Super Chickens

When I was growing up, my mom often talked about my great great grandma Bessie (yes, that's two greats!) She raised three or four kids (I can't remember) on a farm, which was difficult because they were poor. One story in particular has always stuck with me:

They had a small flock of chickens on their farm, and somehow their only rooster swallowed a cocklebur, also known as a gumball (the round, spikey things with stems), and it got stuck in the poor dummy's throat. As the only rooster, if that fellow died, they wouldn't have a way to get any more chicks! Babies are vital to maintaining a growing flock, especially when you rely on them for food! So what did my grandma Bessie do? She cut his throat open, pulled out the cocklebur, sewed him up with a needle and thread, and sent him on his merry way. And you know what amazes me most about this story?

That sucker LIVED!

For years, that story blew my mind. I couldn't even begin to imagine how it lived after having its throat cut open and sewed back together, not to mention the endless possibilities of infection!

Let me tell you, chickens are resilient. They are super heros compared to humans with their ability to fight off disease and heal from injury. They can even fly! Sort of. And I've witnessed the amazingness of chickens first hand, and I can tell you without a doubt that indeed, chickens ARE super!

They're super loud and super stinky and sometimes super grouchy, but they are without a doubt super heros. And I have proof beyond a story passed down from one generation to the next.

Weeks ago one of my Barred Rocks was attacked and scalped in the middle of the night. All of the skin on her head and the back of her neck had been removed. I thought for sure she would die, but you know what? She lived. It's been three months, and she's still doing great. She's even close to being able to lay!

After living in my bathroom for a week with neosporin on her head, she wasn't close to being better, but my husband had had enough of chicken poo in the bathtub. So we moved her outside again, and she recovered without a hitch. I didn't have to sew her up (thank god), but I've affectionately nicknamed her Stitch because I was sure she wouldn't survive otherwise. But she did.

Because she's a super chicken. And I am SO glad chickens are resilient. It makes the backyard farmer's life just a tiny bit easier.

Compassion for a Predator

The other morning, I discovered a friend in our trap. We've caught many things in our fox trap--turtles, chickens, a raccoon, and even a skunk, but never a fox. This morning was no different, and we only added to the list of non-fox creatures caught: a possum.


My husband's plan was to put the poor guy out of our misery. We both suspected the detainee was most likely responsible for the missing chickens and chicks over the past year, as well as the critically injured chicken (who's miraculously doing well.) We were more than eager to get rid of the pest, that is until my husband discovered "he" was a "she," and more importantly, she was a mom.


I went to see for myself. Sure enough, just as my husband claimed, six little possum tails attached to plump little possum butts could be seen curled under her belly. Instantly, I knew we couldn't take away the tiny babies' mother, and my husband agreed.


Instead, we sentenced her to a half day of hard time. So far it seems to have worked with the rest of the critters we've acquired in our miniature cell. Hopefully, she learned her lesson too, a lesson she would be wise to pass on to her children.


Sometimes, even the enemy deserves our compassion.

Backyard Farm First Aid

There's nothing quite like waking up to find one of your chickens was partially mauled in the night. How is that I care so deeply about "livestock?" Well, when you raise them by hand, you get attached, and I haven't even named this batch of chicks yet!

We took home six Barred Rock Chicks at the end of February this year, so they're roughly 7 weeks old. All the "chick" fuzz is gone, and they essentially look like gender-neutral mini chickens. We just introduced them to the rest of our flock the other week, and it was a rough transition for all parties involved, but for the first time Sunday evening, the newbies went into the coop at night all on their own. It hadn't happened yet because they're as kiddish bunch, and it doesn't help that the older hens are eager to establish the pecking order.

Part of our coop is just covered by chicken wire, but it's sloped just enough that a chicken could sit on it if it wanted to. The newbies especially like it since the bigger gals don't hang out there.

Last night, when I was making sure all the chickens were inside the coop--which they weren't--I noticed one of the barred rocks sitting on the sloped wire, at the highest point she could reach. It's kind of like having a glass floor for them--there's nothing below her but the ground. Unfortunately for her, she didn't pick the safest place to sleep.

I've come to the conclusion that something must have grabbed her in the middle of the night and tried to pull her through the wire. When I went out to let the chickens out of the coop this morning, I was absolutely shocked to see her bloody head, and immediately knew she must have been the one roosting on the wire last night. I checked the back of the coop, and sure enough, there was blood on the ground below the spot she had chosen to roost.

