Tag Archives: raising chickens

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.

I’m Not Gonna Hurt You, I Only Want to Chew On Your Neck.

 

The J&A Chicken Ranch, the place I call home, is stocked with 2 dogs and 14 chickens. 

Natural enemies, they are. 

The dogs live in the fenced backyard and the chickens live in a chicken pen and garden shed close to the backyard.  Somedays I like to let the dogs out, and somedays I like to let the chickens out, which leaves a logical deduction that someday they’re going to be out at the same time.  I would hate to raise my chicks to survive the  bitter cold, dangerous chicken hawks, and an owner that leaves them crushed under the water tub all day, only to be massacred by tame dogs.

I’ve been trying to think of a way to introduce the dogs to the 9 week old chickens.

My practical approach has been taking the dogs to the chicken pen, shaking my finger, and yelling “NO, NO, NO!” for at least 3 hours at a time.

My husband thinks no matter how many times I do that, if they are ever left alone, Drew Miller will kill them. 

Drew Miller is my killer hound, my head of ranch security, notorious ’round these parts for polishing off possums, slaughtering skunks, and going a couple rounds with any porcupine dumb enough to stick a bunch of quills in his face.

When Drew Miller sees the chickens, he tenses, his ears go up, drool runs from his massive jowls, but  when I give him the finger shake and the NO, NO, NO technique, he becomes disinterested, wags his long, powerful tail, and meanders off. 

Grace, on the other hand, stares them down.  She is on point, which doesn’t make any sense to me since she is a Heeler. 

She won’t break eye contact with the chickens.  She watches their every move.  I think if given the opportunity, she might kill my chickens.  J-Dub says she will only chase them.

I must make the dogs understand that I love these chickens.  I’m trying to train them by going into the chicken pen and holding the chickens, talking to them, and petting them.  The dogs just watch.  I’m not sure they understand.   I think they’re jealous.

They’re certainly curious of them.  They haven’t acted aggressively toward the chickens yet, but I don’t trust them.  No siree Bob.  I’ve got some more work to do on training my dogs to love my chickens as much as I do.  Or rather, less than I do.  I’d be content if they’d just leave them be.

Teaching old dogs new tricks has taken on a whole new meaning for me.

UP

Remember when Freedom was just a baby, trying to fly out of the box?

Now here she is perched on my foot, while my leg is crossed.

But that’s not high enough.  So to my knee she flutters.

Next is the arm of the chair I’m sitting in.

Then the back of the chair that she runs me out of.  She just can’t quite get high enough. 

She’ s a bit of a nuisance.  If I squat to familiarize myself with the other chickens, she flies on my back or pecks me in the butt.

But it’s okay, I’m a bit of a free bird myself. 

Although she’s only a chicken, if we look close enough I think there’s a lesson to be learned from this Barred Plymouth Rock hen-to-be. 

Don’t stay down low with all the other peeps pecking around for the same ol’ piece of grain life throws you.

If you got a dream or a goal in sight: 

Wake up.

Then look up.

Reach up.

Then flap your wings and flutter up.

If you don’t make it the first time, cheer up.

Flap your wings harder and keep it up.

Never give up.

There’s a perch somewhere just for you, and you’ll look good sitting on it.

Cock-a-doodle-dude?

I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars or Gray’s Anatomy or American Idol.  Instead of sitting in front of the idiot box, I spend my evenings with chickens.  Yes I realize it leaves the question, “who is the real idiot here?”   They’re my form of entertainment.

Covered in feathers, with feet like E.T., and mostly green eyes, they are growing quite rapidly and are now in the stage of developing their combs and wattles. 

All my girls are maturing into fine young hens. 

Here they are preening,

and fluffing themselves.

Of course, Freedom just wants to sit in my lap all the time.

And then there’s this one.

This one is quite suspicious to me.

As you can see, if you look very, very closely, the black Australorps are barely developing their combs and wattles, like this one.

But this one.  See?  See how red and pronounced his, er I mean her, er I mean his, er her, wattle and comb are.

