Brave Dutch Bantam Goes Free At Last!

The lone survivor of the notorious Spiritcreek Chicken Incarceration Facility has been set free from the outdated, decaying chicken facilities!

One mild evening some days ago, I waited patiently for the last little hen to go to roost at twilight. Once in her nest, I could easily catch her. She was going to a better home with my neighbors who maintain a small flock. I knew she would much rather be at the bottom of the pecking order in a flock than to continue her solitary and very lonely existence here.

It marks the end of an era that I will always fondly recall as The Chicken Years. It was so much fun building the coop and the pen, raising chickens, getting to know the true nature of the amazing little birds, the descendants of dinosaurs! However, it was one long tragedy of death and loss. Too many roosters. Mean roosters. Unexplained death and predation. Loss of my favorite characters to sad and premature death. Jake the Bad Dog. Snakes. Pack rats. It was just too much.

I was moping around - just a tiny bit - whenever I would realize the chicken pen was empty for good but I hoped the little hen was settling into her new home. She had never been given a proper name, (I think she was Medium girl), so when my neighbors said their grandchildren would have fun naming her, that made me happy.

A neighborly phone call this week delighted me. As it turns out, Babe as she is now known, is the favorite hen of the one and only Mr. Blackie, the chief rooster! My neighbors' dog is of the Good Dog Duke lineage, so their chickens enjoy freedom during the day to scratch in the dirt and leaves, to take dirt baths and to tend to their normal chicken business. That is the very best news.

It is a very happy and appropriate note on which to end The Chicken Years.

Chicken News

While chicken relations remain tense, it appears the new hens are making themselves at home with Big Hen. After an attempt at animal communication, Perelandra style, the three new hens started going into the coop at night on their own. I no longer have to search for them in the dark and then stuff them into the coop every night.

No one wants to cross Big Hen, but the Medium girl simply circles around and does whatever she wants. The Large girl soon follows her. Small girl is either so much younger that she can only cheep like a baby, or she is mentally stunted. Sometimes all she can do is cheep forlornly from inside the coop when the others are outside eagerly pecking and scratching for their meal. It is as if she is lost and cannot find her way out.

There is the smallest bit of serendipity in that all four hens are exactly of the same body shape. Surely the Silver Seabrite hen (Big Hen) is closely related to the Dutch Bantams. The biggest difference I can observe between the breeds is their "dialect". The black hens have different mutterings, clucks and twitters. They also have a quiet series of musical whistling that is pleasant to hear.

Even if Big Hen is not thrilled to share her space and food with three foreigners, it is much better that she is not entirely alone in this world.

Big Hen and the Foreigners - Sounds like a rock band?

Three Little Hens

Finally, I dialed a phone number and someone answered! I have been looking for a few little hens as companions for my single surviving Braveheart hen. One lady hung up on me and never called back. I am not sure what that was about. The other advertisers were too far away or did not have what I wanted. One advertiser on Craigs List seemed to be professional but there was never an answer when I phoned. I gave it one last try today and lo, a voice speaketh from the Chicken Realm.

First I talked to an older man. He was friendly and enthusiastically willing to sell me a few little hens. Yard art, he called them. He gave me overly detailed directions, including a description of driving past the "old, awful house" and "come on back - we'll take care of you!"

When I called before leaving work to confirm, I spoke to a different person, a younger man. He was a salesman! He imported his chickens from Holland and was one of only four breeders of Dutch Bantams in the country. He would give me a deal. And he tried to sell me a rooster.

Well, it was a dark and stormy night when I finally left work for the special chicken breeding haven beyond the "old, awful house". I know I am not as smart as I once was, but sometimes things happen that demonstrate how much I have truly lost. The first thing was driving all over southeastern Shawnee County because I apparently have lost the capacity to drive directly down the streets I have known since 1974. I was not lost. I simply failed to turn on the proper streets, going several miles out of my way. I knew exactly where I wanted to go, but for whatever reason, I drove through intersections as if I were on my way to a different place. I finally drove to the address and turned into a dark and narrow drive. By then it was entirely dark and an icy rain was falling.

It was a good thing the first man had warned me about the "old, awful house". It was an enormous old three story farm house that was coming down in large, square blocks of old wood. In the gloom, it was spooky. I began to worry about axe murderers who lure their victims with chickens. ("Come on back - we'll take care of you!")  If so, they were cheerful and friendly murderers.  It might not be too gruesome an end. A woman waiting for me with a flashlight showed me to the cages where earlier someone penned several little black hens. Even though the pen was under a big car port structure, their feathers were sprinkled with the icy rain. Poor little peckies!