After successfully catching her, which was pretty easy since she didn't run quite as fast with her injury, I inspected the damage. It was bad. She was missing most of the skin on her head and neck, and the muscle was fully exposed. Now, I would have to do something, but what? There's no way I could put her out of her misery. The bleeding seemed to have stopped for the most part, but I'm no vet. I have no experience with first aid, especially not for animals. So, I googled it.

At that point, I had a better idea of what to do. Armed with q-tips, paper towels, water, and neosporin,  I cleaned the wound, which she didn't particularly like. I applied a generous amount of neosporin to her head and neck before wrapping it in a makeshift bandage. She's currently nestled on a towel in our bathtub in a bathroom we never use anyway because we have to keep it locked at all times or our child plays in the toilet. I've turned into a temporary recovery room, so at least it's getting some use now.

Now, we play the waiting game. She ate this morning when I fed the hens before I noticed her injury. I'll make sure she stays hydrated throughout the day until Jay gets home, and hopefully then we can come up with a better solution to her injury than my temporary first aid attempt. Until then, hang on pretty girl! You've got someone pulling for you.

Farewell Dr. Bailey

I am sad to say one of our hens died tonight because of our idiot dog. Dr. Bailey was a sweet Rhode Island Red and a very social gal. She also was a great layer, and will be missed.


Rex broke his cable this evening and attacked the chickens. He only managed to take the life of one, breaking her neck, so I hope her death was quick and painless. He almost got our rooster George, but luckily my husband was able to drag the dog off of him.


The flock is clearly traumatized, the rooster most of all. When we finally caught him to return him to the coop, he let out the most terrified wail I'd ever heard an animal make, and he kept it up as he was carried to the coop.


My heart is absolutely broken. This experience makes me want to be vegan. But the death of an animal should never be wasteful. We're going to give Bailey a proper sendoff, with all the trimmings. My husband Jay will have the honor of dressing her. In the mean time, I will be working up the courage and appetite to stomach my first ever home grown, grilled backyard chicken.


Rex--Dogzilla--is currently doing hard time. That moron is lucky we love him so much.


When it's all said and done, I guess I'm a little more desensitized to the horrors of farm life, and I have yet another reason why I am a hard-core cat person. But saying goodbye to an animal that has become a part of your life, no matter how small, is incredibly hard.


RIP Dr. Bailey ❤

And Then There Were Nine...

I am happy to announce that Dr. Kurev is no longer with us. We managed to sell the jerk over the internet and his new owner came and took him away in a box, still kicking, might I add.


Apparently his new owners have a huge flock of chickens in need of a rooster, so I'm sure he'll be very happy there.


As for our flock, they probably don't know the difference, not yet anyway. George O'Malley will have to step up to the plate and take care of his girls! The poor things are losing feathers on their backs from being mounted, some are even bald there. Hopefully he'll treat them right, and treat us right too. That means no crowing in the middle of the night, no disrespecting the hens, and definitely no attacking the people that feed him! He's head honcho on a trial basis. If he steps out of line, he'll be the next to go.


I have a pretty good feeling about George though. He doesn't seem to be the aggressive type, which I'm grateful for. I just hope I'm right.


Goodbye Alex Kurev! You will not be missed.

Dogzilla Versus Chickens

I love my dog. I really do. But damn, he seems to make it his life mission to cause chaos.


Last week, he ate 2 of the 3 wubbanubbas (pacifiers attached to stuffed animals) we have. Those things are $15 each, not to mention Parker's favorite thing ever. We NEED those.


The week before, Rex (the dog) took out half the lattice covering the open space beneath our back porch. Why? He was trying to get the cat. They don't exactly get along.


He's ripped up countless stuffed animals, chewed plastic toys to bits, devoured my left rain boot, and shredded my oh-so-precious yarn collection (I cried). He's even ripped up his very expensive dog bed and removed the majority of its stuffing. I'm assuming it was too lumpy for his tastes.


But today Rex set his sites on our fluffy little flock, and I still can't believe it.


I'm partly to blame. We have a fenced in backyard, so the dog and chickens take turns. Rex was inside his room--the laundry room--which has a door to access the back porch. I heard the loud, hollow thump of naughty chickens pecking on the porch. They're not allowed on it because of their lack of toilet training. They have the whole yard to poo in. We don't want it on the porch too.


Anyway, there are two doors to access the porch: Laundry room door and living room door. I open the living room door to see Arizona and Alex--the asshole rooster--making themselves at home by the laundry room door. I squawk at them to scare them off, but they don't budge. Alex and his stupid cohones.


So I try another idea. I go to the laundry room, thinking when I open the door, the swing of it will scare them off. I am armed with a broom just in case Alex tries anything. Well, opening the door didn't work, they just moved out of the way. So I open it more, attempting to gently scooch the stubborn fluffs off with the broom. Rex decides I need help.


