Approach/Aversion

It being the Festive season, I decided that cold brick under naked toes wasn't as appealing as a nice cheap slab of red indoor-outdoor until spring, when all good chickens should be out trimming their claws on the natural gravel surface that has become my yard.
At one time, I dreamt of a yard full of flowering bushes, established shrubbery and dense perennials.
I have been working on this for years.
Then I got chickens.
The dream, and the plants are gone.
The first thing the hens did the day I brought them home; they weren't even laying yet - was to demolish the day lilies.
Day lilies.
NOTHING can kill day lilies.
except chickens.
Well.
Not kill them exactly,
But profoundly depress them.
Anyhow, I put a rug down, and Buck came in with his girls to get out of the rain and stopped dead at the edge of the rug.

This was followed by some ritual clumping

Then, getting beyond the fact of a Red Sea where once had been familiar brick, it did have to be admitted that the grapes in the center made giving it a try worth it.

              well.........

Not so bad after all......                 

He had to kick the grapes off the rug for the girls, though.  They were not feeling adventurous.

However,

After they had gone and left offerings behind,

there was nothing festive looking about the rug anymore.

I wonder if it can even BE cleaned?

My Bad.

It was impatience.  At the Solstice, the chickens were putting themselves to bed at about 4:15 which worked out really well for my shopping and social schedule.
Last night I fidgeted on the deck at 4:20 wondering why they were still clumped around the yard near to coop, as is their wont before bedtime, but not going in.  I really wanted to go and get some cheese, so I told them that I would just close their door when I came back.
Got to the store and scored the cheese as well as a big box of vegetables that they were tossing out, including 4 mangoes and about 2 lbs of asparagus, came home and found the door already closed.
I do not have neighbors at the moment, and when I do they have to be bribed to come and close my chickens' door for me.
I knelt down on the frozen, guano covered ground to see about 3 sq' of feathers all wedged in to the corner of the underside of the coop.
I felt like an evil chicken steward.
Here it is the coldest night we've had so far, and I had left the door closed, forcing the chickens to roost in a dangerous and freezing location while I thought about cheese.
When chickens have been asleep for a little while, they act as though they'd gotten into the Valium.  I had a hoe and a broom, 2 implements that normally get a serious rise out of Buck, but I was not having much success in chivvying them out from under the coop so that I could grab them.
One at a time, I hauled them out, put them into their house, and listened to them have a discussion about what they had just endured.
Chickens are like groups of girlfriends, needing to process everything that happens, and telling the stories over and over again. They don't forget anything.  They embellish each telling with loving detail of grievance and triumph.
Buck too.

tweet. Tweet: ......TWEET! I said: "TWEEEEEET!!!"

Buck is standing outside my window yelling and I'm trying to think...  It's an intensive path laced with quagmires [laundry, dishes] prickly bits [phone calls from relatives] and other blockages [Holiday Cheer].
What does that bird want?  He has a heated coop.  He has 7 hens, some of whom hang around and invite his attentions.

 He has a heated water bowl. He has cat food.
 He has chicken food, he has grapes and greens from the local organic boutique and today, he even has sunshine.
This what I think:  I think he began life as an abused chicken and an unwelcome rooster among many roosters who didn't make it to be as old as he is.
[ I still have no clear idea how old that is but he has had to be around awhile to get to be a 12 lb 20" cock.]
The roots of his raisin' are still generating thoughts of imminent lay-offs, termination of health insurance, foreclosure, divorce and incarceration even in spite of all available evidence.
True, humans are a chancey bunch, can't really be trusted, they walk around in red shoes and carry brooms.  Reminds him of that scene in "Cool Hand Luke" where the famous line is first said.
"What we have here, is a failure to communicate."
I like to think of the chain gang boss in red shoes, but I digress.
[pause while I go to find out what in hell that chicken is on about.........]
Later:The answer,
is coffee.
I decided to make espresso, and he could smell it when I put some food out on the back porch by the kitchen, and has not forgotten.  How terribly unfair for some people to be getting high and not sharing the wealth with other shorter, feathered types.

I just don't like to share the results.