There were only three in the pen and at one glance I said I would take them all. That is when I realized I had forgotten the transport box in the car - another indication of my foggy brain capacity. No problem. The woman scooped up two and I took the other. The little chickens were sleepy and only made a minor fuss. Cash and chickens changed hands then and I was on the road to home in the first winter storm of the season. I could hear their tiny little cheeps and mutters as they tried to deal with being rudely awakened and jostled around in the pitch black interior of a cardboard box while Joe Bonamassa played the best blues guitar licks known to mankind.

They are tiny little hens, entirely black, much smaller than crows, maybe even smaller than pigeons. The woman said they were almost full grown, but they are not mature hens. Now it is after midnight and I checked on them in the box in the garage. They are fine. When  I looked up Dutch Bantams online, I discovered that Mr. One-of-Only-Four-Breeders-in-America was either lying or seriously misinformed. Everyone is breeding Dutch Bantams. Oh well. I have the chickens I want and that is the mainest main thing.  

How Roosters Roll...

The current vice-rooster of my little flock of bantam chickens is Cherokee, the Japanese rooster. He is quite beautiful with a spectacular tail. If his legs were regular length, he might be the president, but Japanese bantams have very short legs. He is no taller than the little hens. He must work harder to impress the ladies.

He is always the first chicken waiting for food so I assumed he was merely ensuring his share. I realized the other day he is making sure to get his share - but not of food. If he is the first guy at the food, then he is the first rooster to make the pleasant, popping cluck that calls the hens to any food he may have found. I laughed at his strutting and calling the hens in his suave "food is served" voice. I scoffed at him, telling him he had not found any food on his own so he should not expect the girls to be impressed. That is when it dawned on me why he was always the first chicken at the feeding site.

This is the same successful behavior that has fueled the evolution of all species. It exists in the male of the human species to this day. It sells very expensive sports cars to middle aged men. It is directly responsible for Donald Trump's abominable comb-over, though with all of his money he does not need good hair to attract a certain type of woman.

Once again there are as many roosters as there are hens in my flock, so at least a couple of the boys will have to go, or I will have to get more hens. I have given away and sold roosters before, but I hate to do that. I never know what circumstance they will go into. When I sold the little porcelaine d'uccle roosters, they may have gone to feed snakes. I know snakes have to eat too - just not my chicks.

I gave away Big Man, the smallest, most magnificent rooster I have ever known - the funniest chicken. He was the tiniest peep and grew into the tiniest, most handsome roo', ever. I still feel bad about it. He taught me about roosters. I did not know anything about them before Big Man. He was a Cochin and demonstrated the epitome of bantam rooster behavior. He was pecking me and attacking me before he was even an adolescent, so if he had stayed, I eventually may not have liked him as much.

Who knew chickens could teach me so much about human beings?

Handsome Roo's

This is the most handsome roo, Junior. He is the magnificent son of the late Mrs. Peckins, a partridge cochin, and the late Evil Roo, a porcelain d'uccle. His tail is iridescent green but it does not show in this photo. He is a very handsome guy who has never attacked me. Mrs. Peckins surely looks down from chicken heaven and admires her successful, handsome son.


Junior with his favorite wife, one half of the Weird Sisters.


The handsome Japanese rooster, Cherokee. He is vice-rooster of the flock. His graceful tail and snowy feathers are very beautiful but he is vain and silly much of the time and the ladies only tolerate him because that is the way it is in chicken society.


This is Evil Roo's son, the only pure d'uccle left on the farm now. He is the lowest chicken in the pecking order, the same way the Evil Roo once was. He is about half grown. It remains to be seen if he will mature into a rooster as handsome as his father. I have not named him yet.

Sad Little Chicken And Forest Gump

Nothing is more sad than a chicken without at least one best friend. One of the babies I saved by bringing indoors this summer, the last of the year's babies, has not a single friend in all of the flock. He or she must roost all alone at night. Everyone else has bonded with one or two other chickens, except for this youngster. I guess I will have to intervene and select one of the other chickens to be a friend with this little orphan. After the two of them have been penned together for a week or so, then they will become friends.

Each night I go out and stuff the lonely chicken into a cat carrier that has hay stuffed in it, so the baby can have shelter and protection. I guess the big chickens prevent the orphan from roosting with them. It is very sad, indeed. After all, they are all related.