Before I know what's happening, Rex dashes out of the laundry room, sending Alex and Arizona in a feathery flying frenzy.


Some more quick info on Rex: He's a purebred, red PitBull weighing in close to 100 pounds and most of it's muscle.


Some quick info on me: I am a timid, 130 pound, scrawny woman who does not do well in emergency situations (just ask my husband).


So for the first few seconds, I am a deer in headlights as Rex tries to tackle the two unfortunate chickens on the porch. When I'm finally capable of comprehending what's happening, I start screaming at Rex, trying to get him to leave them alone. It works for toys, but apparently not fluffy creatures. Alex flies off the porch, while Arizona attempts to go through the wood railing. She gets stuck at the thighs, looking like a yellow feather duster from behind. Rex immediately loses interest. Fluffies that don't move are no fun! He dashes off the porch after the rest of the flock, sending them every which way in a flutter of feathers as they try to escape.


Rex has moved his game to the yard, but I'm barefoot. I quickly grab my muck boots from the laundry room, pull them on, and prepare to chase Rex down. I hesitate for a moment when I realize Arizona is still stuck, trying to decide if I should pull her out, but Rex has singled out one of the chickens, and I decide I need to catch him first.


As I approach Rex, who is enjoying chasing the fluttering bird all over the place way too much as I shout uselessly for him to stop, I realize he's chosen Alex as his target. How fitting.


The rest of the flock either went back into the coop or hid in the arborvitae trees closely planted down one side of our fence. The trees are huge, around 20 feet tall, providing excellent shelter for the terrified birds. Alex attempts to hide there too, but Rex is not discouraged. He ploughs in after him, chasing Alex until he's wedged between a rock and a hard place, or in this case, a tree trunk and a wooden fence.


Alex is far too large to be completely protected in his spot; ruffled feathers stick out on both ends. Rex runs from one end to the next, trying to grab a mouthful of something other than feathers but not having much success.


I have to admit, as I waited for the perfect moment to grab Rex by his collar, I contemplated letting Rex finish Dr. Kurev off. He would have deserved it, after all. Maybe this whole thing was just Lady Karma at work. And as easy as it would have been to let Rex follow his instincts, I didn't have the heart to let him kill Alex, even if he deserved it. I looked at that terrified fluffy douche and felt more compassion than he deserved.


Once Rex was in an optimal capture position, I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him all the way back inside and shut him up in his crate. I have never been more grateful for the power of adrenaline.


After Dogzilla is safely contained and can no longer wreak havoc on the poor citizens of Backyard Farm Town, I patrol the area, expecting mass casualties. To my surprise, however, all fluffies were accounted for and seemingly unharmed. Well, except for Alex, who was still in a horror-stricken huddle between the tree and fence. He suffered from a bruised ego and possible mental castration.


He eventually emerged from his hiding place, but he didn't hold his head quite as high as he used to. It's amazing the things that put you in your place, that remind you you're not invincible.


It's also amazing the kindness the world could be capable of if we gave it even to those we didn't think deserved it.


Moral of the story: Give kindness without requirements, restrictions, or reasons. It's the gift that keeps on giving.


And maybe only let disaster strike when your husband's home so he can handle it. ;)

To Eat... Or Not to Eat

Out of our ten-chicken flock, we have two roosters. One, George, is very quiet, gentle, and well-mannered. The other, Alex, couldn't be more polar opposite. He's also bigger. Gotta love mother nature.


Alex is, to put it bluntly, an asshole. I have been attacked by him several times now. Luckily I always win, but he's a persistent thing.


Alex also makes a point to crow ALL hours of the day and night. Literally, I'll wake up in the middle of the night to hear him crowing. He's a loud, obnoxious asshole.


I want him gone. My husband, not so much. He seems to think Alex is beneficial through his ability to protect the flock. I'm not convinced. I think George would make a much better flock patriarch. Alex is a nuisance. He's nothing but dead weight to me.


But, this brings us to my dilemma. If we were to rid ourselves of this pest, we have two options: Give him away, or have him smothered in BBQ sauce.


Giving him away would be easier (if he were nicer), but I can't imagine too many people wanting an asshole rooster. I surely don't.


Then there's the matter of having him for dinner. More specifically, the matter of execution. I've never hunted or killed anything other than a rabbit driving to work one morning, and distraught doesn't even begin to cover how I felt after that. There's no way I could do Alex in with my bare hands, unless maybe he was attacking me or my son. Then I probably could. Still, something detached, from a far range, that would be my weapon of choice. Of course, if it really was up to me, I'd put my husband in charge of it. But that probably won't happen since Alex has won my husband's favor.


