible. When Martha Stewart became more sickly and lethargic though, we brought in the medication and this is where things got a little weird…and this is the point in the post where vegans, PETA advocates, etc. should just click here and not click their “back” buttons until tomorrow when I post something new.

Are all the bleeding-hearts gone? Good, because you guys, when I said “weird” just then, I kiiiiind of meant “hilarious.”

In order to rid a bird of mites you use this insecticidal powder. You need to thoroughly cover their undercarriage, as that’s where the bugs tend to be, and this requires you to man-handle them a bit. I grabbed Gladys and flipped her over — causing her to frantically squawk and squirm and flap. I somehow managed to hold her down and dust her up. I turned her loose and she high-tailed it out of there, making a break across our yard for our compost pile and it’s delectable variety of food scraps. I picked Martha Stewart up and repeated this process. When we were done she looked at me, let out this horrible little “bu-CAW” and fell over, dead.

I guess, in her weakened state, the stress was too much for her. After I wrapped my head around what had just happened, I set to getting her out of the coop and in to the ground. We inherited a really nice lawn with our house, which is a wonderful thing except during those occasions when you need to find spots to bury chickens. The only non-grassy option is a small section in the back corner of our lot where the grass tapers off into weeds and dirt. It’s getting sort of crowded back there, as it’s where I pile up fallen branches and it’s where I buried Lulu.

To dig a hole as small yet as deep as you must to inter a chicken in these circumstances, you really should have a posthole digger. When you use a pointed shovel, as I did, you end up with a tapering grave. Then you sort of have to, for lack of a better term, “fold” the corpse up and stuff it in. The natural “creases” are at the neck and legs and so I performed this gruesome maneuver and stood up, and then I swore I heard a “BWAAAAAAK.”

I paused and stared down at the bird…. “That was a chicken-noise. Did that chicken just make that noise? No, that chicken is dead. Right? Ok, even if it wasn’t dead, it’s now wrapped into thirds, so it’s certainly about to be…. Right?” Gladys was penned up clear across the yard, out of earshot. I scanned the surrounding area for anything else that could have made that sound or anyone else who might have heard it…. I stared back at the bird….“I did just hear that, didn’t I? I can’t bury this poor thing if it’s still got a little life in it…can I?”

Steph told me later that she was watching me from the kitchen window and saw me in the distance, leaning on my shovel, looking into the hole…picking up my head and looking around…looking into the hole…picking up my head and looking around….

Finally, I made the bold decision to poke whatever was left of ol’ Martha with a stick. When I did, I discovered that chickens’ bodies, even after they have passed away, operate sort of like bagpipes. With each thrust, a corresponding chicken-noise was emitted. I gave it a short jab and it went “bwuck.” I pressed in and out slowly and got a “bu-caaaaaw?”

I then finished respectfully depositing the remains. I’d figured out what was going on, and this once-living being was not a plaything. I totally refrained from any further prodding…except maybe once or twice more.

So for a few days we were down to just Gladys, which maybe wasn’t such a bad thing as, we have discovered, she is the Best Chicken Ever. Gladys has personality. She seems to honestly like being around people. She doesn’t mind being picked up. She will often run towards approaching humans when she is out in our yard, stop at their feet, and stare up at them as if to say “Hello, and who might you be?” She is completely fearless. I made a mistake one day while wrapping up a free-ranging session and herded the poultry back into their pen, then let Lilly out of the house, forgetting that I hadn’t latched the cage. The doors swung open and Gladys walked right back out. About a minute later, my oversight hit me and I rushed outside. Lilly — perhaps shell-shocked by how easy one of these giant walking chew toys was now making it for her — was just standing there, several feet away, barking frantically. Gladys was calmly going about her usual business, nibbling and scratching at the ground. Only a truly special animal gets through something like that unscathed. Oh yes, and Gladys lays, at minimum, two big brown eggs every three days.

But chickens are social animals, therefore we decided to bring in another hen. Since we’ve had bad luck with both pullets and more exotic breeds, I had a friend who was making a “chicken run” last month pick me up an adult New Hampshire Red.

This creature is the biggest, loudest, and most skittish of any we’ve owned so far. The only entity she will submit to is her hutch-mate, and even the mighty Gladys had to put in some long pecking-hours to let her know who was boss. Neither Steph nor I can get within five feet of the newbie without her going into a flapping frenzy, launching herself directly at our heads in an attempt to fly over us and run away.

I named her “Joan” because we’ve finally given in to the hype and started watching that show Mad Men — which, I am required by law, to tell you is amazing — and there is a character named Joan who’s boss/lover calls her “Red.”

Also there is Joan of Arc, which is probably a more fitting namesake, because, up until she started giving us eggs about a week ago, I was seriously considering burning her at the stake.

Which could have been delicious.

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July 16th, 2009

Luluogy

Lulu was a quiet chicken. Easy going. No trouble to round up and put back in the coop. Most of the time: downright immobile.

I wish I could tell you that I had gotten to know her better. And I wish I could tell you that, since everyone had told us one of our chickens would probably die, I wasn’t certain that it was going to be her. But I can’t tell you that. I mean, if you had to pick one of our three chickens that was the goner, you totally would have chosen her. I also can’t tell you that she will be sorely missed, because she hadn’t even started to lay eggs yet and it’s been surprisingly easy for me to adopt the “farmer’s mentality” when it comes to our poultry.

Lulu died in her coop early Tuesday morning. She was afflicted with some sort of disease. This much we know, because she developed bubble-ridden eyes and gross-discharge-producing nostrils toward the end. Google informed us that these are symptoms of several different respiratory infections and, via asking around about it, we found out, too late, that many feed stores sell antibiotics that can combat such ailments. We just had to go through this once with one of the birds to learn the lesson. For that reason we will always remember Lulu.

Lulu was interred in the southeast corner of our yard this evening. A trashcan full of sticks is temporarily sitting over her resting place so our crazy dog will not dig her up.

Lulu the Chicken
“That thing looks straight-up like a dinosaur.” — My coworker Mark
2009–Later in 2009

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June 9th, 2009

Egg-Sighting Developments

1. Gladys laid her first egg for us yesterday afternoon! A large brown one. I was considering having it bronzed, but we made an omelette with it instead. We had to supplement it with several other (inferior) eggs of course, but the important thing is we split it so we could both partake of our chicken’s offering. In my humble opinion, the egg portion of that omelette was tastier than the egg portions of any omelette that has come before. Ever.
2. Steph has named the middle chicken. From here on “Chicken.com” shall be known as “Darcy” “Lulu.”

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