My chicken flock has morphed into a rag tag of pirates and rouges. The late Mrs. Peckins' son, Junior is now the alpha rooster. He is beautiful with a green tail, magnificent comb and wattles, and is easily twice or three times the size of the other chickens. He takes his duties seriously, but he has never attacked me or even spread his wings and lowered his neck as a warning. I never have to fear turning my back on this rooster. He is too much like Mrs Peckins and not at all like his father, the Evil Roo'.

Cherokee has matured into a beautiful Japanese rooster, with snowy feathers, and a gracefully curving black tail. He acts like a dope and no one takes him seriously. Junior chases him off every single day and Cherokee runs for his life squawking like... well, like a big chicken.

Tenzing Norgay, the very first chick I selected for the farm, is still here. Nobody messes with her. She and Junior rule the chicken kingdom of Spirit Creek. Junior affords her his finest gentlemanly behavior and she leaves him to his king career. If anyone else does a single thing she does not like, she goes after them growling and angry, and everyone clears out. If Cherokee thinks he is going to do his stupid rooster dance for Tenzing, she lines him out in no uncertain terms. Of all the chickens, she is easily the most expressive, determined and certainly the most convincing. If Mama ain't happy, ain't no body happy!

Then there Tenzing's two half grown babies. They inherited a high status in the flock from their mother, and continue to eat by her side, getting the best of the food. There is Black Girl, a Weird Sister/Junior chick, and White Girl, the only pure D'Uccle baby and the last one. White Girl might be White Boy... hard to tell yet.

That leaves the two Weird Sisters. They have never truly integrated into the flock. Not only are they physically different, they are from Back East. They know they do not belong out here in red neck country. They are flighty and nervous and fly into the red bud trees. Though the other chickens could fly into the low branches as well, they never do.

I believe now my chickens were killed by owls in the early mornings this summer. It was the crack of dawn and I had just seen Cherokee scratching beneath the tree before any of the other chickens were up. I saw something large angling through the front porch, past the windows. I rushed to the door, certain Cherokee was a goner. He did not even seem to be alarmed. That is why I believe it was an owl. Their feathers are silent, so Cherokee did not even realize he had almost been served for breakfast. He was contentedly scratching at the remains of the previous evening's meal. Lovable but dumb, his name should be Forest Gump, oblivious to the cruel realities of the world. 

The Close of Another Story...

The Evil Roo - no longer handsome but still macho.

Tuesday morning when I stepped out the front door to feed the critters, there were pieces of one of my chickens. A foot - the flight feathers of one wing attached by the merest of tissues - the head, neck and a few bones of the body, stripped absolutely bare of flesh. By deduction I realized the Evil Roo had met his fate here in the bend of Spirit Creek.

I cannot say that I will miss him. He attacked me on a regular basis. He had the last "word". The deep puncture wound he inflicted on the back of my leg a couple of weeks ago is still healing. He was brave and kind to his flock, and I am just a bit sad at his passing. I doubt if he weighed much more than 16 ounces but he was not afraid to fly at the back of my head, attack my legs, or whatever part of my body he could reach. As far as chickens go, he was pretty smart. He was also a true gentleman to his babies and ladies.

He was once the smallest chicken in the flock and was pecked and pushed around and chased off by all the other chickens, but he survived and became the King, at least for a little while. He fathered many sons and several daughters. I do not know if he went down fighting during the day, or if some hateful, sneaking critter took his life while he was slumbering. He was a tough little bird. He survived without food and shelter for over 24 hours in the coldest weather in decades. Though no longer handsome, he wore his scars like a grizzled old warrior.

He was a true warrior king.

The Kid's Got Potential!

Raising chickens ain't rocket science but I suspect that in my case, it may as well be. I am "challenged" when it comes to keeping chickens alive and well, even losing one peep by accident in the safety of a small cage. The replacement chick turned out to be a rooster and I absolutely do not need any more roosters!

His name is Cherokee, due to his vocal approval for Rita Coolidge singing in the Cherokee language. Amazingly, he has already started crowing. It took patience but I recorded him crowing in the tiniest, peepiest voice you have ever heard.


Cherokee practicing to be the king.

If it is true that he is a black tailed Japanese bantam rooster, he will be dramatically handsome when he matures. Pure potential, baby!