See the suspicious character in the back compared to the lady in the front. 

Do I have a rooster on my hands?

I think my secret desire might come to fruition.

Have I mentioned my secret desire?  My deep, dark desire?

No, you say?  Well perhaps now is the best time to break the news.

I secretly hope I have a rooster.

Sorry and Thank You

Sorry.

I’m sorry about yesterday’s post. I whined and complained and had a pity party. You came here for an enjoyable read, and got a mess of moping around instead.  I will try not to let that happen again.  I’m ashamed. 

Today I am better.  Much, much better.  I received some wonderful advice from readers, and I have decided I’m not taking a break from blogging.  Not yet anyway.  I know myself too well.  I know from past experience (read exercising here) when I decide to take a break for a day, it often turns into 2, then 5, then 45.  I don’t want that to happen with my blog.  So on terribly hard days I may just post a quote or a picture, suggested by my sister.   I hope you’ll understand.

One thing that makes me happy is great friends and wonderful blog comments. 

You know what else makes me happy?  A good book.

You know what else makes me happy?  Chickens. 

Here is a picture of my chicken coop.

Haha!  Gotcha!  That is a picture of my dream coop.

This is my real coop before it was a coop.  I’d show you a better picture, except I don’t have one.  So mentally take the trash out of the yard, the fishing net out of the shed,  and put chickens all around.  It looks just as bad as a coop as it did before.

 

I was going to work very hard and make this as adorable as the dream coop, but it is a long way from the house out where the boogers live, I would have to haul water, and it needed time-consuming work.  The chickens were growing, my house was stinking, and we needed a chicken house STAT, so instead, we turned the old garden shed which sits right next to the house into the temporary coop.  Repeat after me, THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY.  Famous last words. 

We built a covered chicken yard around the garden shed coop so they can get out and play in the sunshine.  Each evening I shut them up inside their coop and every morning I open the door so they can come out and play while I’m at work.  

But because I am as red-necked and as white trashy as the next girl, I hung an old blue and white sheet with swirlies just inside the coop to help keep the wind out of the crack when the doors don’t quite shut all the way.  Every morning when I open the doors, I bundle the sheet up into a wad and stuff it into a place above the doorway.  The next time I head to The Walmarts I’ll buy some tiebacks.  But for now, stuffing it in a crack and crevice seems to be working out.

Today, however, the sheet-curtain had fallen, blocking the exit to the play yard.  The chicks were “cooped” up all day.  When I lifted the curtain, they came a running.  They sure were glad to get out.  It was almost as if they were glad to see me, even.  

We hung out for a while and played chick, chick, goose.  It’s kind of like duck, duck, goose, but less offensive to the chicks.   I was always “it”.  They’re hard to catch.

Well, my oven just dinged.  My chicken (yikes) pot pie is ready.  I am happy to be home eating a pot pie and relaxing for a few moments.

And remember, friends are good and God is great and laundry will keep, so enjoy your evening.  I know I am.

A Dirty Bath

We’ve crossed a milestone here at the J&A Chicken Ranch. The chickens spent their first night outside last night. As one friend said, they made their maiden voyage. 

Yes dear friends, the little boogers are growing up.  They are spreading their wings and getting the heck out of dodge.

You mustn’t ever let J-Dub know I told you, but I do believe he was more worried about them than I was.  We stood in their coop, with chickens at our feet,  checking their temperature, watching their behavior, plugging up drafts.  The temperature was going to drop into the mid thirties.  He said he thought they should come in for the night.  I questioned him.  “Are you worried about them?”  He replied, “I’m worried about you.”   Sure you are J-Dub, sure you are.

I convinced myself they would be alright.  They were predator-proofed, heat-adjusted, fed and watered.  I went to bed.  But before I could allow my conscience to rest, I googled what age chickens can live outside,  just to double-check that they would be okay.  Last night, we put 14 chickens to bed.  This morning, at 7:00 there were 14 chickens alive and well.  Yea! 

