country – Page 2 – Angel Wheeler

A Fine Mess

Looks like #15 got herself in a pickle.

J-Dub says she was probably scratching her chin on the tree bark and turned her head just enough to get it wedged in there. She doesn’t know how to lift her head and pull back to get out.

She messed her eye up pretty good trying to get loose.
J-Dub said she’d been there a couple of days probably by pee and poop around her feet and her skinny sides.

She fought him when he tried to help her, but he was able to use the hay forks on his truck to spread the branches just enough so she could back out.

I can only imagine what those other cows are saying. She’s probably the laughing stock of there herd.

Oh the shame of it.

Small Miracles

So why did the chicken cross the road?

To get back home from her Mexican vacation, that’s why.

Yes, it’s a small miracle, but I’ll take it. My missing yellow chicken that I wrote about in this post here, has returned safely.

I don’t know where she’s been, I only know that she’s home. She was lost, but now she’s found. The prodigal hen has come to her senses and returned to her chickie mama. And there was great rejoicing. And a small bit of befuddlement as to where this yellow bird has been the past couple of weeks.

I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s gone broody in a place I haven’t discovered yet. A broody chicken is a good mama chicken. More than anything, she desires to sit on a nest of eggs and hatch them, fertilized or not. A broody hen gets a little cranky if you try to get her eggs from the nest, she may growl (imagine that) or peck you. Sometimes a broody hen will not even leave the nest to eat or drink.

From past experience, we have found 8-10 eggs lain here or there. One time, we discovered a nest up on the stacked hay bales. Another time, some kids discovered a nest out by some big round bales of hay while out playing around the place. So, if I was a betting woman, I’d put some money down that the yellow hen has spent many days sitting on a nest of eggs somewhere around this Chicken Ranch, hoping beyond hope to hatch a few little chicks, knitting her pink and blue baby blankets……. all for naught.

Or she’s been vacationing in Mexico. Anything’s possible, right?

The Coyote Snatching

It’s getting on sundown here at the J &A Chicken Ranch and the girls are heading in to roost for the night. All thirteen of them. Yep, you read that right. No typo intended. Thirteen. As life would have it, murder, mayhem, and malice struck the Chicken Ranch early Sunday morning past when an unsuspecting fowl fell victim to the first coyote snatching on record. J-Dub had just stepped outdoors just shortly after dawn, when suddenly the door flew wide open, expletives filled the room, and the gun cabinet was heard opening and closing. Sitting in the lazy boy enjoying my morning cup of java, I hurriedly asked him what in the Boone’s Farm was going on as he dashed back through the living room on his way back outside. “A coyote just got one of your chickens!” I jumped up (as much as one can jump while 7 months pregnant) and stood in the door frame to witness a nasty, vulgar, repulsive coyote running across the pasture with a helpless, vulnerable, limp, yellow chicken hanging from his jaws. Shots were fired at the coyote. The chicken was dropped with a poof of feathers and dust, and the coyote ran off with shots kicking up dirt behind him. Another coyote who was off to the right watching the action and hoping to have a chicken for breakfast also ran off. We only had pistol handy that morning and unfortunately, a bullet never made contact with the coyote. But in a matter of minutes, the ne’er-d0-well was back to pick up it’s abandoned meal only to be scared off again with another round of shots. I told J-Dub I was going to get my chicken out of the pasture. I was not going to let that murdering cur have the satisfaction of tasting even a morsel of my golden girl. Sparing me the task, J-Dub walked out and carried the dead bird back to the house and disposed of her. Realizing the dogs would return, I quickly penned all my hens and secured them safe and sound in their coop where they have spent the last 5 days miserably. They were mad for a good while, and the other day I think I even caught a couple of them with a file and a saw tucked under their wings. A blueprint drawing of the coop with arrows and lines was discovered crumpled in the corner. It was obvious to any onlooker that plans for a Coop Break was underway, I got home early enough today to let them out for a couple of hours of exercise before dusk. You’ve never seen such elated birds. They ran, and pecked, and flew, and clucked. I sat outside with a rifle not 30 feet away when dusk settled and I dared those good for nothings to sneak up to the house again. In the famous words of Scarlett O’Hara….”I can shoot straight……if I don’t have to shoot too far.” In Memory of a Yellow Chicken:

Chicken Drowning Averted

The fourteen chickens who run this ranch have full reign of the place. At times, they may be found perched on the hood of a truck, sitting on a tractor wheel, or stealing the horse’s feed. They do as they please, when they please, which is just fine with me. I can’t bear to coop them up. They deserve to free birds.

