Runaway Mom! Somebody grab that chicken!

The Broody Chicken continues to nest.
Once a day she comes out and struts around close to the coop.  She puffs herself up and kind of has herself looking like a dwarfed turkey.

Broody Chicken puffing up.

Broody Chicken

She doesn't stay out long. She grabs dinner, a drink and back in she goes. Yesterday was a beautiful day so she stayed out a little longer.  Just long enough for the other's to pick on her a little bit. Granny chased her and yanked a feather out. PeeWee reprimanded Granny. It was all a circus for a short minute and she retired back to the peace and quiet of the coop and her eggs.

PeeWee & hens in the Kabota

She came out again later and jumped up in the bed of the Kabota. For some reason they love it in there and they usually jump right out if someone gets in.  Well, she didn't and proceeded to take a ride down the road. That was all I needed--for her to get over to the other side of the farm and jump out. She'd never make it back and the eggs wouldn't survive long without her sitting on them.  I headed the driver off at the pass and made her get out, right there on the road and follow me back. Geesh, these babies will be lucky if they make it.  However, the eggs are looking good and she seems to be rolling them like she is supposed to as they are in different positions when I am able to look.  AJ, Belle and Andrew have circled March 2 on the calendar  as our 'due date'.  They will be a batch of mutts but we'll take our chances.  *Oh, please, please, please... (Is there a patron saint for chickens?) let them all be girls, Amen*.

Patiently awaiting a March 2 hatch.

Broody Chicken

Zeke  R.I.P. You and your big, floppy comb

We have a broody chicken. We think she is the same Barred Rock that got broody on us in September. I say, “we think,” because the two Barred Rock's we have look identical with no real distinguishing marks to tell them apart. It's just as well, really. When you name them you seem to get more attached and it's always harder when they meet their end. We had a Barred Rock earlier this year that had an extra long comb that flopped over her head. I named her Zeke. Zeke was extra friendly and our five year old neighbor loved her. Zeke would let her pick her up and handle her and carry her around without the usual fuss that would come with that nonsense. (Picking up chickens usually results in a fair amount of protest from the chicken.) But Zeke, as sweet as she was, was killed in lieu of a punchline. Why did the chicken cross the road? To be run over by a careless driver.

Anyway... back to the broody hen...

Broody Chicken

When she got broody back in the Fall we discouraged her from sitting by stealing her eggs. We didn't want to worry about the babies as winter set in. Now, though, Stan wants her to hatch a few. We have purchased chickens from farmers, from hatcheries (mail order), from the feed stores and we have even incubated our own in a friend's incubator, but never have we let nature take it's course. So, here we are, letting Broody Chicken sit on four eggs. And, in twenty-one days, maybe a few less since she has been sitting for a few days already-- although neither of us is really sure of the exact date-- we should have chicks!
With our luck, they will all be roosters.

Stay tuned.....

In defense of Roosters

Every rooster we have ever owned was an accident. We have never intended to have a rooster on purpose, rather they have just happened to us. In the recent wave of backyard poultry keepers that is sweeping the country you'll find few who own roosters. Especially in the more urban areas. Most people will say they don't want a rooster because they are good for absolutely nothing. They can be mean to the hens, mean to the people who own them, and a rooster in the henhouse will automatically make your hens less likely to want to be handled by you. But, in a yard with no rooster, you are the rooster. I've watched my cousin's hens and my brother-in-law's hens squat for them and allow themselves to be picked up and handled. I lost that privilege when I allowed a rooster to stay. But roosters are true protectors. At least the good ones are. They wake up the flock in the morning (I don't care what you say about the noise, I have yet to find someone that doesn't enjoy hearing it. And it beats a barking dog any day) and they put the flock to bed at night. They warn the flock of danger and dance excitedly, like a proud, new father, when a hen lays an egg. I have never been without a rooster in my yard so I can't say, but I have heard people say their hens seem happier when there is a rooster with them.

When we originally wanted to get chickens, Stan's brother took us to a farmer who had recently purchased several hundred layers and was willing to part with 4 of them for a few bucks each. He was very nice and the whole transaction was an experience. We drove an hour to his farm and there were pigs and chickens and cows and goats running everywhere. He had four pullets already caged up for us and we paid him and I could have sworn I heard him chuckle as we drove out of sight.

We waited patiently for out new pullets to lay our first and very own eggs. One day, as we were still waiting for that first egg, we heard what sounded like a crow and I jumped up and ran out the back door. I was met by my neighbor, who ran out his back door as well. “Did you hear that?” He asked me.

“What? What did you hear?” Not wanting to believe it was what it was, I cross-examined him.

“I believe you have a rooster back there, neighbor,” and he laughed. A hearty laugh.

