ranch adventures – Page 3

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.

Picture of the Day

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?

Ranch Security

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Hank the Cowdog books by author John Erickson. Good ol’ Hank, Head of Ranch Security, can usually be found protecting the ranch from varmints and keeping everyone safe with his side-kick Drover.

Well here at the J & A Chicken Ranch we have our own head of ranch security by the name of Drew Miller.

Drew Miller was rescued by the animal shelter as a pup. My mom and niece Ashy picked out this little, cute ball of black and white fur. They were told by the shelter that he was probably a Border Collie. Well, he ain’t no Border Collie.

We don’t really know what he is.

Drew ended up at our house at about 6 or 7 months of age.

He’s a good, gentle boy most of the time. Except when there’s a varmint on the loose. I’ve seen a side of Drew on the attack that I don’t like seeing. He killed a mama possum once that I witnessed and am still having night sweats over. You can read about that murder here.

But that was a possum. They play dead. I mean, how hard is it to kill something that’s playing dead? Even Hank and Drover could do that.

Then there was the porcupine. You know those fights where one says, “You should see the other guy?” That’s what the porcupine was telling his friends back at the Prickly Pub.

Either last night or this morning, we had a very close call. After church I went out to tend to all the animals and there lying dead in the back yard about 3 feet from the house was a black and white animal.

Yep, you guessed it. A skunk.

My mama used to sing a little song to me when I was a little girl.

Black and white kitty, sitting in the woods. Isn’t that little kitty pretty?

I went right over to pick it up, but shooooo weeeeee, (pinch your nose here) it wasn’t that kind of a kitty.

I’ve never seen a skunk up close. For obvious reasons. I thought he would look more like Flower in the movie Bambi. Uh, No. Skunks are uuugggllly.

Drew killed that poor rascal in our backyard. And miracle of all miracles, it did not let off its stench. Had this been a Hank the Cowdog story, Hank would’ve gotten sprayed, tried to go home for supper, got run off from the house ’cause of his stink, and sent to live with the barbaric coyotes for a month till the smell finally wore off.

Which makes me envision Drew Miller, stealth-like, stalking that skunk, then pouncing before the poor fella could even defend himself.

Either that, or these 50 mph winds we’ve been having for 2 days are tricking us. Only time will tell.

Drew Miller, a.k.a. Killer, serving and protecting.

I think I’m going to get him a badge.

Try it, you’ll like it.

Wild West Willy called the other day. He said he was going to stop by after he milked a goat.

My ears perked up at the mention of goat milking.

If you’ve been a reader for very long, you might know goats are my next homesteading adventure. Just quick as I get these here chickens learnt good.

The problem with my goat adventure, is the fact that I’ve never drank goat’s milk. It would be a bad mistake to have a goat and hate her milk doncha think?

So when Wild West said he was milking a goat, I said, “Can you bring me a cup?” Unfortunately for me, this particular goat had an infection and her milk couldn’t be drank. My heart sank.

But then today, who should come driving up the path but Wild West with Tom the Goat Man, as a passenger. Just like Santa Claus, they reached into a cooler and pulled out not one, but two big jugs of goat’s milk.

“Geez Louise, I only wanted a cup!” I exclaimed.

Tom the Goat man gives me instructions: If you can’t drink all that in about 7 or 8 days, put a little salt in it. If it spoils, you can make cheese.

Okay. I’m sorry, but salt in my milk doesn’t sound good at all, and cheese made from spoiled milk doesn’t either. Although I realize spoiled cheese is probably what I’m eating on my grilled cheese sandwiches.

You know what I find strange? We are so conditioned to buying our food from the grocery store already “fixed” for us, that the idea of food raw from an animal is a little unsettling to me. Deep down I know it’s better for me nutritionally, but when I think hard about it, it’s a wee bit abhorrent. I must get over that.

The men drove off and my emotions kicked in about drinking goat milk.

I desperately want to like it. I desperately want to be a goat milker.

But I’m apprehensive. The last time I ate something from the goat farm, I contracted goat flu.

Questions flood my mind.