Boxing Day

Christmas is over, the chickens ate their grapes, the cats had fish and I ate too much apple crisp.
There is a light coating of white ice over everything, so the hens danced their way to the porch this morning after finally deciding that food trumped warmth.  I have to find a way to provide food for them in their coop that they won't just take a dump in.  It gets expensive to buy lovely organic pellets and not be able to put them in a feeder.  It gets work intensive.  I think they would like it if I stood there, dropping handfuls of food on the ground at exactly the rate of speed comfortable for them to eat it, and not expect them to take any responsibility for their table manners.
They are leaning against the side of the house where it is warm  and singing to each other, Buck is lying down, feels completely safe and can take a load off.  I like seeing them happy to hang around and be messy and self indulgent, not caring what anyone thinks of the way they live.
 It's what everyone should do on the day after Christmas.

Where are the chickens in the nativity scene?

I mean to say.  There are sheep.  There are goats.  There are cows.  There are burros.  Where are the chickens?
When Buck first came here trussed up so tightly he could barely breathe, and stuffed into a red bag he had reason to be pissed.  He's been here now for about 6 months and still finds reason to take issue with things like my choice of shoes, handbags or the speed I'm moving.  He has taught me that sometimes standing still is a good idea.  I think there's some progress though, and I'm glad to think there is, but it's never productive to expect it to be a regular thing.
Yesterday I got down on the ground at chicken level.  It's not a brave as it sounds. I was on one side of a sliding glass door and he was on the other, sometimes when that is going on, he pecks at the window.  This time he just stood there on one foot and carefully looked me over.  Most of the girls were there, and they stared at me evenly as well, with no wild eye dilation and contraction.  I'm not sure why they do that, but I have come to recognize it as a sign of alarm.
I have had people tell me chickens are stupid.
They aren't.
I have had people tell me that kicking them when they attack is ok, and it doesn't hurt them.
I'm not going to try that one out.
What I have found is that chickens are very sensitive, aware and have a memory of who has been a problem for them, and who gives them grapes.
Still, Buck is not beyond bullying someone closer to his size like my granddaughter, who has done nothing but be an easy target.
Sometimes it looks as though he's playing a game with us, but we have to learn the rules as we are going along, and every now and then, he adds something new.  It's a testament to the good view that chickens have of themselves that they will challenge someone many times their size.  There is a real power differential here, and if chickens had ancestral memory in addition to a personal one, they would organize a revolt against the human oppressors.  The trouble is that anyone who is not human and stands up to a human faces extinction.  It's a brave chicken or one that is confident of safety, or doesn't give a rat's ass either way that will continue to be a nuisance.  I'm still entertained by the UPS man, 6'4", afraid of Buck.  It just gives him the idea that he is The Big Chicken.
Surely, there would have been chickens coming to see the Messiah.
They are curious about everything else.

I got spurs that jingle jangle jingle....

Buck needs a pedicure.
Or perhaps whatever substitute there is for chicken grooming.
Now his tail feathers are grown back, and his comb is bright red, he is robust, rotund and yet fast as hell crossing the yard.
Whoever had him before must have held him down & snipped back his spurs because they were not pointy this summer.
They are pointy now, though.
It's fairly inconvenient to walk around the yard if I've forgotten to carry treats, bribes, brooms or other distractions and defenses.
Buck & the Ladies have determined that it is the van that brings the big boxes of lettuce and other random delicious bits.   I'm thinking that is why they are found milling around the van but not the Prius.  I have never had them trying to get in to the Prius but I often find them roosting in the van if I've been careless enough to leave it open.
Getting in to the van, for me, is a challenge when it is surrounded by chickens.  Especially, Buck.
I wonder, did Alfred Hitchcock know something about chickens?  Other than using bits of their noises to convey the idea of threats and plots by crows and seagulls.  I remember the part where they all clumped around the cars when people were trying to leave, but my chickens don't look as threatening as they do hopeful.  The hens, anyhow.
Buck looks indignant unless he's being fed a continuous supply of grapes, greens, kibbles and fresh water.
And there are those spurs......