Over the next few weeks we kept a close eye on them and not only did we have one rooster, we ended up with four. Yup, all four were boys. Who would have thought you couldn't trust a farmer? We re-homed three of them and decided to keep one very pretty gold-laced wyandotte. We found a guy on Craigslist who was selling pullets about ready to lay and after all we had been through and the additional research our mistake forced me to conduct, we went to his farm much more prepared. I felt I knew what to look for and I could spot a cockerel now.

A year or so later that Rooster wore out his welcome by being the meanest, nastiest rooster I have ever come across. He was also the first rooster I'd ever come across. But still to this day I have yet to see one more ornery. He flogged me. He spurred me so deep that the blood actually squirted out of my leg. He chased the grandkids. He flogged the dogs, not really realizing if he had made contact it would have been all over for him. Yet he was too pretty to die. So we found him a home on a farm and he had plenty of girls to tend to there. He lived on that farm (the farmer enduring being flogged almost daily) for several years and even survived a pit bull attack defending his girls, only to die at the hands of his farmer-owner after he spurred a child.

He didn't leave us, though, before we gathered and incubated several eggs so we could have his offspring. He was just so pretty it didn't matter to us they would be mutts. Every hen I had was a different breed. So with the help of a friend, we incubated eleven eggs. Seven survived to hatch and five of those were boys. Not a great ratio. We were able to re-home four and we kept one.

Even as a chick Kernal was a natural leader. That's him on the hat.

Kernal as a cockerel

His name was Kernal. He was a cross between Rooster and our favorite hen, Granny. He was golden yellow at hatch and grew into a beautiful golden/white mix. He had gold lace across a white chest and he was protector of the flock. Kernal was sweet to his girls and only tried to flog me once and I cornered him and it freaked him out so that he never tried it again. A rooster, after a certain age would just as soon die as to be picked up and held.

Kernal moved here to the farm with us from the city. It was here that he met his demise defending the flock for a final time. A coyote had been stealing hens one and two at a time and before we could track him down to stop him, he got Kernal. But Kernal was the only one of the chickens who left such a big feather trail. He fought to the end, that was evident. There were great amounts of feathers strewn from one end of the yard to the edge of the woods.

Kernal

We decided to buy pullets only from the feed store, although this was a little disconcerting given that I knew what the ratio could be of roosters to hens and buying from the feed store and online hatcheries supported the practice of killing the baby roosters right out of the shell. They are sexed immediately after hatching and all the cockerels go into a grinder and they are ground alive. I pushed the images back and we made the purchase--all pullets.  Eh, it's about a 98% guarantee, anyway.

PeeWee

The tiniest of these newest additions was a beautiful little silver laced wyandotte that was so small we named her PeeWee and thought she'd never grow to catch up with the rest.  She was so small, in fact, that we thought she might be a banty that got mixed in with the standards. But she finally started growing. Never really catching up with the rest but growing. And then crowing. Because nothing is a guarantee where Mother Nature is concerned. And I had grown attached to 'her' because of her size so I didn't care that she was a he and good for you, PeeWee. Good for you for surviving that grinder.

PeeWee today

Kids & chickens; it's a Match Made in Heaven

My Mother always used to tell us the story about her Aunt Jo being asked to fetch the eggs from the chicken coop. Aunt Jo was a young girl at the time and had collected eggs many times but apparently never put two and two together and figured out where the eggs came from. When she went into the coop on this day a hen was in the middle of a lay and she got to see the egg pop right out of that chicken's butt.  It freaked her out so badly that by all accounts she never ate another egg in her life.

I like to keep a basket by the front door and whenever a child is visiting it never fails to be the highlight of their day, collecting the eggs for us. There is nothing like seeing those bright faces as they find the brown and blue treasures in the nests and carefully come back with them.

My great-niece Ava collects the eggs for my sister (her Grammie), too.  

Andrew

Our Grandson, Andrew, who spends every other weekend here on the farm with us, has made it his job when he is here and on those weekends no one else is allowed to get them. He checks for eggs sometimes three times a day.  Once, when we had been out of town and missed a day of collecting, Andrew went out on his regular run and came running back in the house screaming for his Dad. "Dad, Dad!! Look, there's nine eggs!" He was used to collecting 3 or 4 a day and his dad said he may as well have won the lottery. That was three months ago and he still talks about it like an angler talks about his finest catch.

Our Great-nephew, Trent. The face says it all
When Andrew isn't here our neighbor sometimes comes down to get them for us.  And sometimes our friends' kids are here and I send them out with the basket. The rookies creep cautiously around the coop just to make sure the chickens aren't too close to them but when they see those eggs in the nest, the worry turns to wonder and excitement. So cool to watch and a great farm lesson for the young ones. Teach them early where their food comes from.

Anabelle

neighbor, Audrey

I figure if Aunt Jo had only ever seen eggs come from a cardboard carton from a shelf in the store instead of her own back yard, maybe she would have experienced the wonder and excitement instead of the disgust. But Andrew, even though collecting eggs is one of his favorite things to do, would agree with Aunt Jo about them being 'gross'. He won't eat them either.