Am I gonna like it?

Is it gonna make me sick?

Is it gonna gross me out?

Will it be strong tasting?

Will it have an odor?

I open the container and peer inside.

It looks like milk.

I bend over and smell it.

It smells like nothing. Absolutely no odor at all.

I dip out a cupful with a measuring cup.

I rub my hands together, pick up the glass, close my eyes.

And sip.

Mmmmm.

I take another sip.

It’s creamy. It’s rich. It’s magically delicious. It tastes like milk from the store, only better.

Now, would someone please pass the cookies?

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.

It’s A Boy!!

It’s calving season out here on the Golden Spread.

Spring is in the air.

Trees are budding, tulips are blossoming, and heifers are birthing.

Heifers are young cows, first-time mamas. I might even be as bold as to call them teenage mothers. Unwed, teenage mothers. My husband says you have to watch heifers closely because some of them have a little bit of mothering instinct, but they also don’t know what they’re doing. For example, an old cow won’t leave their baby right after it is born, but a heifer might come a running at the feed truck, and then wig out when they realize they just left their baby. They’re inexperienced.

Because of their inexperience, a good cowboy will put them in a smaller pasture, close to some pens, and check on them sometimes twice a day, just in case one of them runs into trouble with calving.

Tonight J-Dub needed to check the heifers. So I tagged along. Only one time have I witnessed a calf birth, but it was under poor circumstances, and I would really like to see another one. No such luck tonight. We arrived right after the baby was born. Probably 15 minutes.

The mother and baby were off by themselves.

You can see the afterbirth has not completely been expelled. The mama cow was licking him and cleaning him up, which is a good sign and shows that she is going to accept him as her calf.

When she saw us driving through the gate, she got a little agitated and began bellowing at him and nudging him a bit aggressively. He hadn’t even stood yet and she was eager to get him up and out of there.

We didn’t stay long. It’s best to let nature have her way, and cows don’t send out birthing announcements. They like their privacy. So we headed home. As we were pulling off, I asked J-Dub if he could tell if it was a boy or a girl. He said it was a boy.

I came home to blog about this beautiful birth, and of course my pet chicken Freedom wanted out of the box. She was perched right on my hand and I was just typing away. I thought to myself, what a cute picture. I grabbed my phone to take a shot, trying to get Freedom, my hand, and the keyboard in view, and just as I was about to click the picture, Freedom squatted down and took a grunt right on my desk.

Look closely and you can see the squirt shooting out of her chicken butt.

Okay, laugh at me all you want.

It’s what I get for having house chickens.

My Peeps

The sweet little chicks aren’t very little anymore.

They are growing faster than anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if you can tell the difference in their size between the first and second picture, but it’s quite substantial in “real life”.

The first picture was their first day with me, the second was taken this week.

Here’s another picture for comparison. Here are two of them lying on a thermometer in the very corner of the box. The first one was taken when they were a couple of days ago. The second one was taken a couple of days ago. You can barely see the thermometer. Two of them almost cover it completely now.

It’s silly I know, but I am plumb smitten with their new tail feathers. At first they just had little rounded butts, but now these cute tails are emerging.

Not only are they growing, they are gaining some serious confidence and boldness in their flight ability.

I created a small perch for them in the box, which was probably a big mistake. But, thinking like a chicken, I thought they would like to roost on something. The perch serves the purpose well and also adds some extra height so they can fly to the top of the feeder and waterer. Once there, they strain their chicken necks as far as they can to look out. They want freedom!

The other day, I temporarily stored them in a smaller box while I carried their larger box outside to replace the straw. When I returned, here was this booger checking out the view from the cord of the heat lamp.

Jason called me the other day to report that one of them flew to the top of the feeder and then managed to fly to the edge of the box and perch there. I wish he would have gotten a picture but he didn’t.

We had to pull the box flaps up and tape them so they have more of an obstacle. I only hope they don’t conspire to use their perch as a pole vault and high tail it out of there. I’m currently on the lookout for a window screen to put over the box to keep them in.