Japanese Bantam Rooster

Vengeance is Mine, Sayeth Evil Roo

Evil Roo has started parking his evil little body just to the right of the screen door and waiting for me to exit my safe harbor. He is smart enough to stay to the right, where he is protected by the opening door. He carefully calculates the odds of attacking me as I walk away from him, the sneak attack from behind being his favorite tactic. I have started staring him down until he begins his Cool Hand Luke stroll off the porch. It irritates me to no end that this little bully thinks he can boss me around. He leaves poop all over the porch, and so do his wives. Today, when he reached the steps, I hooked my toe under his rear and launched him toward the grass. I need to act like the dominant predator here - show him who rules this farm.

He squawked and beat his wings and fluffed his neck, then strutted around as if he had meant to go flying off those steps. I confidently walked on by, turning my back on him, demonstrating the greatest disdain for him as my enemy. He would not dare mess with me again.

Less than a minute later, while I was standing on the far side of my truck, with the door open, rummaging around for the fuel filter replacement for my lawn tractor, that evil little genius calmly walked under the truck and blindly attacked my legs! He actually drew blood. I took several photos of my bleeding leg, but if I were to post them, it would only make people pity me and laugh instead of garnering sympathy. It just looks like a scratch in the photos.

I have bonged him with the feed pan several times this week, slapped him out of the air with my hand. I genuinely do not want to hurt him because I grudgingly admire him. He has machismo. My species have put to death billions of his brothers before him. He is carrying an entire species' vengeance toward the human race but I am tired of being his only target.

Junior the New King

Now that Junior is grown, and apparently the new king, he should get a new name. The trouble is, "Junior" has stuck. Here he is in all his kingly glory. You can clearly see that his comb made it through this brutal winter intact. His basic shape is that of his father, the Evil Roo. But he has the coloring of his mother's breed, the partridge cochins. Mrs. Peckins is in the photo, resting in the soft leaf litter after a long day of scratching through vast areas of leaves and dirt. Mother and son.

Junior also behaves like his mother's side of the family. While Mrs. Peckins is the sweetest little hen, her flock mates Big Man and Sweetie Peep, cochin roosters, were rapists and cowards. They were so mean to the little hens they were sent to another farm, over in Shawnee county. Junior is pretty mean, too. But now that he is apparently the Big Boss, the hens do not squawk and protest nearly as much when he assaults them. When everyone comes in to eat the scratch I throw, Junior stays on the outskirts watching for predators the way Evil used to do, so that means for sure Junior is the new boss. Evil Roo still has a few hens who love him best, so it all works out.

Junior strikes out with one of the little hens, then strikes a pose.

Chicken Impersonators?

Evil Roo with his flat top 'do, thanks to frostbite. Poor guy - he was once so handsome!

Sometimes one of the chickens does not get penned safely with the other chickens at night. Most often it is Tenzing Norgay who chooses to roost on the back porch in the open door of the cage where she spent her peephood.

Evil Roo' was unknowingly locked out of the pen during the coldest 24 hours of this past winter, losing almost his entire comb to frost bite. Once in a while, one of the other little hens does not get back to the pen before night falls. I do not know what delays them, or where they choose to roost, but so far, they have all made it safely through the night, except for Evil's comb.

The three Silver Sebrights, The Weird Sisters, are never apart. They seem to be the smartest of all my chickens and they always seem to be in the correct place at the correct time.

Saturday morning I was a bit slow in getting dressed and outside to do my chores. It was close to 8 o'clock when I heard one of my roosters crowing in a strangled way. At first I did not pay much attention because I knew the chickens were still in their pen. I thought either Junior or Evil Roo' was crowing inside the coop and that is why it sounded so strange. As I focused on it, I realized the crowing was coming from the front of the house rather than from the direction of the pen. I listened more intently and could not imagine what had happened to cause a rooster to crow in such a weak and pathetic way. Naturally, I thought one of them had missed the pen deadline, spent the night without protection and a predator had injured him. I did not even want to look outside. I was certain I would find Evil or Junior with a bloody and damaged neck.

The pathetic crowing was too much and of course I had to look. One of the Weird Sisters was at the foot of the front porch steps. She had missed lock down the night before. She would attempt to crow like a rooster, and then watch the front door. I spent a minute or two watching and it was amazing. Of course, I can not be 100% certain of what she thought she was doing, but it looked exactly like she was attempting to call me to the front door - so I would feed her breakfast.

Apparently, when the roosters crow in the morning and I think it is simply because that is what roosters do, this little hen equates their boy noise with me coming through the front door and scattering feed.

How smart is that?

One of the smart Weird Sisters, strutting her stuff.

Terrorist Attacks Resume

Evil Rooster, (formerly known as Elvis), has resumed his terrorist attacks against me. I will be walking by, minding my own business, when he flies at the back of my head, usually tangling his feet in my hair. I can not tell you how mad his needless attacks make me. Dang!

