Important Note: Please do not quote this post in its entirety! It's a doozy! Thank you.
Ever since my parents purchased their house on a large lot in a rural Kansas town, we'd talked about one day owning chickens. The property had come with a chicken coop already built and ready to go, and chicken ownership was on par with our goals to be self-sufficient, but for one reason or another, my dad kept putting it off. "Next year," he'd say. "Next year we'll get chickens."
This went on, year after year. Every year, he said he'd get chickens "next year", then next year would come, and he'd put it off again. Finally one day I went to a local farmer's market to sell my crafts, and watched the woman in the stall next to mine sell out of eggs within an hour of setting up. That afternoon I said to Dad, "we're not getting chickens next year--we're getting them this year!"
We started out with the noble ambition of owning "a small flock of 8-10 hens". That will be all we need, we agreed. (Stop laughing--don't get ahead of me!) We started off our flock with an assortment of dual-purpose varieties, including black sexlink, red sexlink, barred rocks, and Rhode Island reds. All in all, we started out with about 20 chicks--we had a large enough coop, and we wanted to account for any casualties or surprise roosters we might get. (And so it begins...)
Don't let them fool you--it looks like they're foraging, but they're actually plotting world domination.
Of the original 20, only one turned out to be a rooster, and what a foul-tempered creature he was! A barred rock named Mildred turned out to be a Milton instead, and despite barred rocks' reputations for being docile, friendly birds, Milton was a vicious, conniving ******* of a bird, born straight from an egg hatched in the fires of Hell. By six months old, he was enthusiastically flogging us at any opportunity, and we'd taken up the habit of carrying large, heavy sticks with us for protection. To make matters worse, he did little to protect his flock--despite being vicious towards humans, he ran in fear from any other creature, and we lost half of our flock to predators in the first year while he scurried and hid far from harm's way.
To top it all off, the wretched bird was seemingly immortal. More than once, he went to flog someone who was armed with a rooster stick. More than once, we hit him so hard in defense that we were sure we'd killed him. Every time, he picked himself back up, shook off the blow, and wandered away. He was truly a vile creature. To this day, I cannot understand why we kept him for so long.
At least he was pretty to photograph.
As I mentioned before, Milton's reluctance to defend the flock meant we lost about half of our hens within the first year. Although this fell well within our original ambitions to have "a small flock of 8-10 hens" (Remember that? Stop laughing!) we had since then become used to the idea of a flock of 20 birds and decided to replace what was lost. Just like before, we wanted to make sure we got enough chicks to cover any potential losses, so of course, we got another 20 chicks, bringing our flock count up to about 30 total birds.
This time, however, we had more options. In addition to the run-of-the-mill production varieties, Orscheln's offered something we'd never seen or heard of before. Polish crested chicks.
"Four dollars for a chick!?" my dad exclaimed, "I'm not paying four dollars for chicks!"
But then he paused.
"What is a Polish crested anyway?"
We found a book of chicken breeds, looked up Polish crested, and ended up coming home with six of the chicks Dad originally said he wouldn't buy. We also bought four "rainbow layers", some production red, and five "Ameraucana" chicks, which we later learned were actually "Easter Eggers"
"We only need 10 chicks, so we should probably get 100, just to be on the safe side."
Among the new acquisitions was a particularly outgoing and friendly Polish crested chick named Chicky Gaga. (For those tracking my decline into madness, this is where it all really began.) Though I'd had chickens in the past who tolerated my company, I had never had one that sought it out, so when we went to select our new chicks in the store and Chicky Gaga literally leaped into the hands of the employee helping us, it was quite a shock! She continued to be brave and friendly, to the point that we feared for her safety. At one point, she wandered over to the chicken wire barrier between the brooder and the main coop, and stood there patiently while the older chickens pecked her face through the wire! She was always the first to come running when she saw people, and as she grew, she just became more and more fascinating. She had tend pounds of personality in a five pound sack, and her flamboyant appearance made her all the more entertaining. Fearlessly, she would drive away trespassing cats, even challenging the dogs through the dog run fence, and when she heard us calling her name, she always came running. She gave us a taste not only of the unique varieties of chicken available to add to our flock, but of the depth of personality and companionship chickens could offer.