As long as chickens roam free, there is risk involved. The chicken hawks, the snakes, the speeding cars on the adjacent highway. And then there’s the horse trough.

There is a debate in the poultry world as to whether chickens can swim or not. I didn’t know this until the other day when I was forced to.

J-Dub was tending to the animals one evening when he noticed the water in one of the drinking tubs for the horses was rather low. As he drew near to put the water hose in, he discovered a Barred Plymouth Rock in the water. That’s a breed of chicken for you laypersons. The dear fowl was soaked to the skin, feathers drenched, exhausted, and very stressed.

He rescued her from the drinking tub where she couldn’t fly out either because a) the water was too low and she couldn’t scale the top or B)because the trough is narrow and she couldn’t spread her wings fully to fly out. We don’t know how long she treaded (is that a word) water. But we know she was sure glad to get out of there. I’m positive my husband coddled her and spoke soft and tender reassuring words to her. He put he in the chicken coop where she sat dripping in a state of shock emitting a long sad whimper. If you can imagine a chicken whimpering.

And then he came in and told me about it.

It could’ve been bad if he had not found her. I worried for my sweet chicken all night, well at least until I fell asleep. The next morning, her feathers were badly ruffled, she seemed a little tired and perhaps a bit stove up, but was no worse for the wear. She has made a full recovery and hopefully learned a good lesson.

I might have to put some floaties on her wings just in case.

Not really my chicken — image found at dogswhotwitter.com

Eggs!!

I peeked into the chicken feeder to see how low the chickens were getting on feed, and just take a looky-look at what I discovered.

Yup, eggs. In the feeder. Our very first crop, if that’s what you call it. I had been checking for eggs daily, but foolish me, was looking in the nesting boxes, not in the chicken feeder.

It’s a good thing I have this handy little egg basket.

Since there were four eggs, I assumed they might be from one hen, and have possibly been sitting in a the summer heat for a few days, so my niece and I did the egg freshness test.

When you put the egg in a bowl of water, if it sinks quickly and lies on its side, it is good to eat. If it ever floats, it needs to be discarded. If it sits on the bottom of the bowl, but stands up on one end, it is not as fresh, but is still safe to eat.

All our eggs aced the test.

They are quite tiny. But the chickens are only 4 months old, and I’m hoping as they mature a little more, the eggs will increase in size.

Despite their size, they made a good breakfast.

With a taste nothing like store-bought eggs. Much richer. I was a bit leery at first, wondering if it’s safe to eat the first eggs, but we did anyway, and we didn’t even get salmonella or botulism or anything.

Country Troubles

Somedays the J&A Chicken Ranch has more excitement than my feeble heart can handle.

This beautiful breezy morning I am waiting for the water well repair man as we have no water coursing through our pipes. The precious commodity, the life blood, the toilet flusher has seized for reasons unknown to me, but hopefully not beyond the scope of knowledge of the water well man. In today’s America, one does not realize how fortunate and blessed we are until one does not have running water. It is taken for granted, assumed that at the turn of a faucet, we can clean our bodies, brush our teeth, water our plants, or rinse our dishes. No less humble does one become than having to relieve themself outside in the middle of the night, saving that one last toilet flush for the inevitable morning poop. Forgive me, but as is life. But yea for the man who can repair the problem and I only hope he arrives before my bowel movement decides to.

When I first began dating J-Dub, I would ride with him to tend to his cattle. At the beginning of the trip, he would inquire, “Are you brush broke?” At first I didn’t know what that meant, but quickly learned when you are miles and miles from modern conveniences, there will come a time when you have to squat in the brush and piss in the pastures or you’re going to be very, very uncomfortable for a very, very long time. Yes, I am very brush broke.

