Fowl Discrimination

Before being a chicken farmer/mother, I had visions of naming each bird according to looks and mannerisms and personality. Well, as you can see from the photos, they are all black/grey. They all peck and scratch (a new behaviour this week) and make lots of noise (even at 5Am this morning - thanks girls). So basically they are generically named "girls", "chick-chick" or any other foolishness that would surely get me committed somewhere if there were human witnesses. There are 2 stand-outs: the biggest and grey-est is very difficult to catch. I call her Zippy. Now as they are in their awkward teenage phase (apologies to all the awkward teens in my life) they are growing beautiful black with white bar feathers, so Zippy will not be so identifiable for long. At least until we try and catch her. The other one is the smallest and blackest. She is simply called Jr. She is the most curious of the flock and also the nastiest. She takes every human contact opportunity to become a carnivore. When the others peck at me it is cute. When she pecks, she is intending to take a souvenir home - it hurts like anything. Again, Jr. will soon be black and white striped like the rest and will only be identifiable when it is too late.

Love Stinks

My husband, Mr.Brave Chicken Farmer, has been out of town. He is just getting to know "the girls". To be honest, I don't think that they have bonded yet. Case in point: he has been very anxious to get them out of the tv room and into the back porch. Now the back porch is enclosed, but cold and the parking place for bikes and all things gardening. It is essentially our "shed' until Mr.BCF builds one, which follows the coop construction (more blogs to follow on that). The problem is, I don't want my babies in the porch. They will be cold and lonely and I can't pop in to say "hi" when I get up to pee at 3 in the morning. When they grow all their feathers, they can go out to their as-of-yet-not-built-coop. I will have to deal with my separation issues then. Back to Mr.BCF...so I finally asked him what the big rush was in getting the chickens out of our house when they are still so young and vulnerable. Do you know what he said? "It smells like a barn in here." Can you believe it? I think I saw one of them wipe a tear away... Well, I went to work with a will ! I emptied that brooder, scrubbed it down and replenished the floor with fresh pine shavings. It didn't smell for about 7 minutes.
Mr.BCF is right. It does smell like a barn in here.

Primetime Poultry

We have a really old tv. I mean it has to be strapped to the wall so it doesn't tip forward and kill the cat. We never got a lot of stations even though we have one of those modern tv antennas on the roof. Now thanks to the US and going digital (there is a conspiracy there somewhere) we get 3 Canadian stations, one of them in French. I don't mind. I go days without watching tv and I like our local flavour. I'm getting really good at French too. Now, you may be asking, dear reader, "What does this have to do with chickens?" Glad you asked. When you got chickens, you don't need tv. These guys are funny. They are erratic, at times aggressive, unpredictable and cute; something for the whole family. When we put their perch in the brooder, Brave Chicken Farmer jr calls it "the limbo show". They seem really freaked out by this intruder and take turns nervously hopping, walking over or under the stick. We sing the limbo song so they can get into the spirit of things. There's the "try-to-fly-and-land-on-the-thermometer-show", the "peck-crap-off-your-neighbour-show", "The-toss-the-wood-chips-in-the-air-show"...it's like cable. BCFjr and I each pull up a chair, or better yet, he sits on my lap and we watch the poultry equivalent of The Three Stooges as time seems to stop, if only for a moment.

Could a brave chicken farmer ask for anything more?

when good chickens go bad

When one thinks of chickens, images of idyllic farm life come to mind. Things like little red barns and neat stacks of hay, the breeze gently blowing as the contented hens peck at the ground and softly cluck. In reality, chickens are vandals. They destroy all that is in their wicked path. No sooner is the water dispenser out, than they kick sawdust and even do their nasty business in there! They dump their food all over the floor as soon as it is lovingly handed to them. They peck at every square inch of their brood, hoping to break off pieces to stomp all over them . They have taken particular liking to taking turns at drilling at the thermometer with their beaks (I thought they loved it like a mother). They are even trying to fly up and jump on said thermometer - certainly to knock it off the wall and rip it to smithereens. We have placed a bamboo stick in the brooder to help them learn to perch. They mercilessly peck at it and move it about. I think they both fear and hate it. I even caught them "red handed" kicking their nasty business onto the wall. Time to get a gun or a coop.

chicken dreams and other things

Everyday I'm fascinated by these chickens. I stare in wonder at their daily activities. I feel as if I am a discoverer of an ancient civilization or biologist who has stumbled upon a never before seen species. This is the problem with living in the suburbs all my life. I mean, these things stretch their legs and wings, throw their head back to drink, give eye contact (come on, I am their mom), they yawn (very, very cute) and I think I saw one of "the girls" wake up from a dream, dare I say a nightmare. She was sleeping, like they all do in 2 minutes intervals ( no wonder they aren't too bright) and woke with a start. You should have seen the terror in her eyes. I could have sworn I heard a whispered, "No Colonel!"

guess what?...chick butt!

They grow up so fast...I'm not kidding, these things grow daily. The guy at the store told me they would begin to grow adult feathers in 2 or 3 days, "ya, right, what does he know...he's just a hick"

Not so fast oh brave chicken farmer! He's a hick who's lived on a farm all his life and works in a feed store! Sure enough, they started to grow adult feathers, right on schedule. Every day they show signs of adult chicken-ness; taller, less rounded, and acting more like well, a chicken. A couple of days ago I noticed that some of their tails were less like a fluffy bump and more "scruffy". Now, they have been pecking a lot at each other, picking bits of wood shaving off each other and tugging at their sisters' downy fluff. So I chalked up this scraggly tail to an overzealous grooming. Yesterday I noticed that almost all of them had that scraggly tail. Could it be that their tails are growing up? It made me sad. If you lean over I'll whisper something I haven't confessed out loud before: I really love the chicks' butts. What is not to love? They are round and fat and fluffy - like a cute little baby's bum that you want to squeeze, only fluffier and much tinier. I just had to get that off my chest. Thanks for listening

have you ever been to sea, chickie?