Now I certainly understand how some of Grandma's roosters ended up as chicken and homemade noodles over mashed potatoes. If Evil Roo' was worth it, he too would end up in a stew pot. By the time he was plucked and cut up, there would only be about twelve ounces of meat, and half of that would be his evil little bones.

Junior, Evil's son, has established himself as the alpha rooster these last few weeks. Junior is insufferable as the boss, fiercely attacking the hens and bossing everyone around. He is a real dictator. But, he has never attacked me - yet. He is not quite one year old so time will tell.

This morning, Evil was spoiling for a fight. While everyone else was running, hopping and flying toward me for breakfast, Evil was walking tall, all twelve inches of him, keeping one of his evil little eyes on me. I knew he was going to attack as soon as I turned my back. I picked a seven foot sunflower stalk left over from last fall, and pointed it at "Satan The Tiny". Maintaining his tall stance, he scooted away as fast as his feathery little feet would carry him. I was able to get past him to take care of the horses.

Evil is not dumb. He never attacks Duke, for instance. He always attacks me from the back, and he always goes for my head. I am thankful he is not an eight pound rooster. Evil Roo' should be thankful I am a tolerant woman.

A Good and Gentle Heart

You do not need to have been born on a Kansas farm, or any farm anywhere, to consider one little hen about as valuable as a single supermarket egg. Though chickens have sustained human beings with their flesh and their eggs for centuries, humans simply do not place much value on chickens.

In America, chickens do not even warrant protection under the laws against inhumane treatment that offer other farm animals a bare minimum of protection against torture and abuse. It is permissible to confine chickens in cages so small that the hens can never stand all the way up, or ever stretch their wings. Their feet never touch the ground. They never see the light of day. It is legal and common to debeak pullets so they can be crowded together even more unnaturally and inhumanely in order to make the most profit from their suffering and their sacrifice. The horrible treatment of chickens is corporate farming abuse at its "best". And no one cares.

Raising my chickens reminds me of my humble grandmother, a farm wife who raised chickens to help feed her family and to bring in a bit of extra egg money. I spent a lot of time with Grandma, "helping" her care for her flock. She showed me how to scoop up the busy little bantam hens and cradle them until they felt secure so I could pet them. The little hens seemed to enjoy it and would rest quietly in my arms. I also ate countless delicious fried chicken dinners at Grandma's table, chickens she raised from peeps.

Chickens were a valuable part of farm life. They were at least important enough to my grandparents that our city dog, caught with a dead chicken in his mouth, whether he killed it or not, was subject to severe censure. But no chicken would have ever been taken to the veterinarian. That would have been ridiculous, and silly, and an unthinkable expense. In those days, a veterinarian likely would not have even wasted his time on a chicken except to diagnose infectious disease that threatened all the chickens in the area. Only crazy people would do such a thing as take a chicken to the vet, because, in the first consideration, there was no need for it. If a chicken was suffering, Grandpa would have chopped its head off, mercifully ending its life.

All that to say....

One of my little white hens was on the ground yesterday morning. I thought she had a broken back or a broken leg judging from the way she was unable to walk. She was defenseless. Those damnable roosters where sexually assaulting her, then viciously pecking her head and eyes -normal behavior for chicken society, but revolting to me. I angrily shooed those roosters away and scooped her up. I placed her in a five gallon bucket. Too squeamish to check her for specific injuries, I had no time left to do anything but place the bucket safely on the back porch and leave for work.

Later, I called my veterinarian's office to ask if he was willing to take a look at the hen after I got off work. If she only had a broken leg and it could be set, I would pay for that. If she was damaged beyond repair, he could euthanize her. I would not be able to chop her head off even though I do have a shiny new ax.

Yes, I felt silly carrying a chicken in a bucket into a veterinarian's office. She is not a show chicken, or a big egg production hen, or an exotic hobby breed. She did not even have a name. None of that mattered to Dr. J. Not only did he not laugh at me (to my face) he gently and knowledgeably examined her legs, wings, and neck for fractures. He checked her for an impacted crop, for being egg bound, and took her temperature. He asked all the questions a vet asks, just as if she was as important as a dog, or a cow, or a horse. He admitted he had very little knowledge of chickens, or birds in general. (Not much call for veterinarian services for backyard hobby chickens in Kansas - everyone has an ax.) But, if I had the time, he was willing to read his vet school notes, and that is what he did.