Chicken Etiquette

I just finished reading a bit about how to introduce chickens to one another. It happened here, but it certainly didn't take a week.  More like 6 weeks.
The article about introducing new chickens into an established flock ended with "We are so happy that you have decided to raise chickens!!"  I have met people who decided to raise chickens, or keep chickens but I don't fall into that category.  If it weren't for Buck, I wouldn't have chickens, they would have gone to live with Rosamund & Cayce & Ingrid in Wilton when they moved.  Thing is, they told me that they would be eating Buck, and I just felt as though he didn't deserve to be eaten just for being a rooster.  It's not as though he would be digestible even.  I watched him race across the yard today when I came home, intent of getting a chance to launch into my footwear before I got to the house.  I stood still so he stopped about 16" shy of me.  He pecked at the bag I carried, but his heart wasn't in it.  It was as though he rampaged over and then forgot what he was on about.  He pretended to take a deep interest in a bit of fluff he found on the ground nearby until I moved again, and then he put on some speed.  I stopped, turned and said "Red Light!" and he stopped too.  He looked over his shoulder, examined his wing feathers for symmetry, and rushed at me again when I took some steps toward the door.  I was near a repository of fresh lettuce and cabbage leaves, reached over, grabbed a handful and distributed them liberally.  He made some appreciative noises, called the hens, and all was forgiven.  I'm sure he would be happier if I were smarter.

Don't get too comfortable.

This is the real cruelty of nature: A nice day.
It's sunny, warmish, certainly by December standards, and the chickens are lolling about in the leaves, scratching up what's left of my perennial garden...... now there was a waste of cash - and examining all the things that escaped their notice the last time they  went through the yard.  I think they are trying to fit in every ounce of sunshine and fresh air before winter comes down like a hammer again.
They are so cheerful about the weather when it is charming, and just like everyone else when it isn't.  They are an improvement on humans in this way.

I found  one of those big convex mirrors that are used at intersections to reveal traffic blind spots and which most drivers ignore.  I placed it near one of their favorite locations and watched them admire themselves.  For once, Buck was uninterested.  He will not be fooled again.  The first time he saw a mirror he attacked it.   The second time he walked away grumbling.  As I crossed the yard holding this thing, the size of a satellite dish, he just stood there glaring at me refusing to move off the walk.  Maybe he thought I dared to challenge his authority by bringing another big handsome chicken into the yard.  Not a chance.

Rehab Redux

Anyone remember the lambert, Hendricks & Ross rendition of "Gimme That Wine"?  rewrite the lyrics for these chickens, "Gimme those grounds, unhand that compost! " and you get a clear picture of the mood around here since I began sorting the organic garbage.
It's not enough that I use fossil fuels traveling from one food store to the other begging for leftovers that have passed the date set by the FDA.  They eschew lettuce, kale and apples for coffee if they can.
Chickens have this in common with the other fleshy 2 leggeds.  They would prefer a high over nutrition and need someone to remind them that health and well being rely on sunshine, fresh air and vegetables.  Not on hanging around the van trying to distract and them ambush me on my way to the dump.
Buck creates a diversion.
I drop the bag and go looking for a shield.
The hens open the garbage and talk amongst themselves as they hunt for coffee grounds.
I would let them have their way if they didn't display altered behavior after eating coffee grounds that I think puts their safety in danger.  Challenging cars, for example.
A little caffeine and they believe they are in charge.
Buck in particular.
It's difficult enough to discourage such thinking when they aren't high.

No Blue Blood in This Chicken.

SUCCESS!   Everyone came out of one coop this morning, and they all still had their feathers and no signs of frostbite.
Of course, I was up all night worrying about the new heater in the coop, even though it was designed for a chicken coop.
Chickens are crafty and inventive and will always find a way to destroy a new thing in their coop while investigating its properties.
My one hen who likes to roost in an enclosed area on the ground was the only one who had complaints this morning, she had crammed herself into the corner nesting box with her eggs [I think she sucks them back up and moves them with her from place to place] and didn't want to come out until it was clear that the food and water was outside - at least the interesting food and water.
Buck has developed a new habit of lurking by the door and stealing my shoes and throwing them off the side of the porch.  He has gnawed the utility broom to a nubbin and no human may safely cross the yard unless armed with lettuce and a stick.