With style like this, is it any wonder we named her Gaga?
Of the new acquisitions, two turned out to be boys this time. Mary turned out to be a white rooster we named Mars, and Buttercup, a silver-laced Polish crested, ended up being Elvis Poultry. This brought our total rooster count up to three, counting the infamous Milton. Much to our chagrin, Elvis--for all his good looks and photogenic qualities--was just as vile as Milton and twice as stupid. We now had to watch our backs twice as carefully, keeping an eye out not only for Milton, but for the brazen Elvis as well. The yard became populated with makeshift "rooster sticks" that we could grab at a moment's notice, and anxiety ran high when we tended to the flock.
And this, folks, is what it looks like when a rooster is plotting your demise.
Seemingly above the nonsense was Mars, the big white rooster who joined us as part of the rainbow layer assortment. Rather than participating in the people-flogging, he began placing himself between the humans and the attacking roosters. At first, he did so to protect his fellow chickens, preventing us from beating the tar out of Elvis after he'd flogged us, but as Elvis's attacks became more and more aggressive, Mars stopped protecting his brood mate from us, and started protecting us from him! Finally, we had an opportunity to get rid of our aggressive roosters, and Milton and Elvis were packed up and sent off to live (for how long, I don't know) on a farm in the country. Mars, in reward for his docile nature and noble service, stayed on as the sole rooster in our flock.
Don't look so surprised, buddy--you earned this!
Meanwhile, a new challenge was rearing its ugly head. Although we'd lost chickens to a variety of predators including foxes, stray dogs, and even an unusually ambitious opossum, the greatest threat to our flock seemed to be one of our own. My dog--a Pembroke Welsh corgi named Boomer--had developed a nasty habit of mauling any chicken he could get a hold of. Even our efforts to keep him locked up in a separate run seemed futile, as chickens still seemed to find a way to put themselves within his reach. By the end of the year, he'd killed two of our hens and mauled a third (who fortunately survived her injuries and recovered.) Confident we could restrain and/or retrain him, we did not rehome him right away, but the deaths would not end there. Though we couldn't know it at the time, he would ultimately do far more damage to our flock any any wild predator could have.
Boomer, the serial chicken killer.
In 2013, we again went to Orcheln's to purchase chicks to add to our flock. Unlike the year prior, casualties had been minimal, and we bought chicks because we wanted more. Instead of focusing on production varieties as we had in the past, we began trying out new and unusual varieties we hadn't owned before. We purchased bantams from the bantam assortment in the hopes of acquiring at least one broody hen. We bought buff orpingtons and australorps for eggs. We even rescued an EE rooster from the panfry bin just because my mom thought he was too cute to leave behind. Our flock numbers swelled.
Who's up for a game of chick-tac-toe?
Among the third generation of chicks was a particularly spirited bantam cochin I called "Graybeak". Whenever I would tap the table or hold out my hand, Graybeak would come running, and was so excited when it went outside for the first time that it would spin in circles on my lap. "It's probably a rooster," my mom said upon observing Graybeak's exuberant behavior, but much to my delight, Graybeak matured into a lovely red hen! I dubbed her "Mrs. Patmore" after one of my favorite characters from the TV series Downton Abbey, and she became my very best friend.
Just like the character from the TV show,she's short, round, and a red-head!
Mrs. Patmore loved to cuddle. She would fly up to perch on my arm whenever it was extended and cuddle me for hours if I allowed it. Treats or no treats, she wanted to be close, and her sweet nature never waned. She was the first of the banties to start laying, and I was looking forward to the day when I would be able to breed her. She was a sheer delight. Then one day, tragedy struck. My dog, the notorious chicken killer, escaped the run, and of the nearly 40 chickens he could have targeted that day, he zeroed in on the sweet Mrs. Patmore. I was heartbroken, not only at the loss of my beloved hen, but at the unexpected savagery that was manifesting in my otherwise wonderful dog. It was as though I had lost two pets that day, and I didn't know what to do. We tightened our efforts to keep Boomer separated from the chickens, even going so far as to no longer allow him to visit my dad's house at all, eliminating his social interaction with the other dogs. It was painful for all of us, but what else could I do? Something I loved was determined to kill something else that I loved. I was devastated.
