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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October 6th, 2009

Day 6: The Alarmist (A Series of Haikus)

Our bed is broken
Our mattress is on the floor
Sleep the college way

It feels kind of fun
“Our lives could change like the winds.
We have no mortage!”

Lasts a brief bit then
Disturbance on the calm pond
We have a problem

The gross mists every
God-forsaken morning now
Dog-tongue to the face

All for getting up
And not really squeamish
But jolting awake?

Must hand-craft a bed
Out of truest bamboo or
Hit up Ikea

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June 8th, 2009

Farming It Out

Steph and I have officially jumped on the city chicken bandwagon.

Some Raleigh residents who keep chickens host an annual tour of their coops called “Henside the Beltline.” We went this year, and seeing how people were set-up and how quiet and non-stinky it is when you just keep a few egg-layers made the endeavor seem within our grasp.

When I started grocery shopping for myself years ago, I came to realization that I had no idea how most of the things I ate were made. This did not mesh well with my DIY belief-system. This is why, as soon as I found myself on a piece of land where I could do as I pleased, I started growing vegetables. It’s also why we’re venturing into chicken land. (That, and the fact that fresh eggs from non-commercial chickens taste approximately 2000 times better than what you get at the supermarket. Plus, in a nice bit of — ahem — synergy, chicken manure is excellent fertilizer for the garden.)

So I spent the last two weekends building a small hutch and run, and researching our available options.

Raising some cute little chicks would have been fun and probably similar to injesting large doses of anti-depressants each time we got to handle them, but you can’t determine the sex of a chick. (Unless you can find someone with a clutch of specific crossbreeds known as “sex-links” where males come out of the egg one color and females another. Sorry, newly-acquired knowledge about poultry causing me to digress.) I didn’t like the 50-50 chances of ending up with a noisy, aggressive rooster. I also didn’t like the unpredictability of how many chickens we’d actually end up with.

In talking to various people who keep them about their experiences I’ve come to the conclusion that chickens are the most inherently-doomed life form on the planet. Apparently, even when they have food and water and proper housing, they just up and die all the time. When a raccoon or a fox or a hillbilly with a hatchet gets the opportunity to put in some face-time with an unassuming fowl, it’s like they receive a magic boost in IQ, allowing them to understand the mechanics of gate latches and stretched fencing. (Thanks to Lilly, I have now seen a carnivore in the throws of “chickenmania.” Lilly’s not the brightest animal, so, even with a bump, her level of intellegence probably won’t get her on the other side of the wire. Still, she wants in. Very, very badly.) And the ease with which even a housecat can eradicate a small flock seems to suggest that these birds just sort of stand there and let themselves get gobbled up. (Then again, if your brain was the size of a watch battery, I guess you would too.) And there are all kinds of diseases and parasites that love their chicken. These predators, as well as genetic defects, kill baby chickens in particular at an astounding rate.

We wanted three chickens, and built the shelter to house this many. If we had gotten three chicks we might have ended up with one chicken. Or we could have played the odds, bought 10 chicks and ended up with 10 chickens.

Thus we opted to get “pullets” or basically adolescent females. They’re a little more expensive, as someone has had to put in the time and effort to guide them through infancy, but, for us, they were the only option. I went and picked up our brood at a breeder on Saturday.

Here they are, in all of their splendor:

This is our largest/most mature chicken, a red sex-link that I’ve named “Gladys.” Supposedly she’s of laying age (around nine months old) but I haven’t spotted any eggs yet. As you can see, she has a chipped beak, which I think might be because she spends most of her time ramming her “nose” into the other two gals whenever they get near her. That “pecking order” thing? Not just a figure of speech.

This one is Steph’s to name. She was out of town this weekend and said she needed to see the thing before she could name it. Kate, Kevin, and I put our heads together and came up with the temporary name “Chicken.com.” She’s about 14 weeks old and is another type of crossbreed known as a “golden comet.”

Bliss has joint-custody of this one. She also got naming rights and chose the moniker “Martha Stewart.” She’s an 11-week-old Buff Orpington. This type starts laying relatively late, so it could be seven or eight months before we’re making quiche courtesy of her.

Finally, here’s a wider shot of the whole deal.

I’m sure I’ll have more to report as our new pets get acclimated to their surroundings and we figure out exactly what rearing these animals entails. Stay tuned!

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