I have solved the mystery of Buck's spike in disagreeable behavior.  I think.
I was composting the espresso grounds and then I stopped.
Yesterday I left an untouched cup of coffee in my car which froze overnight.  This morning I was in a hurry, needed the cup holder for my water bottle, so I threw the coffee out on to the ground to retrieve later.  All the chickens stood up straight with a look in their eyes that suggested they had caught the strains of heavenly music and ran like hell over to the car, swarming around the cup of frozen coffee and fought over it.
This also explains why they cluster near the van and keep checking the tires.

Blue Comb

Today, catching the weather report, I knew that I really couldn't put off doing something about the coop temperature another night.  The morning after the last night we had when the temperature went down to 25 degrees, Buck came out with a blue tipped comb.
I spent some time on a website about chickens asking questions, but I was advised to give him electrolytes and antibiotics.
That is already a very spoiled chicken, diet-wise, and I just don't believe that he needs electrolytes.  Antibiotics I have talked about previously.  Unless it's life or death, they are right out.  I'm certainly not going to hold a chicken down, particularly one as evil tempered and with as long a memory and thirst for evening scores as Buck and squirt antibiotics down his throat.   The following week I'll be dosing him w/probiotics.
Not happening.
As it warmed up, his comb turned reddish again, so I could see that it was really time to bolt that ceramic heater to the wall and figure out how to keep the cord from being pecked into a fire hazard.  I bored a hole in the floor of the coop, and passed the cord through a piece of pipe that fits in there, elbows around to reach the extension cord under the coop.  The chickens are far too curious to leave anything exposed.  There can't be anything that their beaks can gain purchase on, or they will tear it to bits.
The whole flock of hens is now unified under Buck.  He runs around them trying to get a little sugar equally.  No hen is left out or ignored.  They don't seem to consider it a compliment, but more the price to pay to get the benefits of safety in numbers.
Tonight after people [Avian-Americans] went into roost I collected the stragglers from the shed and popped them into the coop one at a time.  As they went in, they were greeted with no raised voices.  They were received with sounds of recognition and acceptance.  I heard no squawking, nor protests, just more of the usual before bed pillow talk.
I am hopeful.
Maybe I will get my shed back, now.

It's just the beginning - get over it.

A dusting of frozen ice greeted me this morning.  A disappointment after going to sleep to the hopeful sound of rain on the roof.
Buck and his red ladies came out and immediately went underneath the coop.  First Buck put his beak out and announced that the ground was unpleasant.  He made a noise I haven't heard before, not a growl or critical observation as usual, more of a monosyllabic noise with an inflection of "This is precisely what I was trying to avoid!"
In Avian American it was: "grrrah"  duration, one second, repeated after a 3 second interval.
Becky & Mae refused to leave the shed, Becky came out hours later when the sun came out and things had warmed a bit.
Mae, with steely eye, sat on eggs.  A waste of time in this cold.
Barbie likes to fly out of the shed, but when she landed she yelled "PIP" and jumped up in the air. She continued to do this until she got over to the un-sawed tree limbs near the coop.  She stood there complaining while the bridge club ran full speed for the porch where there would be dry shelter, sun, food and water.  I picked her up to deliver her to the flock  She seemed fine with that, no wiggling, no protesting.
By that time, Buck had led everyone who would follow toward the front yard until he saw me holding a chicken.  That seemed to spark his enthusiasm, and he ran back to the porch to have a word with me about it, all his girls running after him with  wings outspread.  I put Barbie down near the food and stepped briskly into the house behind the sliding glass door.  Buck pecked at it a few times and having made his point, bustled off.