To help me cope with my grief, my husband got me a gift--the opportunity to purchase my first batch of chicks online. After much thought and consideration, we settled on welsummers, speckled sussex, and Jersey giants, and placed our order. Shortly after they arrived, Orscheln's offered their first ever fall chicks selection, and we ended up with 8 more, doubling the number of baby chicks for me to cuddle. Although they couldn't replace Mrs. Patmore, their presence soothed my spirit, but then something remarkable happened...
...Mrs. Patmore came back to me.
She didn't come back exactly as she'd been, of course--that would be impossible. Instead, she took the form of a beautiful little barred rock pullet named Sweet Basil. Sweet Basil wasted no time in showing me her true nature, quickly adopting the habit of leaping onto me and scaling as high as she could--a trait that before then I had only ever seen in Patmore. Within a week of coming home with us, Sweet basil was without a doubt my favorite chicken in the flock.
I foresee this ending badly for me... or at the very least, for my hair.
Up to this point, we were identifying the chickens by the "generation" they belonged to. Chickens purchased the first year were first generation, second year were second generation, and so on. With the purchase of the September chicks, we resorted to referring to them as "Generation 3.5", but we would quickly realize that the "generations" model of identification was soon to be a thing of the past. As it turns out, those bantams I'd purchased in the hopes of acquiring a broody made good on my expectations. I ended up with not one, but two exceptionally broody hens! By December, they'd hatched out six chicks between the two of them, our very first home-grown chickies! They would be only the first of many home-grown chicks to add to our flock.
"Brand new, fresh out! GOTTA LOVE ME!"
Meanwhile, among the flock, something big was happening. Ever since Milton and Elvis had been removed from the scene, Mars had ruled as head rooster over the chickens of Chicken Town. A wise and benevolent leader, he tolerated the many new roosters who had come to populate his flock since that spring, and there were a lot of them! Although we'd purchased the bantams knowing they were straight run and the Easter Egger named "Gryffindor" knowing he was a boy, we'd also been landed with several "surprise" roosters among chicks that were supposed to be pullets. Mars watched over them all, showing them the ropes, protecting them from harm, and generally just being a totally awesome father figure to them...
Which made their betrayal all the more bitter.
One day we went out to collect eggs and let the chickens out to free range, only to find Mars cowering in a corner of the coop, battered and bloodied. We quickly realized the cause--all of the roosters, with the exception of the September lads, had suddenly decided en masse to overthrow the mighty Mars. Although Mars is technically the name for the God of War, it became apparent to us that in this case, Mars was actually short for Marshmallow, and a big softy like him was no match for the vicious ambitions of his juniors. We promptly set Mars up in his own private suite, with a harem of lovely ladies to keep him company, and he has remained separate from the main flock ever since.
Poor Mars--first frostbite, and now this!
One thing Mars will never have to worry about is becoming dinner. His excellent service as a flock protector--not to mention all of the times he protected us from Milton and Elvis--have not been forgotten. He will live out his days in comfort and security for as long as nature will permit it. As for the mutineers, their fates are mixed. Some are destined for the stew pot, some will be rehomed. Only a few exceptional specimens will be able to stay. Among the lucky few is Gryffindor, the EE my mother rescued from the panfry bin. Although his elegant looks would be reason enough to want to keep him, he solidified his status as flock protector when I saw him race out to challenge a military helicopter that was flying overhead. Any rooster ready to take on the National Guard for his hens is a keeper as far as I'm concerned!
"Black Hawk? I don't care WHAT kind of hawk it is--if it comes near my girls, it's going down!"
In January, my husband bought me an incubator for my birthday, and he let me choose what kind I wanted. I selected the Hova-bator "Genesis" model with the automatic egg turner. With the egg turner, it had a whopping capacity of 42 standard-sized eggs.
"That's a lot of eggs!" my husband said. "Do you really need one that big?"
"It's the best one for the money," I replied. "Besides, I don't have to fill it to capacity--I could just hatch out a few eggs at a time if I wanted to."
Again, I hear you laughing. Stop it.