The poor little hen was alert, but one eye was swollen shut from the brutality of the roosters. She had cuts on both sides of her head and blood on her feathers and face. She was dirty and she looked so terrible in the fluorescent lights of the examining room. A lesser man, a man with a big professional ego, would never have bothered with a dirty, stinky, ill bird about as valuable to society as a pigeon.

When it was clear that the hen was gravely ill, I told Dr. J to go ahead and put her down. No sense taking up more of his valuable time - it was after closing by then. He took pity on the little hen. His suggestion was to intubate her in order to give her fluids. If that revived her, I could take her home. She might pull through and survive whatever had afflicted her so suddenly.

Dr. J and his assistant Sam carefully held and intubated the little hen. I had to pour the fluids into the funnel - three full grown adults to get about a tablespoon of fluid into a chicken that likely does not weigh one full pound! Silly as it was, it touched my heart.

It did seem to revive the hen, just a tiny bit. Dr. J offered to keep her through the night and give her another "feeding" the next day if she was still alive. If there was no improvement, then he would euthanize her. Once decided, he even asked Sam to clean the little hen's wounds. They kept her overnight and fed her again. Unfortunately, her condition did not improve, so the good doctor euthanized her, putting an end to the suffering. I do not know how much he will charge for his services but I will not complain. I will gladly pay it.

It is not that my heart was broken over this nameless little hen - not the way it would be if it was, God forbid, the Dukenator or one of my horses. Rather, it is that I intend to care for these chickens to the best of my ability. It is my attempt to offset the debt for every chicken breast I have eaten that came from a corporate farm chicken. The meat eaten at Grandma's table came from chickens that never suffered at the hands of human beings.

I concern myself over the welfare of these little chickens in return for every production egg I have thoughtlessly eaten that was laid by a hen who lived her entire life without an upper beak - who never got to fly - or hatch a clutch of eggs - or grub insects out of the good earth. I owe these chickens now in my care at least the smallest gesture of human kindess, and the act of valuing of their lives. I acknowledge the chicken's great generosity toward the human species. And luckily for me and the little hen, Dr. J went along with that effort.

Knitting for Chickens

I wish this was a photo of one of my chickens, but alas, it is not. It is a photo from Jason Houston

Here is also a great web site where ladies in the UK knit sweaters for rescued chickens: Chicken Sweaters

I am not the only crazy Chicken Woman in the world. There are many, many of us. I think it is like a virus and is mutating and spreading!

The Evil Roo' Calamity

Last Saturday the chicken coop got a new stuffing of hay and the chicken flock took the opportunity to leave the pen, too. Snow covered the ground so the extent of their venturing was to cling to the base of a large tree near their pen, or gather on the edge of an upturned bucket. I assumed that once their house was back in order with fresh food and water served, they would come in out of the snow and cold. They chose to remain huddled in the snow.

I had to leave, and knew it would be a close call to return home by dark. I have not seen a coyote nor any tracks near the house recently, so I was not too worried about their safety in the short term. When I got home later that night, the chickens had returned to the coop but only eleven were there. I thought maybe Tenzing had returned to her solitary condo on the back porch - a long trek through twelve inches of snow for a little hen about nine inches tall, though.

I closed up the pen against predators and came in the house but there was no little hen on the back porch. I sadly assumed the wild critters had collected one of the hens as a tithe.

It was not until Sunday evening when I was coming back from the barn, wearing the marvelous headlamp (a gift from my kids)that I noticed in the laser-like beam a white lump on top of the chicken pen. (The entire pen is enclosed in chicken wire to protect the chickens from ground and air attacks.) The lump turned out to be the Evil Rooster, formerly known as Elvis. He had been away from his flock, in the brutal winter elements for twenty four hours. Where he had been all night and all day, I do not know. He was perched at the peak of the pen and I could not reach him. I had to force him down with a rake. I was certain he was frost bitten, maybe even dying, though he protested mightily over the rude raking. I simply put him in the coop with his flock and hoped the gradual warming would be the best thing for him. He immediately began eating, so at least his gizzard was not frozen.

What a calamity it was for him to be alone in the brutal cold with no food, no water, no warmth. D'Uccles do not roost with their heads under their wings, so I was certain his comb was frostbitten. He has stayed in the midst of his flock since I put him back in the coop, and his comb is turning dark. I do not know if he will lose all of it, or not. I can hardly believe the poor little guy survived for twenty four hours on his own, anyway. There are so many animals that would love to eat a rooster - not just coyotes.

Amazing.