I slept in a bit this morning but knew I needed to let my fourteen dear chickens out of their coop. Not until you’ve watched fourteen chickens come out of a coop, do you understand the true meaning of the phrase “cooped up”. The chickens have a coop that was an old metal garden shed with a sliding door. It sits in a side yard, up against the edge of the backyard fence, but not in the back yard. Surrounding the shed is a chicken pen, enclosed with chicken wire, and covered mostly over the top with protective wire. I keep the sliding door to the coop opened enough so they can come and go freely into the pen to get fresh air or take a dirt bath or something equally chickenish. Each morning, as early as possible, I open the door to the pen and let the chickens run out so they can free range around the yard and pasture. Our back yard and our two dogs, Drew Miller and Grace, are enclosed directly behind the chicken coop and pen. Never have the dogs and chickens come into direct contact. I fear it would not be a pretty sight.

When the chickens eye me coming their way, they get so excited. They know freedom is in sight. They will run to the corner of the pen, clucking and bocking, eager to get out. This morning, before I was about to open the door, I heard a commotion. It sounded like chicken feet on metal and I assumed a chicken was inside the shed, trying to jump on the metal nesting boxes as they sometimes do. With their chicken claws slipping and sliding and feathers flapping to maintain balance, it sometimes makes quite a ruckus. The next thing I heard was a terrible sound like nothing I had heard before. It was the sound of a chicken in distress. The clucking was rapid and high-pitched. I then noticed out of my peripheral vision, the dogs were agitated. Through a crack in the gate of the backyard, I saw 3 streaks of black running past, back and forth. First a black chicken, followed by Drew Miller, followed by Grace. My first thoughts went something like this: Is there a chicken in the backyard? how did a chicken get in the back yard? There is no way possible that is one of my chickens. It must be somebody else’s chicken in my backyard. Mine are all right here in the pen. With my hand on the door to the chicken pen, ready to push it open, I glanced over and did a quick headcount. 1-2-3-4…… 1-2-3-4-5……, 1-2-3-4 I began adding quickly: 4 Barred Plymouth Rocks + 5 Buff Orpingtons + 4 Black Australorpes = 13 total chickens. THERE’S A CHICKEN MISSING! And it is presently in grave danger. Immediately I began screaming NO DREW! NO GRACE! and with ninja like skills I flung open the backyard gate, grabbed Drew Miller by the collar and tried to get the whole party to settle down. The dogs were having no part of calming themselves, so I drug Drew Miller by his collar over to where his leash hangs, put it on him as he jerked about, acting a fool, and I tied him to a post. He is the dangerous dog. He is the porcupine attacker, skunk killer, possum murderer. He loves the kill. Grace, a heeler, doesn’t want to hurt the chickens, she just wants to herd the chickens as she slinks down, belly close to the ground, haunches shaking, eyes fixated. She doesn’t even wear a collar or has never experienced a leash. She is right by your side most all the time and if she wanders too far, a quick command draws her back to her spot. So there we were in the backyard: Drew Miller and the blue leash wrapping tighter and tighter around a post, a chicken petrified yet unscathed, Grace slinking beside me towards the chicken and me a little afraid to try to pick up this chicken who just might turn into a fighting, pecking, scratching defender. The little black chicken was behind the dog’s water dish. I gave her some time and space to see if she could find her way out of the gate on her own. I thought of trying to corral her out, but decided that might agitate her even more. As I reached down, she hunkered close to the ground, terrified, but allowed me to pick her up, hold her to my bosom, caress her little back. Her feathers were hard and stiff where Drew’s slobber had already dried on them. He obviously had his mouth clamped on her at some point.

It was a close call. Perhaps even a miracle. I think I’ll call her Lucky.

I still don’t know how in the world she managed to get into the back yard. I walked through the pen and the coop looking for holes. I can only figure that she flew out the small opening in the roof, walked across the wire roof of the pen, walked across the roof of the coop, which was the commotion of chicken feet on metal that I heard, and flew over the fence into the backyard.

Stupid chicken. I hope she learned a lesson. The next time she tries to escape, she better hope I’m squatting in the yard.

Peace, Quiet, Serenity, and other lies of Living in the Country

We’ve all seen the magazine pictures. The quaint farmhouse set on a hill with rolling green meadows and white rail fencing. We imagine the serenity, the peace that we could experience if we could just get away from the city. The hustle and bustle, the horns and sirens.