Long story short, he bought me the Genesis, and I immediately set it up and started twenty eggs from my mixed flock. Despite the sub-zero temps and long storage time, more than half of the eggs hatched! I started another clutch, and then another. The broody hens went broody again, Orscheln's started Chick Days... within the span of less than four months, our flock had gone from forty-five birds to over a hundred! We began talking about building up a large enough flock to justify taking eggs to a farmer's market in the city, and things were looking very positive in Chicken Town.
Crazy chicken lady? I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean.
Still, there was heartache. My dog once again found a way to reach the chickens, this time escaping my yard and trekking across town on his own to my dad's house. He found our bantam d'uccle rooster Spice out of the run, and though Spice survived the initial attack, he eventually succumbed to his injuries. Now in addition to being on a leash and being exiled to the far end of town, my dog was also forced to wear a muzzle whenever he was going to be outside. This seemed to be an acceptable solution, and the muzzle was so effective, he was even able to start visiting his dog friends at my dad's house again. It appeared that I would be able to keep my beloved--if somewhat murderous--dog and a flock of chickens at the same time... until one day...
I had gone out to my car to get something--just a quick in-and-out--but as I was going out, my dog apparently followed me. I realized when I went back inside that my shadow was missing, and dread struck me--Boomer wasn't wearing his muzzle! I called and called for him, but he didn't come, so I went inside to call my parents and warn him that he was on the loose.
By chance, I glanced out the window and noticed one of my chicks from the outdoor brooder was loose! Horrified I rushed outside to find my dog had somehow managed to get the brooder coop's door open, and was gleefully killing any chick he could catch. By the time I caught him, four chicks had been killed, including my precious Ameraucana rooster Yang and a favored barred rock mix named Surprise. I couldn't bear it. I locked Boomer in a bedroom, gathered up the terrified survivors, and secured the coop. After I'd buried the bodies, I went inside and put up an announcement that I needed to find my dog a new home. Although I still loved him very much, I could no longer keep Boomer if I had any intentions of having chickens, and despite all he had done, it was still one of the hardest choices I have ever had to make.
A moment from happier times. Sometimes the right thing to do is also the hardest.
Boomer has an appointment with his potential new family today to see how he gets on, and there are more chicks on the way. With any amount of luck, the next report from Chicken Town will be a happier one, for all parties involved.
Thanks for reading!
Ever since my parents purchased their house on a large lot in a rural Kansas town, we'd talked about one day owning chickens. The property had come with a chicken coop already built and ready to go, and chicken ownership was on par with our goals to be self-sufficient, but for one reason or another, my dad kept putting it off. "Next year," he'd say. "Next year we'll get chickens."
This went on, year after year. Every year, he said he'd get chickens "next year", then next year would come, and he'd put it off again. Finally one day I went to a local farmer's market to sell my crafts, and watched the woman in the stall next to mine sell out of eggs within an hour of setting up. That afternoon I said to Dad, "we're not getting chickens next year--we're getting them this year!"
We started out with the noble ambition of owning "a small flock of 8-10 hens". That will be all we need, we agreed. (Stop laughing--don't get ahead of me!) We started off our flock with an assortment of dual-purpose varieties, including black sexlink, red sexlink, barred rocks, and Rhode Island reds. All in all, we started out with about 20 chicks--we had a large enough coop, and we wanted to account for any casualties or surprise roosters we might get. (And so it begins...)
Don't let them fool you--it looks like they're foraging, but they're actually plotting world domination.
Of the original 20, only one turned out to be a rooster, and what a foul-tempered creature he was! A barred rock named Mildred turned out to be a Milton instead, and despite barred rocks' reputations for being docile, friendly birds, Milton was a vicious, conniving ******* of a bird, born straight from an egg hatched in the fires of Hell. By six months old, he was enthusiastically flogging us at any opportunity, and we'd taken up the habit of carrying large, heavy sticks with us for protection. To make matters worse, he did little to protect his flock--despite being vicious towards humans, he ran in fear from any other creature, and we lost half of our flock to predators in the first year while he scurried and hid far from harm's way.
To top it all off, the wretched bird was seemingly immortal. More than once, he went to flog someone who was armed with a rooster stick. More than once, we hit him so hard in defense that we were sure we'd killed him. Every time, he picked himself back up, shook off the blow, and wandered away. He was truly a vile creature. To this day, I cannot understand why we kept him for so long.
