Chickens

This spring will be the fourth year since we got chickens. It's been fun, especially when we have chicks. We've had them four times, besides Notrella (pronounced not-er-ELL-a), the one chick that hatched when one of our chickens got broody.

Notrella the day she was hatched. She was the only one that did. The hen got down and followed her around and let the others get cold.

I have been told I should write a book on lessons learned from chickens. While I don't know that I have enough to write a book (and do know that probably no one would want to read it, including me), I have noted a few things, though I may not be able to remember them all.

Chickens are interesting. They are creatures of habit; social, yet cruel; smart, yet annoyingly stupid. More like us than we'd like to admit. They are interesting to watch and often amusing.

The first "lesson" I noticed was from when they were chicks, especially when we had 25 in a baby pool. It was fun to give them food. They especially liked bread. The chick who picked it up would run around the pool and the others would hurry after it, cheeping loudly and pecking at the leader until someone made him drop it. Then another would pick it up and repeat the scene. Meanwhile, if you put more in, there would be crumbs lying untouched in the woodchips. Anyone who chose to quietly eat the crumbs could do so, but they were so aware that the others would try to take it from them that they tried to find a place to eat it alone, and so they usually didn't get to eat it. It was fun to watch.

Tim and the 25 chicks

It's also fun to call them, "Here, chickie, chickie, chickie!" and see them come running from all around. If they discover you don't have any food for them, they nonchallantly pretend to peck at the ground like they'd been there the whole time and didn't expect anything from you. Lately, however, they haven't been coming, or sleeping in the chicken coop; I'm not sure why.

The chickens don't realize we're trying to take care of them (well, most of us are-there are a few I would recommend they run away from).  The rooster will attack if he thinks you're invading his area and you don't look too impressive. He never bothers Eric.

Roman

Before I wasn't afraid of him, but a year ago I was shooing the chickens out of the garden when he gave me this look and suddenly my leg was attacked. If you've never seen a rooster attack, you cannot appreciate how fast a rooster can move. It happened so fast I could not even tell how he did it. It must have been his spurs. I still have the marks on my leg (though admittedly they probably would be gone if I hadn't picked at them). After that, I found myself avoiding the rooster: I took detours, made sure I had something in my hand, and kept looking behind me, feeling like he would run after me. I told myself that was silly, but I still couldn't help it. Then Eric said Roman (our rooster's name) tried to attack him, but Eric stared at him and walked towards him, and Roman backed off and didn't bother him again. I wouldn't attack someone ten times my size with clodhopper boots on either, even if I had evil sharp spurs.

I decided not to let the rooster know I was scared of him and instead every time I went by him I stared at him. He looks away, and he's only tried to attack me a few times since then, without success.

Roman got Kristen once or twice last summer. "Cock-a-doo bite me," she said. After that it was so cute how she was scared of him. "Cock-a-doo not bite me?" she would say when she was going to go outside. She called Roman "cock-a-doo" or "cock-a-doodle". "You not bite me, cock-a-doo!" she would tell him.

One lesson I learned was that you should not sleep in trees anywhere near the road. Our mailbox has problems-it's been taken out at least four times. The last one, however, was the strangest; it happened at two something in the morning, and our mailbox and the nice new plant we had on it was completely gone. We later found the mailbox, hardly scratced, in the ditch. Melody heard the kids who did it, and one kid came back and carried away his bumper so that he wouldn't get in trouble. But he left his damaged car at the car place down the road so he was easily traced. The strangest thing, however, was the casualty. One chicken, for some reason roosting in the last tree in the row of fruit trees at the bottom of our hill, was apparently knocked from it by the car and its head run over. There were feathers scattered around it. It was quite bizzare.

Kristen the day we got the chicks in July

Our most recent "chicks" are not really chicks any more, and should start laying soon. We split an order (25 chicks minimum) with another family. One of them is a rooster, even though it wasn't from a straight run, which means that they were sexed and should be pullets (baby hens). We wondered, because its comb and wattles were big, and a pullet's tail is different. A rooster's first crowing is quite amusing, though I didn't hear his. It took Roman quite a while to get his straightened out. Contrary to popular belief, roosters crow randomly throughout the day, and at least it doesn't wake me up in the morning. Like the airplanes that frequently fly over our house, unless I'm paying attention, I don't even notice if no one points it out. I like the sound of Roman crowing. It makes me feel more like we live on the farm that people, amusingly, think we live on.

Another sound is more noticeable, at least if it's near the front porch: the loud cackling of the hens before they lay an egg.

I wrote most of this post a month ago and finally decided to finish it. I could go on much longer, but I said I wasn't going to write a book. There will, doubtless, be another chicken post in the future, if you're interested.

And, doubtless, even if you're not.