But put a trailer house out in the middle of the windy, hot, dusty, dry Texas Panhandle and you get a whole ‘nother atmosphere.

Yesterday Manic Depression plagued me. My neurosis of the day for June 7 is Fear and Anxiety. Really I was doing just fine until the snake incident a couple of days ago. Now I tiptoe gingerly everywhere I go. If a feather breezes across my path, I jump a foot. And then there was the fire today which set me into a nervous dither.

I was piddling about the house this morning wearing an apron. Well not JUST an apron, but an apron over my clothes (hoping that would inspire me to clean) when I began to hear sirens. Weird with a capital W. I glanced out the window and saw a couple of firetrucks whiz by which caused an elevation in heart rate due to the fact that we are in a major drought with wind gusts upwards of 40 mph.

More sirens, more window peeking. I then decide to go outside so I can see what is happening on the highway that runs parallel to my house. The sky is dirty. It could be dust or it could be smoke. The traffic slows and then stops from both directions. A highway patrol passes. A Department of Transportation vehicle passes. It could be a wreck or it could be a fire. I make a few phone calls, to my Sister-in-law who has a scanner but knows nothing, to the Sheriff’s office which confirms a fire, but mostly panicked pleas to my husband’s voicemail. In a matter of a very few minutes I contemplate how I’m going to get my dogs and my chickens evacuated, checking off a list of important items to grab: i.e. computer hard drive, a few photos, my wedding ring, and my husband’s handmade cowboy boots. And then decide in order to quit worrying, I’ll just go right to the source, so I walk across the road to where the nearest fire truck is parked and question the fireman if I indeed need to be calling my insurance company within the next half hour. I was reassured that everything was under control and my biggest problem would be getting back across the highway since they have now released the traffic. So I did just that. I darted across the highway and thanked God for his mercy.

Fast forward 10 hours.

I’m piddling around the house, this time without an apron, when my husband says, “I’m going to do chores.”

“I’m going with you.” I announce.

Chores around here consist of feeding and watering horses and dogs. I’ve got the chickens set up to only need care about once a week.

This is an old walk-in cooler or something that was here on the place when we bought it. Yes, it’s an eyesore, but so is everything else around here so we’ve come to love it. Plus, it makes a very efficient feed room. Rats and mice cannot enter and it’s just the right size to store all the sacks of feed and buckets necessary.

J-Dub and I go out and began our evening chores while our two dogs Drew and Grace follow along, searching and sniffing.

Suddenly, I notice Drew is very intent on smelling underneath the “feed room”. I call to him and he ignores me. I’ve seen him sniff out a possum from under a porch before and he is in exactly the same stance and frame of mind as the aforementioned possum massacre. I call to him again.

“Leave him alone,” my husband tells me.

“There’s something under there,” I answer.

By this time, our other dog Grace has joined Drew in the excited sniffing and smelling escapade that is taking place.

“It’s probably a rabbit,” says Jason, “Let them be dogs.”

When all of a sudden, the body of the something that is under the feedroom comes into view. And once again, for the 3rd time in about 3 days I get to see yet another snake. Only this one is a behemoth, a mammoth, curled under the “feed room”. My husband begins his investigation of the kind of snake lurking and I begin my departure. Slowly backing away and taking the extreme long way around. After my husband throws a rock at it, to get it to move so he can see it better, I hear this sound that can only be a rattler to the untrained ear (mine).

“It’s a rattlesnake!” I exclaim.

“No it’s not. It’s just a bull snake. He’s opening his mouth and hissing as me,” my husband informs as he is hunkered down peering under the feedroom.

And then it was over. The dogs were called back into the yard, my husband continues his feeding, and I am about to crawl out of my skin.

My husband doesn’t kill bull snakes. My husband only kills rattlers. Bull snakes are “good” snakes if ever a snake were to be found. They eat rodents. They’ve been known to eat rattlesnakes. They eat chicken eggs, but never mind that.

Fear grips my body as the realization that I am living with a den of snakes, one of which is likely the mother to the other and has hatched a whole passel of eggs, and will continue to do so. And there’s nothing I can do about it seeing as how hard a time I had killing a baby one.