At least he was pretty to photograph.
As I mentioned before, Milton's reluctance to defend the flock meant we lost about half of our hens within the first year. Although this fell well within our original ambitions to have "a small flock of 8-10 hens" (Remember that? Stop laughing!) we had since then become used to the idea of a flock of 20 birds and decided to replace what was lost. Just like before, we wanted to make sure we got enough chicks to cover any potential losses, so of course, we got another 20 chicks, bringing our flock count up to about 30 total birds.
This time, however, we had more options. In addition to the run-of-the-mill production varieties, Orscheln's offered something we'd never seen or heard of before. Polish crested chicks.
"Four dollars for a chick!?" my dad exclaimed, "I'm not paying four dollars for chicks!"
But then he paused.
"What is a Polish crested anyway?"
We found a book of chicken breeds, looked up Polish crested, and ended up coming home with six of the chicks Dad originally said he wouldn't buy. We also bought four "rainbow layers", some production red, and five "Ameraucana" chicks, which we later learned were actually "Easter Eggers"
"We only need 10 chicks, so we should probably get 100, just to be on the safe side."
Among the new acquisitions was a particularly outgoing and friendly Polish crested chick named Chicky Gaga. (For those tracking my decline into madness, this is where it all really began.) Though I'd had chickens in the past who tolerated my company, I had never had one that sought it out, so when we went to select our new chicks in the store and Chicky Gaga literally leaped into the hands of the employee helping us, it was quite a shock! She continued to be brave and friendly, to the point that we feared for her safety. At one point, she wandered over to the chicken wire barrier between the brooder and the main coop, and stood there patiently while the older chickens pecked her face through the wire! She was always the first to come running when she saw people, and as she grew, she just became more and more fascinating. She had tend pounds of personality in a five pound sack, and her flamboyant appearance made her all the more entertaining. Fearlessly, she would drive away trespassing cats, even challenging the dogs through the dog run fence, and when she heard us calling her name, she always came running. She gave us a taste not only of the unique varieties of chicken available to add to our flock, but of the depth of personality and companionship chickens could offer.
With style like this, is it any wonder we named her Gaga?
Of the new acquisitions, two turned out to be boys this time. Mary turned out to be a white rooster we named Mars, and Buttercup, a silver-laced Polish crested, ended up being Elvis Poultry. This brought our total rooster count up to three, counting the infamous Milton. Much to our chagrin, Elvis--for all his good looks and photogenic qualities--was just as vile as Milton and twice as stupid. We now had to watch our backs twice as carefully, keeping an eye out not only for Milton, but for the brazen Elvis as well. The yard became populated with makeshift "rooster sticks" that we could grab at a moment's notice, and anxiety ran high when we tended to the flock.
And this, folks, is what it looks like when a rooster is plotting your demise.
Seemingly above the nonsense was Mars, the big white rooster who joined us as part of the rainbow layer assortment. Rather than participating in the people-flogging, he began placing himself between the humans and the attacking roosters. At first, he did so to protect his fellow chickens, preventing us from beating the tar out of Elvis after he'd flogged us, but as Elvis's attacks became more and more aggressive, Mars stopped protecting his brood mate from us, and started protecting us from him! Finally, we had an opportunity to get rid of our aggressive roosters, and Milton and Elvis were packed up and sent off to live (for how long, I don't know) on a farm in the country. Mars, in reward for his docile nature and noble service, stayed on as the sole rooster in our flock.
Don't look so surprised, buddy--you earned this!
Meanwhile, a new challenge was rearing its ugly head. Although we'd lost chickens to a variety of predators including foxes, stray dogs, and even an unusually ambitious opossum, the greatest threat to our flock seemed to be one of our own. My dog--a Pembroke Welsh corgi named Boomer--had developed a nasty habit of mauling any chicken he could get a hold of. Even our efforts to keep him locked up in a separate run seemed futile, as chickens still seemed to find a way to put themselves within his reach. By the end of the year, he'd killed two of our hens and mauled a third (who fortunately survived her injuries and recovered.) Confident we could restrain and/or retrain him, we did not rehome him right away, but the deaths would not end there. Though we couldn't know it at the time, he would ultimately do far more damage to our flock any any wild predator could have.
Boomer, the serial chicken killer.