Alex is a big guy, at least ten pounds and probably closer to fifteen. He'd make a great meal, there's no doubt about that. But I just have too much compassion, too big of a heart to summon the courage to do Alex in, even if he is an asshole.


But you better watch out Dr. Karev. You're on my list.

Unwanted Visitor

 Earlier this year, at the beginning of our backyard farming adventure, we had several (and I mean several) pullets go missing. It was frustrating because we couldn't seem to keep the darn things alive for more than a couple of months.


Finally we noticed the tiniest gap in the chicken wire and the ground, and dirt had been dug out to make it bigger. Something was sneaking in the coop and gobbling them up in the night. But what? At the time, after googling a lot, we decided it must be a fox. We did what any good backyard farmers would do, and we bought an expensive trap to catch the culprit with.


Weeks go by, and no matter what we baited it with, we couldn't catch the fox. But we did catch a tortoise, who was very pleased to be released. Oh, and we caught a skunk once, too. He was happy to be released too I think, and we were very happy to not get sprayed (I was, anyway, since I actually did all the work 😉).


After weeks of no luck, we gave up on catching that sneaky fox and decided instead to build an impenetrable coop!


 That worked for a while. At least, until a few weeks ago when we noticed something trying to dig its way back in. Not so impenetrable after all.


The stakes are higher this time, though. We finally have a flock of layers--good ones! We're getting 4 eggs a day! We can't afford to feed the local wildlife anymore. So, we got out our trap, and my husband very cleverly stuck it in the chicken tunnel, giving the perpetrator two choices: It could go down the tunnel where it dead-ins, or it could go into the trap.


The culprit chose to go in the direction of the chicken coop, which meant he went into the trap. And trapped he was!


Finally, the vandal is behind bars, as he should be! Lynch him, I say! Lynch him!


And the poor thing, trapped in the cold, probably hungry, looks up at me with sad, don't-eat-me eyes. And I suddenly have the most peculiar urge to take it inside where it's warm and safe and to feed him something he might would like (must be the mom in me).


My heart is too big to do this poor thing any harm. So, behind bars he will stay until the judge (my husband) can give him his sentence.


It was a raccoon, by the way. We still haven't caught that fox.

The Crumbling Impenetrable Fortress

Yesterday the cat got in our chicken coop. Today, a chicken got out. Seriously?




There's nothing quite like casually looking out the window and seeing one of your precious Rhode Island Reds strolling around your backyard on the wrong side of the chicken wire (She's precious because she's one of the few laying at the moment). All I could think was how in the HECK did she get out? I'm still thinking that now because I never figured it out. Luckily miss Callie was cooperative and let me pick her up and put her on the right side of the wire with no hassle, fuss, or unwanted exercise--and by that, I mean I didn't have to chase her down. The last time a chicken escaped, I spent 20 minutes trying to get a hold of her. It was a wasted effort because even though I managed to get her back inside, a fox did too and had her for a midnight snack.




I suppose it worked out for the better. Callie's escapade led me to a freshly laid egg right in the middle of the run. I think another lady finally started laying! It's about time. Out of the 8 hens we have only two (maybe three now) are earning their keep. They're well past 30 weeks, too. I just hope the egg in the run thing was a rookie mistake and she figures out where she's supposed to lay.




As for Callie escaping, my best guess is that it was a glitch in the matrix. Hopefully it won't happen again!




And then there's the matter of our pathetic excuse for a chicken castle... We have a lot of work to do this spring!

My Cat is in the Chicken Coop... Again!

As soon as I finished writing my last post, I look out the window and see my cat, Bella, climbing out of our chicken enclosure. And this morning after I fed the chickens, she was in it again!


So much for building an impenetrable fortress.


I'm pretty sure I've figured out how she got in, because I watched her quickly exit while I shouted choice words at her that I cannot repeat here. Somehow, she got under the storage building our coop is built against and tunneled under the chicken wire and into the run. All that work, but not to eat the chickens (thankfully), but to eat the left overs we give them. Apparently, her cat food isn't cutting it.


I can't imagine how she managed to get under the building in the first place. There's wooden lattice going around the entire bottom foot because it's about half a foot off the ground. There's only one spot where it's missing, and that's on the inside of the run. Somehow, she must have squeezed her fat self through the lattice. That's the only way, unless she's pulled an El Chapo and tunneled in from somewhere else out of sight. Either way, I blocked off her entry point into the run with a very heavy bag of rocks. She shouldn't be able to get in, unless she's been juicing up with the shady cat next door. He hangs around the coop a lot. I don't trust him.