I am beginning to understand the term chicken however, after watching these birds.  They are scaredy-chickens.  They would rather stay in their coop and not venture into their chicken yard.  Twice today, me and Ashy had to go in and throw them all out of the coop so they could get some outdoor time. 

I played hookey from church today (don’t tell the preacher) and enjoyed some time at home this morning.  It’s hard to believe that I can waste nearly 3 hours watching chickens and reading magazines, but I can.  Although Freedom is black and white like the others, she is a chicken of a different color.  She enjoys outside and often is the only one pecking around.  I got such a fright today as she began to do something I hadn’t yet witnessed. 

Had I not previously read ahead, I would have thought she was spazzing.  

She was only taking a dirt bath.  Yeah, I know that sounds like an oxymoron.  Chickens like to do this.  They dig a shallow hole, kick up some dirt, waller around a bit, and get dirty.  “They” say it helps keep the bugs and mites off of them.  “I” would like to think it cools them off a little too.

Dust baths are where me and chickens relate.  Since I’ve been living outside of town, dirt has become my second skin.  I have given up trying to look pretty.  When I wear makeup, it shortly becomes caked with dirt.  It’s in my hair, my eyes, my mouth, my toenails, my belly button. 

It’s on my floor, my dressers, my computer, my canisters, my Raisen Bran. 

It reminds me of a little saying I’ve heard before, “God made dirt, and dirt don’t hurt.”

The chickens don’t need to be reminded of this. 

So why should I?

One Step Closer to Coopdom

The chicks are 4 weeks old this week and are slowly being prepared for their new outdoor home.

This weekend we worked on the chicken pen, and it won’t be long until they must spread their wings and fly from this chicky mama’s box in the bedroom out into the coop and the big, wide world.    

I’m exposing them to the outside more and more.  The perils and dangers, the fun and frolic.  The Scot’s Fertilizer that I forgot I sprinkled on the lawn the day before.

If the wind isn’t blowing too badly, we take a daily outing.

I have yet to introduce them to the dogs.  Drew Miller had better learn some manners first.

Unbeknownst to him, a chicken sandwich is not on his menu.  He is sticking with the Ol’ Roy.

While most chicks are content to explore the ground, pecking about, not Freedom, my little pet.

Freedom marches to a different beat.  She’s got a quirky personality and is quite the loner. 

Although she loves people and gravitates to them, in the flock she can usually be found off by herself.   She’s not too crazy about her pen mates.

I sat in one of my white Adirondack chairs to keep a close eye on them.

 

Freedom decided to crawl up the other chair and sit next to me.  Don’t you wish she sat back, stretched out her feet and put on her big red sunglasses?

 

She stayed there a good long while soaking up the sun,  until she began wondering how in the world she was going to get down.

She stood there contemplating the situation and finally managed in her graceful chicken way, with wings flailing.

I am still enjoying these happy little chicks but I’m anxious to get them out of the box and into their pen.

My house stinks.

All Fowled Up

 Remember this little fellow?

Henery Hawk from Looney Tunes. 

“I’m a chicken hawk and I smell chicken.”  His agenda was to catch a chicken. 

Even though this cartoon was all fun and games, tonight I discovered this is a real life problem in my world.

I know there is a hawk around this place where I live.  Probably more than one.  Sometimes I see him sitting on top of an electrical pole, scouting for a field mouse or a snake in the prairie.  Other times I see him swooping and flying low, at times hovering above the pasture grasses.  I suspect he’s the one who killed the guinea bird that lived here when we bought the place. 

Maybe you’ll remember the guinea bird who got hung up in the fence and broke his leg.  Soon after, feathers were everywhere and he was something’s dinner.  Probably the hawk. 

I’m very aware that I need to protect my chicks from predators, hawks being one of them.  I am hoping, however, that they won’t be a terrible problem.

I took my girls outside again today for some fresh air and exercise. 

They were happy little peckers, enjoying the fenced in yard.

Every couple of minutes, I did a quick headcount to make sure none had run through the gap between the pickets of the fence.

They seemed to be staying put, so I left the yard to go just a few feet to feed the horses.  Then I fed the dogs. 