In 2013, we again went to Orcheln's to purchase chicks to add to our flock. Unlike the year prior, casualties had been minimal, and we bought chicks because we wanted more. Instead of focusing on production varieties as we had in the past, we began trying out new and unusual varieties we hadn't owned before. We purchased bantams from the bantam assortment in the hopes of acquiring at least one broody hen. We bought buff orpingtons and australorps for eggs. We even rescued an EE rooster from the panfry bin just because my mom thought he was too cute to leave behind. Our flock numbers swelled.
Who's up for a game of chick-tac-toe?
Among the third generation of chicks was a particularly spirited bantam cochin I called "Graybeak". Whenever I would tap the table or hold out my hand, Graybeak would come running, and was so excited when it went outside for the first time that it would spin in circles on my lap. "It's probably a rooster," my mom said upon observing Graybeak's exuberant behavior, but much to my delight, Graybeak matured into a lovely red hen! I dubbed her "Mrs. Patmore" after one of my favorite characters from the TV series Downton Abbey, and she became my very best friend.
Just like the character from the TV show,she's short, round, and a red-head!
Mrs. Patmore loved to cuddle. She would fly up to perch on my arm whenever it was extended and cuddle me for hours if I allowed it. Treats or no treats, she wanted to be close, and her sweet nature never waned. She was the first of the banties to start laying, and I was looking forward to the day when I would be able to breed her. She was a sheer delight. Then one day, tragedy struck. My dog, the notorious chicken killer, escaped the run, and of the nearly 40 chickens he could have targeted that day, he zeroed in on the sweet Mrs. Patmore. I was heartbroken, not only at the loss of my beloved hen, but at the unexpected savagery that was manifesting in my otherwise wonderful dog. It was as though I had lost two pets that day, and I didn't know what to do. We tightened our efforts to keep Boomer separated from the chickens, even going so far as to no longer allow him to visit my dad's house at all, eliminating his social interaction with the other dogs. It was painful for all of us, but what else could I do? Something I loved was determined to kill something else that I loved. I was devastated.
To help me cope with my grief, my husband got me a gift--the opportunity to purchase my first batch of chicks online. After much thought and consideration, we settled on welsummers, speckled sussex, and Jersey giants, and placed our order. Shortly after they arrived, Orscheln's offered their first ever fall chicks selection, and we ended up with 8 more, doubling the number of baby chicks for me to cuddle. Although they couldn't replace Mrs. Patmore, their presence soothed my spirit, but then something remarkable happened...
...Mrs. Patmore came back to me.
She didn't come back exactly as she'd been, of course--that would be impossible. Instead, she took the form of a beautiful little barred rock pullet named Sweet Basil. Sweet Basil wasted no time in showing me her true nature, quickly adopting the habit of leaping onto me and scaling as high as she could--a trait that before then I had only ever seen in Patmore. Within a week of coming home with us, Sweet basil was without a doubt my favorite chicken in the flock.
I foresee this ending badly for me... or at the very least, for my hair.
Up to this point, we were identifying the chickens by the "generation" they belonged to. Chickens purchased the first year were first generation, second year were second generation, and so on. With the purchase of the September chicks, we resorted to referring to them as "Generation 3.5", but we would quickly realize that the "generations" model of identification was soon to be a thing of the past. As it turns out, those bantams I'd purchased in the hopes of acquiring a broody made good on my expectations. I ended up with not one, but two exceptionally broody hens! By December, they'd hatched out six chicks between the two of them, our very first home-grown chickies! They would be only the first of many home-grown chicks to add to our flock.
"Brand new, fresh out! GOTTA LOVE ME!"
Meanwhile, among the flock, something big was happening. Ever since Milton and Elvis had been removed from the scene, Mars had ruled as head rooster over the chickens of Chicken Town. A wise and benevolent leader, he tolerated the many new roosters who had come to populate his flock since that spring, and there were a lot of them! Although we'd purchased the bantams knowing they were straight run and the Easter Egger named "Gryffindor" knowing he was a boy, we'd also been landed with several "surprise" roosters among chicks that were supposed to be pullets. Mars watched over them all, showing them the ropes, protecting them from harm, and generally just being a totally awesome father figure to them...