Acting as calmly as possible, I carry on a conversation with J-Dub as we water the yard.

“So, that snake bites, yes?”

“Yes, but it’s not poisonous and it won’t bite unless you’re provoking it.”

“So,” I pause, “do you think the snake lives there permanently?”

“No, he’s probably just shading up.”

“Okay, so he’s just visiting. So, how often does he need to eat?” Concern for my chickens erupts my thinking.

“I don’t know.”

“So, tomorrow morning, if I open the door and he’s curled up on the porch, I’m supposed to just step over him?”

“No, he might bite you if you step over him,” I’m calmly informed. “Get a broom and push him off the porch.”

“Okay, what if he coils up and hisses at me like he just did you?”

“Just get something long enough and push on him, he’ll slither away.”

And then I got the Augustus McCrae quote from Lonesome Dove, “You’re going to give yourself the drizzles if you don’t relax.”

Excuse me, but I have the sudden urge to go the bathroom.

The Villian Part 2

The Villian is dead.

He is no more.

My facebook friends already know part of this story for I had to brag immediately, but for my fellow bloggers and non-facebook friends, I could not leave you hanging on the snake saga.

Two days ago, I encountered a snake lurking ever too closely to my chicken coop.

After a 40 minute stand-off, the snake slithered away into a deep, dark hidey-hole. My hopes were it was never to be seen again.

But alas, the following morning, after a nice little walk, I went to sit in my black and tan striped lawn chair to commune with my chickens only to find The Villian lying underneath my chair.

After a quick scream, a high jump, a skit, and a scatter, I gathered myself, picked up the phone and called my husband to rush to my rescue. He was 30 minutes away.

So, another stand-off began. For about 10 minutes I stared at the snake as he did nothing but lifted his little serpent head and wiggled his tongue. I then decided to abort this little game and go into the house for awhile to wait on my husband.

And now friends, I fear you won’t believe the rest of the story, but if you could see me now, I’m holding up 3 fingers and swearing scout’s honor.

After a brief break indoors, I walked back outside to check on the status of The Villian, when there by the corner of my house was another snake. Yes, another one. Two snakes, alive, at the same time. In the same vicinity. I just about died. Died, I tell you. The second snake was yellowish and I knew it was harmless, but still the idea of living with a den of snakes is a bit unsettling to me.

I dialed my husband again, “THERE ARE NOW 2 SNAKES RIGHT HERE! TWO! DO YOU HEAR ME? I REPEAT 2 SNAKES!”

He was a bit aggravated at this point and said he would get here as soon as he could.

So I waited and I watched. The yellow snake slithered towards the first snake. The first snake decided he wanted no part of meeting a new friend and slithered across my path. And that’s when I had my chance. Raising my shovel mid-air, with a hearty Tawanda yell (Fried Green Tomatoes reference) I gave that snake a good whack. Unfortunately one whack barely did any damage. It just kind of stunned the fellow. So I kicked it into overkill and began madly whacking the snake repeatedly, issuing primal grunts the entire time. I just couldn’t stop.

After I caught my breath and allowed my heart rate to decline to at least 400 beats per minute, I glanced over to where Mr. Yellow was last seen. He was gone. Perhaps he witnessed the event and decided he better get the heck out of dodge if he knew what was good for him.

J-Dub arrived shortly after and confirmed that it was just a little old bull snake, completely harmless, perhaps even considered a good snake as far as good snakes go, and tossed it into the pasture where it is slowly rotting and crawling with ants as we speak.

TAWANDA!!

The Villian

A Villian is loose on the J&A Chicken Ranch tonight.

Mothers, hold your babies.

Men, gather up a posse.

There’s trouble. And I don’t think I’ll be sleeping until The Villian is captured.

Let me start at the beginning.

I let a cantaloupe go bad, so I decided to cut it up and take it to the chickens. So there we all were, me and the chickens, them enjoying their moldy treat, and me bawking at them, trying to carry on a conversation. Bawk, bawk, bawk.

