I didn't get chickens because I was in love with them or wanted to start farming or liked the way they fertilize everything, and I mean everything. I got them because I had gotten into the habit of buying fresh eggs from my neighbor. She got them from a girl she worked with who raised chickens and she would bring me a dozen every week. We really loved them and I could tell a difference especially in the cakes and pies I baked. I was hooked on fresh.
Then, rather abruptly, my egg supply was severed for unknown reasons. (I think my neighbor may have been feeling over-taxed with the burden of toting eggs home to me every Friday, but I'm really unclear as to what happened). Anyway, my mind started to wonder, and wander, about and around all of the aspects of raising laying hens.
"We can do this", I told my husband during one of my verbal extrapolations about the plans for the coop. So, I read a lot about the ins and outs and highs and lows of raising a backyard flock. We built a 4x6 box in the garage with two nesting boxes and a roost and cut a small door in the garage wall so that they could come out into a large pen we built against the garage. Very simple and definitely big enough for a few chickens. And when the pen and 'coop' were done we headed out to see a farmer that Stan's brother knew. He just got a big order of chickens and was willing to sell us 4.
This farmer had the 4 birds in a small cage, waiting for us. They were young and not close to laying yet, so when we saw a couple of older layers running around the yard, we were able to dicker a little with him and he agreed to sell us those two as well. In hindsight, it was probably his guilty conscience that let them go. Because several months later, when all 4 of the birds started crowing, we knew we were in trouble.
So, in all of the reading I did in preparing myself for being a chicken owner, there were two things I failed to research. The first was how to tell the difference between a hen and a rooster. The second was whether or not they were breaking any ordinances in my neighborhood.
I was fairly certain that the hens would be ok, but I just could not have 4 roosters running around crowning at each other all day. I live in the city and my neighbors would not have that. So we were able to re-home all but one rooster. We kept a beautiful Gold-laced Wyandotte rooster we just called "Roo". He was too pretty to give away and we really liked having a rooster around.
Once the dogs got used to the chickens and understood they were not new toys, nor were they prey, we were able to let the chickens out in the yard every day to peck and free-range and dust bathe and sun bathe wherever they liked. And this is when I did fall in love with them and having them. They were the funniest things to watch. They live up to most of the stereotypes the mention of their species evokes. If it rained, they ran for shelter as if the sky were falling. If they got wet, they certainly were mad, wet hens. I watched the pecking order become established. And I watched my rooster slowly evolve into a large angry brute of a cock. He was massive and beautiful and mean. I had to start walking through the yard with a broom or a stick. He would flog me every day as soon as I let him out of his pen. And I hated to punish the other ones just because he was mean, so every day I let them out anyway. My stick kept him at bay. Unless I didn't have it. And I didn't the day he spurred me. I was throwing the scratch down for them but apparently, not quick enough for Mr. Roo. If you've never seen a Rooster flog someone, it's quite comical to watch, unless you're on the receiving end of the spurs. His first strike was right on the mark and his spur punctured my thigh. The next strike was quick but I had time to swing the scratch bucket at him so he missed. But I didn't. That bucket hit him square in the head and didn't phase him in the least. Then began the chase. There was blood pouring down my leg while I chased him all over the yard.
So, he had to go. We caged him until we found a home for him. I really didn't think we would actually find a home for him but we did. He is the cock of the walk in a pen full of hens out in the country. The guy who has him also has to carry a stick into his henhouse, but he's still alive and spurring.
Before we sent him to the farm, we did manage to incubate and hatch (with the help of a good friend and her incubator) 7 of his offspring. Again, we kept one rooster and re-homed the others. 2 were hens. I still have the scar from Roo and the hole he poked in my jeans is still there, too. And now I also have several of his babies, grown now, and a lot friendlier than their Papa.
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