Which made their betrayal all the more bitter.
One day we went out to collect eggs and let the chickens out to free range, only to find Mars cowering in a corner of the coop, battered and bloodied. We quickly realized the cause--all of the roosters, with the exception of the September lads, had suddenly decided en masse to overthrow the mighty Mars. Although Mars is technically the name for the God of War, it became apparent to us that in this case, Mars was actually short for Marshmallow, and a big softy like him was no match for the vicious ambitions of his juniors. We promptly set Mars up in his own private suite, with a harem of lovely ladies to keep him company, and he has remained separate from the main flock ever since.
Poor Mars--first frostbite, and now this!
One thing Mars will never have to worry about is becoming dinner. His excellent service as a flock protector--not to mention all of the times he protected us from Milton and Elvis--have not been forgotten. He will live out his days in comfort and security for as long as nature will permit it. As for the mutineers, their fates are mixed. Some are destined for the stew pot, some will be rehomed. Only a few exceptional specimens will be able to stay. Among the lucky few is Gryffindor, the EE my mother rescued from the panfry bin. Although his elegant looks would be reason enough to want to keep him, he solidified his status as flock protector when I saw him race out to challenge a military helicopter that was flying overhead. Any rooster ready to take on the National Guard for his hens is a keeper as far as I'm concerned!
"Black Hawk? I don't care WHAT kind of hawk it is--if it comes near my girls, it's going down!"
In January, my husband bought me an incubator for my birthday, and he let me choose what kind I wanted. I selected the Hova-bator "Genesis" model with the automatic egg turner. With the egg turner, it had a whopping capacity of 42 standard-sized eggs.
"That's a lot of eggs!" my husband said. "Do you really need one that big?"
"It's the best one for the money," I replied. "Besides, I don't have to fill it to capacity--I could just hatch out a few eggs at a time if I wanted to."
Again, I hear you laughing. Stop it.
Long story short, he bought me the Genesis, and I immediately set it up and started twenty eggs from my mixed flock. Despite the sub-zero temps and long storage time, more than half of the eggs hatched! I started another clutch, and then another. The broody hens went broody again, Orscheln's started Chick Days... within the span of less than four months, our flock had gone from forty-five birds to over a hundred! We began talking about building up a large enough flock to justify taking eggs to a farmer's market in the city, and things were looking very positive in Chicken Town.
Crazy chicken lady? I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean.
Still, there was heartache. My dog once again found a way to reach the chickens, this time escaping my yard and trekking across town on his own to my dad's house. He found our bantam d'uccle rooster Spice out of the run, and though Spice survived the initial attack, he eventually succumbed to his injuries. Now in addition to being on a leash and being exiled to the far end of town, my dog was also forced to wear a muzzle whenever he was going to be outside. This seemed to be an acceptable solution, and the muzzle was so effective, he was even able to start visiting his dog friends at my dad's house again. It appeared that I would be able to keep my beloved--if somewhat murderous--dog and a flock of chickens at the same time... until one day...
I had gone out to my car to get something--just a quick in-and-out--but as I was going out, my dog apparently followed me. I realized when I went back inside that my shadow was missing, and dread struck me--Boomer wasn't wearing his muzzle! I called and called for him, but he didn't come, so I went inside to call my parents and warn him that he was on the loose.
By chance, I glanced out the window and noticed one of my chicks from the outdoor brooder was loose! Horrified I rushed outside to find my dog had somehow managed to get the brooder coop's door open, and was gleefully killing any chick he could catch. By the time I caught him, four chicks had been killed, including my precious Ameraucana rooster Yang and a favored barred rock mix named Surprise. I couldn't bear it. I locked Boomer in a bedroom, gathered up the terrified survivors, and secured the coop. After I'd buried the bodies, I went inside and put up an announcement that I needed to find my dog a new home. Although I still loved him very much, I could no longer keep Boomer if I had any intentions of having chickens, and despite all he had done, it was still one of the hardest choices I have ever had to make.
A moment from happier times. Sometimes the right thing to do is also the hardest.
Boomer has an appointment with his potential new family today to see how he gets on, and there are more chicks on the way. With any amount of luck, the next report from Chicken Town will be a happier one, for all parties involved.
Thanks for reading!