When all of a sudden, I caught the movement out of my excellent peripheral vision. It didn’t take long for me to be up and alert, on my feet, like a jungle cat, well aware that very close to me and my chickens, a snake was slithering. A snake. My heart raced. My breath quickened. My fight or flight response kicked in.

What does a brave, strong, fearless country girl like me do in a situation like this?

Panic, that’s what.

I screamed. I ran to the house for the phone. I called my husband, only to get his dadgum voice mail.

Thoughts raced. The snake was little, a mere baby, with a head no bigger than my thumb. It was grayish, with black diamonds covering its back. I didn’t see a rattle, but baby rattlesnakes don’t always have rattles. It could be a Bull Snake. It was skinny, and I feared not for myself but for my chickens. He could easily squeeze his moldable body through the chicken wire, unhook its massive jaws and swallow a chicken in one gulp. I was sure of it.

Seconds ticked past. As The Villian surprisingly slowly crawled underneath a whole bunch of junk laying up near the saddle house, I searched frantically for a weapon and found a shovel. He was unattainable at this point. I could see his head, and his tail, but could reach neither.

So began the stand-off. I would wait him out. He’d have to come out eventually. And when he did, WHACK!!

He stared at me.

I stared at him.

He darted his forked tongue at me.

I darted mine back.

Then my cell phone rang. It was J-Dub. I informed him I was having a snake stand off. He advised me to leave him alone. But I insisted that The Villian must die. The chickens. I must protect my chickens. He was still lying underneath several branding irons, amidst stacks of bricks. My beloved tells me to get something long and poke it at him. And of course, he offers to come home and take care of The Villian. But I hate to bother a working man, so I tell him I’ll take care of it myself and hang up the phone.

Alone. Scared. Just The Villian and I.

We stare each other down some more. I decide against poking him. I’ve watched the Discovery Channel. I’ve seen snakes lash themselves out 70 feet with mouth spread wide and venom dripping off their fangs. I didn’t want to make him mad. I’m nonconfrontational after all. I prefer the surprise sneak attack: stand like a soldier until he crawled out, and surprise him with a shovel chop to the head.

Thirty minutes pass. The snake has fallen asleep, dreaming of chicken dinners. I, however, remain vigilant. I am ever alert.

Finally growing tired of standing in one place, I gather all the courage I can muster, and using my shovel I move around some branding irons. The Villian stirs. I’ve got him running scared now. I use my shovel again and manuever some more junk around. He moves some more. If only he would come out of his hiding place. If only he would stick his head out, I’d chop it off. I see myself raising my weapon, whacking his head clean off, I see his tail twitch, I see my prize kill lying before me. But instead he turns around and slithers off somewhere deep and dark. A hidey-hole of which I can not find. I lose The Villian. He roams free tonight.

Fathers, protect your daughters.

Chickens, sleep with one eye open.

Noughts and Crosses

Yesterday I popped off about teaching my chicken to beat me at tic tac toe. Maybe you didn’t pay attention to that comment or maybe you snickered or maybe you thought I was making stuff up.

When J-Dub mentioned playing tic tac toe against a chicken one time at a fair, I figured he was full of bologna. Which is standard fighting in our household.

Most of our wedded arguments are dumb factual duels in which he’s claiming truth to something like tic tac toe playing chickens, while I’m shaking my head at him, my mouth pursed in a determined grimace, my eyebrows creased, until he shouts “GOOGLE IT”! In which, afterwards, I must feign an apology and proclaim him the know it all of the universe, and then rub his feet.

Tic tac toe playing chickens do exist. Not only do they play tic tac toe, they win.

Currently, there are chickens playing Noughts and Crosses, as it used to be called, in casinos across the country. For 25 to 50 cents you can get beat by a chicken and leave with your ego bruised. These chickens are in a box like contraption, pushing buttons with lights next to them. Evidently they are trained with positive reinforcement. Give them a little chicken feed when they push the right button and they’ll play for hours. And win lots of quarters.

Having a trained chicken intrigues me. Not to make money of course, just to show off my chicken to friends and family and of course school children.

I’m wondering if Freedom has it in her to be an Xs and Os champeen.

What else might she be capable of?

The options are endless.

The sky’s the limit.

If only I had an inordinate amount of time.

And a really smart chicken.