If I've learned one thing, it's that your chickens are never safe. And maybe the reason they call them crazy cat ladies is because the cats drive them crazy. Or because they raise hell and you'd be crazy to still love them, but you do and you can't help yourself. It's probably both.


Of all the potential predators, I figured my cat would be relatively easy to keep out, because she gets fed and isn't dependent on hunting or finding another food source. But that fat twat is giving me more trouble than anything else at the moment. I can only hope she's the only animal taking up breaking and entering and burglary as a side hobby. But I have the feeling she's just the first of many to try their hand at coop invasion this winter. Stay tuned!

Chicken Castles

Being a backyard farmer isn't easy, especially with a lack of experience.

Well, I'm not completely inexperienced.

I did inherit a chicken from my cousin when I was younger. I think she may have been a Rhode Island Red, and I'm basing that on the fact that I remember she was brown and laid brown eggs--that's all I've got.

Helen (yes, I named her Helen) was a very friendly chicken. In fact, she loved escaping the coop my dad built and visiting the neighbors. Despite our best efforts, Helen was quite the escape artist. I probably should have named her Houdini.

I didn't realize it then, but if a full grown chicken is able to escape her coop, that's a bad sign. If things can get out, that means things can just as easily get in. And, unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. We're not sure what, but something paid Helen a midnight visit and turned her into a midnight snack, leaving nothing but a few feathers behind.

In my childish naivety, I thought maybe she got out again. I thought she was taking a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood. But, after a quick search in neighboring backyards, it was clear Helen was not coming back. Crestfallen, I could only assume the worst.

That was my first attempt at being a backyard farmer, and I wouldn't exactly call it successful. Well, I wouldn't call my next few attempts successful either. Looking back, I wish I would have remembered Helen's story before I tried again. Maybe I would have realized that chicken coops just don't cut it. No, to keep your chickens in and predators out, you need a chicken castle.

Last week I would have thought we finally achieved chicken castle status. I mean, the entire thing is enclosed with chicken wire, the perimeter has concrete-filled trenches around it, and the actual coop is two and a half feet off the ground. Impenetrable!

Not quite.

I've caught the cat in there three times last week, and something, I'm not sure what, is digging under the steel wire tunnel we made for them to run around in. So impenetrable.

You see, building a coop isn't just about keeping chickens in, but keeping everything else out. And everything else will find a way in. It's not a matter of if, but when. 

And when everything else gets in, you will be overcome with anger and sadness as you walk into an empty coop, just like I was (a few times, unfortunately).

So forget building chicken coops. If you want to be a successful backyard farmer, build chicken castles, and never ever assume your chickens are safe. Believe me, I failed at those two things the entire summer, and not surprisingly, failed (epically) at being a backyard farmer.

And I didn't start succeeding until my chickens had a castle to call their own, concrete moat and everything.

The Beginnings of a Backyard Farmer

When I was a little girl, I wanted to live on a farm. However, my parents always lived in modest houses with modest yards, so I came to the conclusion the only way to reach this goal was to marry a farmer. Well, that didn't happen either.

Up until a year ago, the closest I actually came to achieving this goal was the few years my parents lived out in the country in a small town. Everyone around us had a farm. The people behind us had goats and chickens, the guy on one side had horses, dogs, and cats, and the people across the street had cows. That might be ideal for some people--all of the perks and none of the work--but not me. I wanted the work that came with it. I wanted it to be mine. But why?

Why would a girl that grew up in the suburbs want a farm? I didn't have any living farmers in my family; I didn't regularly visit anyone I knew that had a farm. Really, I didn't have any connections to the farm life at all. Maybe it started when I inherited a chicken as a kid, or maybe I saw a farm in a movie or book and idolized that way of life. It doesn't really matter how it started, but instead, where it takes me.

I didn't marry a farmer, but I married a man who supports my farm goals. In January, we bought a modest house on modest land, with a lovely fenced in backyard, and that spring, my sweet husband built me a chicken coop and got half a dozen chicks from a local feed store.

With absolutely no knowledge other than what google could provide, we took the first step into becoming farmers, and stumbled, tripped, and barrel-rolled through the innumerable hurdles we encountered in a matter of months. It was a very emotional journey and more difficult than I could have ever predicted it would be, and it's still far from over. In fact, it's hardly begun, because I'm in the farming game for the long-haul. I just hope I make it out with my sanity.

So far, so good.