Junior's Adolescence

Junior, the teenaged roo'

Junior hatched out last summer. I thought he might be a rooster and in this instance, I was right. Roosters are like little boys in a lot of ways. When they begin to crow, they make funny noises that sound nothing like crowing. They sound strangled and off key. It takes a rooster a while to develop his crowing. Their voices change along with their body shape and of course, their beautiful plumage.

Junior will eventually earn a new name. "Junior" is not appropriate for a full grown rooster. He is a cross between a Porcelain D'Uccle father and a Partridge Cochin mother. He is still a bit goofy looking and might always be that way. You never know, Junior might be the exactly right name.

I have not seen what instigates the fights, but I have witnessed the end of a few tussles over the last week or so. Junior is trying to fight with Tenzing Norgay and Baby Sister. When one of the little hens "wins" and Junior turns tail, another hen follows, pecking at him for good measure. The hens are simply outraged. And yes, those little hens can whip some butt.

I think Junior is trying to work his way up in the pecking order, and not actually trying to court the ladies. When he is seriously interested in the ladies, Evil Roo will challenge him on that. I hope Evil Roo will challenge him. Right now it is rather endearing because once Junior gets his teenaged butt whipped by the women, he goes to his father's side, where he is safe. Only time will tell who will be the top roo but I hope Evil retains the title. He is a chivalrous patriarch and a benign ruler. The Cochin genes in Junior might cause him to be a dictator after the manner of his uncle, Big Man.

No one likes a dictator.

Tenzing Norgay

Tenzing roosting alone at night on the back porch

Two years ago, at the farm store, I saw tiny blue chicks for the first time, ever. They were blue with yellow caps, and so tiny! I had to have one, even though I did not know what breed of chicken they were. For some time, I observed the tub of bantam chicks for sale. There were four or five different breeds mixed together and I did not recognize any of them. One blue chick distinguished itself from all the others by being the most vital. It also seemed to be the most intelligent as it interacted with the other chicks and the limited environment. It was simply more "engaged" in whatever it was doing. So, I chose it. Of course, I was hoping it would be blue when it grew up.

Of the three chicks I chose that day, they turned out to be Tenzing Norgay, a Porcelain D'Uccle and the dominate hen of my flock today, and two Partridge Cochin roosters, Big Man and Sweetie Peep. I have chronicled my adventures with them throughout my blog. Big Man was the funniest chicken I have ever known, and I loved him so much, but I had too many roosters. Since I can not eat my pets, I had to give them away. I believe I found a good home for the roosters but I am not sure how much longer they survived. I no longer ask the girl who has them, just in case she might have bad news. Only the little blue chick, Tenzing Norgay, remains of the original three.

As you may recall, Tenzing was able to fly to the cage door as soon as her real feathers came in. She quickly learned to fly to the door the second it opened, and apparently simply liked to sit in my hand because she was not rewarded with food for this.  She was roughly the size of a meadow lark and so cute. The two roosters would run around in the cage in a panic. They never figured out that my hands were not predators, or that they too could fly to the door.  Tenzing was, wings down, far smarter than those silly little roosters.

She continues to distinguish herself, though there are five other Porcelaine D'Uccle hens in the flock now. They all started out as blue chicks with a spot of yellow on their heads. Now they are white hens with splotches of blue around their necks. Each one is marked a bit differently so I can tell them all apart. Tenzing is a loner. She found her old cage stacked on the back porch early this summer and began laying her eggs in there. (She can get into the back porch the same way the dog does - through the dog door.) She prefers that cage as her roost at night.  All the other chickens go into the pen at twilight, but Tenzing goes to her solitary roost on the back porch. Since she is not penned with the others at night, she always has her freedom during the day. I do not have the heart to throw her in with the others. I understand about needing solitude and space.

Of all the chickens, she seems to understand that I am her friend and protector. As soon as she hears my voice she comes running and tags along behind me.  She knows I will have food but I think she also remembers that I have amazing powers that can expand her world.

Sunday, the cold rain necessitated a change where I store the chicken feed.  The flock has been kept penned up due to the slinking coyote recently spotted several times just a few feet from the pen. Since I no longer scatter the chicken feed in the driveway so I did not expect Tenzing to be out in the cold rain, but when she heard me, she came running. She followed me around the house several times as I moved the bins of food to the back porch.  It was unusual that she followed behind me for such a long time.  Even a genius chicken like Tenzing only has an attention span of.... well, not very long. And chickens can be distracted quite easily. Even when they expect food, none of them follow me for more than about thirty feet.

