They have been through some trying times. The only chicken that we still have from the original set is Lila. During Annie’s early years, she would go to the coop when I didn’t know it, and leave the gate open. Coyotes thought this was a wonderful thing, and picked off a few. Also, we had a problem with mites briefly that resulted in the chickens killing each other (they are not really nice creatures). The good news is we have eight chickens now that are thriving. They produce more eggs than we can generally use, which is nice for friends and neighbors.
When we bought the last set of chickens (Spring 2004), they were growing in a bin in the garage. Annie wanted to take them for show-n-tell, so I packed them to school. Unfortunately, one excited child stepped on one chick. I didn’t think he was really hurt at first, but then noticed that after a growth spurt one of the chicks was very small compared to the others. Further inspection indicated that she couldn’t walk well. Annie’s concern resulted in this chick, later named “Goofy” was moved to the house. She slept next to her, ate next to her, and was in general a very concerned parent for Goofy. Goofy continued to grow… slowly… Finally, the time came to move Goofy to the coop. This was a combination of her being large enough, and my being tired of the chicken stink in Annie’s room. She seemed to be doing fine in the coop for several weeks. She still didn’t walk well, but she seemed to be surviving. Then, one weekend when Annie was at her Mom’s, I went into the coop to find that Goofy had moved on to a better place. I didn’t know how I was going to tell Annie. But, I did, and she shed a few tears. We talked about how Goofy was probably in a place now where she could walk on both legs, and Annie seemed better. Although, at wierd times, she would tear up a little and say she missed Goofy.
The rest of the chickens are doing well, and seem quite content. When Colleen and Annie accidentally left the gate open, they stayed around the coop, and went back in in the evening. The coyotes seem to be frightened by the smell of the coop, which really needs to be cleaned.
Three more chicken stories: Our original rooster, which we thought was a hen until it started crowing, flew the coop. We believe he ventured off to Highway 9 with the rest of the renegade chickens, and is on the side of the road smoking, and basically being a rebel. We liked having a rooster, and so one day, when April (my second ex-wife) was gone, I saw a sign for a rooster that needed a home. I talked to the lady, picked up a Banty rooster and hen, and put them in the coop. They seemed to be fine, and didn’t say anything to April. Later, we were outside, and there was a terrible squawk from the coop (the rooster was very young). I feigned a look of concern, and we walked up to the coop. She was concerned that there was a sick chicken. She looked at the chickens, and said that there was something wrong. They got small (Bantam chickens are small). I laughed so hard, I thought I’d cry. She ultimately figured out what I had done. Yes, I’m aware my sense of humor is a little off.
Story #2: The next two come from my childhood (that’s right mom and dad, get ready). One of my jobs when I was a kid was to clean the chicken coop. We had (as I recall) about twenty chickens and bounced between one and two roosters. The inside of the chicken area had a dirt floor, and I hated cleaning it. In my brilliance, one time I decided I wasn’t going to do it. I scraped off the top of the grime, and put fresh straw down. I played in the barn for what should have been enough time to clean the coop, and then went back to the house. My wise father never said a word. A month passed, and it was time again. Of course, I never brought it up, but Dad said it was time. He then added “and this time, do it right.” I was mortified. He knew, but hadn’t reprimanded me before. I was soon to found out that the punishment was the true cleaning of the coop. After that long of time, the chicken… er… residue had begun to ferment. I ran out of the barn a number of times as a result of the strength of the ammonia smell in the coop. Note to self: Never put off ‘till tomorrow what you can do today.
Last Story: This is one of my favorites. Growing up on a farm, one of the harsh lessons you learn early in life is that things ultimately die. To preface this, there is a reason that some countries/places like “Cock Fights”. Roosters are very territorial, and there is a reason that they have that extra spike on their feet. Our roosters, when I was a kid (we handle our rooster frequently, and he is not aggressive towards people), had a tendency to be ornery. Case in point: Big Red. It was my sister’s job to feed the chickens and get the eggs. This include a tool in the form of a five-gallon bucket. Big Red was sly. He would wait until your back was turned, and then launch at you. If you looked at him, he would pretend to be busy scratching at the ground or picking something out of his feathers. My sister was busy doing her chores, and lost her attention to Big Red. At the last moment she realized her mistake and turned to find Big Red launching himself at her. Instinctively, she whipped the bucket around and caught him across the head. Big Red went down, and didn’t move. She came back to the house in tears, “I killed Big Red.” My Dad went to the coop, and returned to say, yes, he’s dead. Years later, we discovered that Dad had decided that Big Red was just too durned aggressive. When he went to check, Red had shrugged it off, and was fine. Dad decided he just wasn’t a safe rooster, and finished the job. Hey, life is about learning.
Fowl, but liking it.