These breeds of birds I purchased, (Buff Orpington, Barred Plymouth Rock, and Australorp), are dual purpose birds. Meaning they are good for both eggs and meat. I might wring their necks and fry them up if the notion strikes me. But it won’t. Not to worry.

They are heavy bodied birds and will weigh about 7 or 8 pounds full grown. They shouldn’t be able to fly too high because of their heavy bodies, so I don’t think I’ll need to clip their wings. Thank goodness.

We are enjoying these gals and spend much of our time sitting on a stool peering into their box watching their antics.

Here J-Dub holds a sweet baby chick in his rough, calloused hands. This picture is so precious to me. I could probably write a whole blog on it.

Maybe I will someday.

Just In: Chicken Fatality Report

They, whoever they are, say death comes in three’s. Since I last wrote about my chickens, one more has died, which brings the number of fatalities to 3. It was the little chick I was worried about before. The antisocial black one with a little yellow spot on its head who stood in the corner and stared. She didn’t even get a proper burial in the chicken cemetery. I watched J-Dub carry her by her legs and toss her over the barbed wire fence into the pasture. Apparently, we’ve become desensitized to chicken death. It’s just the way it goes. My husband says, “If you’re gonna deal with livestock, you’re gonna deal with death.” He’s right. Nothing lives forever. And what is it that old Augustus McCrae says in Lonesome Dove when young Sean gets bitten all over with water moccasins, “Life’s short. Shorter for some than others.”

But I must admit it’s a bit embarrassing to confess how many I have lost. I feel like it’s my fault. The first thing people say when they see me is not Hi, How are You, but rather,”So how many chicks have died now?” And then they look at me like I have Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy or something. I am hoping the death spree is over. One died on Wednesday, one on Thursday, and one on Friday. I now have 14 surviving chickies, and I’m feeling pretty dern good about the health of these 14. I haven’t seen Ol’ Spaz, the seizure thrower, convulse in a couple of days, and Molasses, the one who got trapped under the water trough seems to be doing just fine. I even think she may not be as bow-legged as she once was. Truthfully, I can’t even recognize her anymore. I’m confident these 14 will survive. At least until I put them outside and a chicken hawk or bull snake gets a hold of them. But for now, they are safe and sound in my spare bedroom. For now.

I get a kick out of them. They are quite enjoyable and provide many laughs for us. When I put fresh straw in their box, if by chance there is a little piece of seed head that even faintly resembles a bug, one of them snags it up and starts running, thinking they’ve really found a treasure that they’re not sharing. As soon as the other chicks catch on that their sister has a jewel, they begin chasing her around trying to nab it. They start grabbing at that little seed head, pecking it from each other’s mouth, even playing a little game of tug o’ war, all the while, peeping loudly.

After watching this sport, I got a little nerve and decided to give them something “real”. Something they would forage for in the yard. A tasty morsel to fight over. I scraped some mud off the bottom of a big flower-pot and found 4 earthworms. Scrumptious, juicy, wiggling earthworms. I took the smallest I could find and tossed it in their box. At first, 2 or 3 chicks circled the worm taking turns pecking at it. They displayed a little curiosity, but not any real gumption. Not until this bold little chick walked right up, pushed her way through the circle, grabbed the worm in her beak with one peck and away she scrambled with the others right on her tail feathers. After a couple of circles around the box, a zig, a zag and a fake-out, she quickly found a spot in the corner, tipped her head back, and swallowed the worm right down her gullet. Thinking she was Hot Stuff, she strutted around, sharpening her beak on the box. In a few minutes, the others laid down for a nap, but not Hot Stuff, she was loaded up with protein and feeling fine and frisky.

I have since put in a couple more worms, and every time a few of them circle and peck until Hot Stuff struts in, nabs the worm and eats it whole. The funny thing is she’s the smallest of the bunch, but definitely the most fearless. It will be interesting to see if she turns out to be the most dominant chick in the coop.

Well folks, that’s it for today.

Tune in next time for more Tales From the Chicken Ranch for the latest fatality report and our special segment, “What’s on the Menu?”

Until Next Time,

Chicky Mama