I glanced over the fence, pointing as I counted chicken heads.  They were all accounted for.  Still pecking around the grass, attempting to fly, and exploring the world outside.  Innocent of all things evil.

I needed to get a bucket of fresh straw to put in their box before I took them in.  The hay is in the next pasture.  They would be fine.  I would only be gone a minute.  What could possibly go wrong?

I headed out with my bucket, fully aware of the danger they were in being left unattended.

Bending over to gather the straw, it was then that I noticed it.  The ominous black shadow of outstretched wings.  I gazed upward and saw the hawk, soaring, gliding through the sky.

A surge of panic overtook me.  I envisioned my whole flock being annihilated in one fell swoop.  That’s probably not likely, but you know how your mind runs away in a moment of panic.

I began to run.  Sprinting through the pasture with a bucket of straw, staring at the sky, wondering if I could outrun a hawk, considering hollering and waving my arms.  I must have looked like a complete goonie bird to my neighbor who of course, drove down the road at that exact time.

I managed to get to the yard, despite sucking wind.  Heart pounding, I grabbed up the chicks two or three at a time, put them in a box, chased the last lone one for a good 70 seconds, and dragged them safely in the house.

They’re sleeping peacefully now.  Completely unaware of the danger they narrowly escaped. 

They may never leave the house again.

Dang  that chickenhawk.

The Great Outdoors

 

This chickie mama act is turning out to be a harder gig than you might imagine.

The chicks are growing faster than hairs out of an old man’s ear. 

They have outgrown their square box, and I found it necessary to cut two boxes and tape them together at the ends to make a larger container. 

They seem a bit bored being stuck in a box all the time, so I found a brave bone in my body and decided to briefly expose them to the grass in my front yard.

Er, weeds in my front yard.

Allow them some fresh air, exercise, and curiosity.

I was home alone.  I grabbed Freedom and headed out the door.

It turns out, she’s mentally challenged. 

I set her down in the grass, and she stood there, still as a statue.  I gave her a small nudge to get her moving, but she did not seem interested in the outdoors at all.

“She must be retarded,” I thought.  I couldn’t imagine why she wasn’t pecking the ground, rummaging for bugs.  So I went in and found a different chick.

This one is Bookworm, named after my school librarian Marie.  Since she loves to eat worms, Marie suggested I name her Bookworm.

I hate to break it to you Marie, but she’s dumb.  I even set her near an antbed and she never even glanced their way. 

She just sat down, frozen in the yard.

I took Bookworm in and grabbed a yellow chick. 

Same song, different verse.  She didn’t walk around, peck the ground, or anything either.

I decided they couldn’t all be retarded, that just goes against the odds.  I considered sticking my nose in the dirt and showing them how to peck the ground, but it didn’t take long to learn that wasn’t a good idea after all .  My thoughts continued, maybe they needed a friend with them. They’re probably nervous all alone.  They are flock birds after all.

So the next day, when my niece was there to help me, I tried two at a time.

They did much better and started exploring.  See Freedom’s little tail?  I’m in love with it.

J-Dub came home and I told him about our outdoor adventure. 

The next day, he helped me take them all outside while I changed the litter in their box.

They are so funny.  We got a kick out of watching them attempt to fly, peck around, and fuss with each other.

Even Deuce came over to check out the chicks.  Typical male.

Then it was time to catch them to put them back in their box.

For the most part, they all stayed together huddled up.  But when the human hands began reaching down to grab them, tail feathers went up, and scurrying and peeping began.

We were able to grab them all, with lots of laughs, until the last one.  It was not keen on getting caught.  There were three of us humans running around a small fenced-in yard, pursuing a chicken.  We couldn’t hardly catch it for laughing so hard.  You’ve probably seen a cartoon exactly like it.  J-Dub reached down with both hands ready, and caught a fist full of air as the little chick  ran between his legs. 

After several attempts, she was nabbed and back in the box.

Great family fun was had by all.

I can’t wait for the weather to warm up, for their feathers to all grow in, and  more laughs to come as we watch them grow.