I do not pick her up any more but I still talk to her. I think she would be cold sleeping alone, as all the other chickens snuggle in the nests together for warmth and companionship at night. But, for whatever reason, little Tenzing Norgay prefers a roost of her own choosing, even if it means being alone. I need to find an intelligent, handsome rooster worthy of her.

Major Retraction!

All three Weird Sisters survived the night! Where the missing one was hiding last night, I do not know, but all three Weird Sisters survived. I repeat: No missing chickens!!

Seems Like the First Day of Winter

It is cold and wet and overcast today. All the leaves are down, but there remains some green - the rose bushes, for example. Undoubtedly the prairie is preparing for winter. Normally the summers are so hot and brutal that I welcome and appreciate winter until at least mid-January. Then I begin pining for the light and warmth of spring. Enough is enough!

Every year, I have the intention of buying special light bulbs from Sweden that are said to offset the depression of winter. If they work, I might make it through the entire winter season as a happy idiot. What would it feel like to be almost in a good mood during January, I wonder? Never have I taken one tiny concrete step toward getting those light bulbs. Like everything else, if I just wait long enough, it will be spring again and I will not need light bulbs from Sweden. I wish I was more proactive but it takes a lot of energy.

I am also a tiny bit sad this morning because one of the Weird Sisters disappeared last night. Some unknown predator had her for supper. Darn it. The little chicks I bought at the farm store have survived and proliferated, but of the eight silver sebright chicks that traveled via United States Postal Service from Back East, only two are left. Kansas has proven to be too wild and dangerous for them. Whatever gets them does not even scatter any feathers.

It was my fault for letting them out yesterday morning. I knew I was going to be gone all evening so I should never have let them out. I was not too worried because it had been overcast all day, and I was certain the chickens would go to roost early. By evening the chickens were making their slow way toward the pen. Their speed and distance from the pen correlates directly to the amount of daylight left. As my departure time approached, the sun broke through, illuminating our little valley and invigorating the chickens. They headed back toward the timber, industriously scratching through all the leaves as they made their way. I did not have time to pen them up. As soon as I got home I checked on them, and one of the sebrights was gone.

I knew it was foolhardy to raise chickens in this location without extraordinary measures or permanently penning them. More have survived then I ever imagined. It still depresses me a little bit, especially on a wet cold day like today.

The Trickster

All night long the Duke was barking in his most authoritative voice. I knew something was out there he did not want coming around. It could be skunk, opossum, bobcat, deer (though he only half- heartedly warns them away), fox, or dog. Maybe an escaped cow. Or a coyote. Duke knows his wild cousins are up to no good, day and night. Good old Duke.

So, this morning, I was having my hot tea as I checked email and read the online newspaper. Duke was asleep on the front porch, having worn himself out from a long night on duty. I had not yet turned the chickens out for the day, and was feeling guilty about it. I could see them crowded around the door waiting to get started on their very busy day. They have soil to scratch, bugs to eat, seeds to peck. If they get too close to one another, there is squawking and pecking and irritability among them. I fully understand this. I do not want to talk to anyone at work until about eleven or so. On a bad day, I would appreciate it if I did not have to speak to anyone until about 4:15 pm.

Out my east window, about thirty feet from the house, I saw a coyote, crouching low, sneaking toward the chicken pen. I should have taken his picture before I knocked on the window. He looked at me but waited to see what I was going to do. I shouted at him, and he turned away. As I watched, he loped few short yards, then sauntered away. What a punk!

For once, my laziness paid off. That coyote would have picked the chickens off one by one. I fed the chickens in the pen, scattering milo throughout so they could scratch and peck for it. They have settled down now that they know they are not going to leave the pen.

A good farmer would have shot the coyote. Even though I love my chickens, I could not kill a coyote. Duke and I will have to work harder to keep the chickens safe, but they will always be under threat. I will keep them penned for several days but eventually I will let them out again. I do not know how persistent the coyote will be.

Coyotes are smart. They are also severely persecuted in Kansas. Stockmen claim coyotes kill their calves. I am going to commit blasphemy here, but I would have to see coyotes kill a healthy calf before I believe it. It would take a pack of coyotes to worry a cow away from her calf and bring down a big calf. I never see coyotes running in packs - never in my entire life.

I knew it was going to be a challenge to keep chickens. Everything likes to eat chickens, not only humans. Better to live free, scratching happily in the dirt, and be taken quickly in death than to spend an entire life in cages, on concrete, never seeing the light of day. Duke and I will do what we can, but there is only one guarantee in life. Party on, little chickens.