I like to tell myself and others that I got these birds for my son. Being a "progressive mom", I want to expose my son to a variety of life experiences. Now, not too far below the surface of my ego (or is it my id?...) lies the fact that I have also done this for my inner child. I will get off the couch to finish the story... After the first day, it seemed that the novelty of having new pets had worn off for my 6 year old. I was feeling rather discouraged since chickens have the life expectancy of a large dog. Now if one of the many neighbourhood cats, possums, raccoons, bald eagles (seriously) have an encounter, all bets are off. But I couldn't wish that upon my new babies - I've bonded and they've imprinted. I also noticed that BCF jr was almost afraid to break one of the chicks. He couldn't wait to wake up or come home from school to "play" with them, but then put them down as quickly as he scooped them up. That could have something to do with the fact that I constantly coached, yelped, scolded as he awkwardly handled these squirmy fowl. Today, however, we have had a breakthrough! BCF jr. discovered that if you placed a chick on his shoulder, they are actually quite calm and happy. One could sit on his shoulder for at least 20 minutes, occasionally preening or pecking at a bug disguised as a freckle. In that moment,BCF jr. fancied himself a bit of a pirate. He frequently stops his train at the imagination station, so the thought of being a pirate really resonates with him. So, in our home, boys are pirates, chickens are parrots and mom is once again a brave chicken farmer, content with her treasures -ahrrrr.

chick, chick, double chick

A conversation with myself, every day, many times a day:

Did I turn off the stove? What if the house burns down? Would the cat survive?

My conversation post-chicken:

Did I turn off the stove? What if the house burns down? Would the chickens survive? And what about the cat? Speaking of the cat, did I shut the "chicken room" door? What if the cat eats one? Could she possibly eat more than two? And what about the warming light? What if it mysteriously falls and lands on a pile of dry kindling and burns the house down ...

As you can see, being an urban chicken farmer has dramatically reduced the stress in my life.

ps props to the artist of the above print, Sarah Pallek.

I gotta vent...

Ok, I was in for all of the cleanin' and waterin' and feedin'. I was even prepared for these things to try and peck my eyes out when I attempt to collect eggs (stay tuned for those future adventures). I was not, however, planning on wiping a chicken's bum. I'm sorry to be so plain, but there is no delicate way to put it. When you give birth to a human child, the motherly instinct to keep them clean and happy seems quite natural (not enjoyable, just normal). Perhaps because I did not hatch these babies, I just don't feel the same way. However I was reading on the interwebs - the place where everyone goes for completely reliable, fully researched and tested information- that if a chick gets a, well dirty bum, and it stays that way, she can't, ummm do her business and well, dies. When you gotta go, you gotta go! I must educate you, my dear reader, seeing as this is on the interwebs as well, that a chicken's posterior is called a "vent" (kinda nice and winsome). Seeing I don't want any of my babies to expire (that would simply crush BCF jr) I was a vigilant poop inspector. The runt had a suspect behind and I went to work...let's just say she was wetter and somewhat cleaner than before...and pretty much hating me. "Madder than a wet hen" has it's roots.

are you my mother?

There was a book I often read as a kid where a baby bird gets separated from his mother (pre-hatch) and tries to find his identity in a cat, a dog, a bulldozer... It ends happily enough, but my point is that birds do have this little built in mechanism to identify with the first "other" that they see and who nurtures them. This is called imprinting (I am not an animoligist, so consider the source). There was a big debate between myself and brave chicken farmer jr. as to who the chickens would bond with. He decided that we would simultaneously open the box and they would magically love and identify with both of us. Now the magic was cast upon us and we were instantly smitten by these little fluffy, noisy critters. They do allow us to hold them -I think they are humouring, if not pitying, us. One did do some nasty business on BCF jr, but I don't think that spells L-O-V-E. "The girls" do seem rather attracted to the digital thermometer in their brooder (plastic box house). They stand around it in packs as if in awe and occasionally peck at it. It reminds me of 2001; A Space Odessy - the large black monolith looming above the creatures - an ominous god of sorts. So I'm really hoping that these chickens will be able to predict the weather with great accuracy. Fresh eggs and a true weather report - what more could you ask for?

chicken eve

I've always wanted to live in the country...or the big city. Seeing as I'm living in a no-man's land between the two, I am venturing into urban chicken farming. It all started when I was bemoaning the fact that my then 5 year old son ate 2 eggs each morning. After receiving the providencial gift of fresh eggs from a neighbour, I was inspired- we shall have our very own chickens! My egg-eating son has been excited for months and tomorrow is the big day that we go "pick up chicks"! I am doing this under a cloak of municiple darkness, however. This is how I will justify my actions before town council: I know exactly where my food comes from (at least in the egg department for now), have pesticide-free pest control (significant, given our provinces wise bans on such chemicals), bond with my family as we teach our son about nature, responsibility and nurturing. Chickens are beautiful, amusing, reduce stress, eat your table scraps..need I go on?

I have been told as well that owning chickens is a spiritual experience. That's where God's forgiveness comes in...