This Means War

I am not in the habit of raking in the fall.  I'm usually too tired, and leave it for the Spring when the idea of moving rocks, clearing land and hurting myself seems romantic.  So much hope for a garden that always disappoints me by August;  so much time and money spent imagining a beautiful yard that I can get a rotator cuff injury patting myself on the back for.  Last Spring was the same.  Then I got chickens.
Chickens are destructive.
I had a little white stone feature with a statue.  I had collected the stones from beaches for decades.  I had shells gleaned from shores all over New England and a nice generic statue of Mary all arranged amid the glacial erratics whose tips poke out of the earth in my front yard.
Now I'm finding shells and little pearly stones as far away as 50 feet from where I left them.
Chickens can't leave anything alone.
The real reason the timer doesn't work is that they get at it with their beaks and reset everything.
Sometimes, they disconnect it and hide it under the woodpile.
They don't get that it's there for their convenience, and if they could get that, they wouldn't care.
Chickens like to have things that they have moved left where they left them.
They are like me in this.
It's an impulse I'm in sympathy with.
However, I'm buying the food around here, and so I think I have some rights.
We have been having an Autumn that is so much like Spring, daylilies are sprouting and some things have decided to bloom again.   The gooey front walk, combined mud, chicken droppings and uneaten lettuce is probably not very good Feng Shui, so I was out in the lovely 60 degree weather raking it again.
I had given up raking as a bad job because Buck would just come around with his brigade of females and get to work kicking all the leaves back on to the walk.
I reported this in a previous post - he is still determined to have the front yard evenly carpeted with leaves.
Today I raked and swept the walk 3 times, the third time, taking the leaves far, far away.

Still Here

Buck is still here, still rampaging, I have not cooked him, though he seems to have a misunderstanding about my motives.

Bit by bit, the new chickens have assimilated, they began flocking together during the day about 10 days ago, and now they all hang out together during the day, but night is another story.
Pearl realized that bullying the new hens was not only a good way to let off steam, but also to gain status.  Now, no longer at the bottom of the pecking order of the original 4 hens which caused her to hide out on the porch or wander off by herself she is the top of another pecking order.  This is ridiculous to watch, because she is about 2/3 the size of all of the B's.

For about 3 nights there were changes in the roosting habits.  Bibs would stay out and bury herself under a bush or a bin or someplace, and one morning I found 2 chickens who had not gone in for the night.  This is a dangerous path, though I'm all in favor of people thinking for themselves.
After this, I went back to doing a beak check.
I had stopped, because one night I opened the chicken door and Buck lunged at my face.  I slammed it in time, but won't do that again w/out a face shield.
I thought I had counted 4 hens & a rooster, then 3 in the other shed, but in the morning what I found was that Pearl had decided to roost in with the new chickens.
 The 3 I had counted were Pearl, Becky and Barbie all clumped together in one mass of feathers at the far end of the tree branch, and I had not seen Bibs who I have now discovered, consistently roosts in the cat carrier where she lived during her rehab.
That morning, Buck blasted out of the chicken house as though shot from a cannon, rapidly followed by his remaining ladies, all gargling enthusiastically, and he was insistent on knowing what I had to say for myself about the state of the world.
Buck has been very unsettled by the changing arrangements.  He doesn't like it when things are out of his control.  He's like those dudes who lose their tempers because their socks are folded incorrectly.
I have taken to wearing a chicken wire sarong when I let them out in the morning.

Oh No, You Don't.

Yesterday was spent on a windy, cold hilltop with an accordion and no coat.  I have been unable to get warm, so this afternoon, I covered myself in red fleece.  With white accessories, I could be mistaken for Santa Claus at a distance.

Not by Buck, though.

This morning was spent hoeing out the coop and putting up nice branches for the girls as an alternative to being breathed on by a 12 lb rooster all night.  The ladies have been picking the feathers out of Bucks neck.  That will not feel good in a couple of weeks. 

To hoe out and replenish the bedding and supplies in the coop I wore an ensemble consisting of ratty old jeans, crocs and a sweatshirt.  My appearance did not spark any interest or aggression until I changed into red fuzzy clothing, and then Buck decided he really had to do something about the lowered standards.  

He attacked me with full and undiluted attention. I had no shield nearby so I decided to grab him. 

 Easier said than done without a towel or a net.  We had a tussle in which I got pecked numerous times, kicked and hissed at.  He got pinned to the ground.

I picked him up - he didn't care for that either - and held him in my lap, stroked his feathers and told him he was a good chicken.

Nice chicken. 

Pretty Chicken.... 

His pupils dilated. 

They constricted and dilated again. 

He grumbled slightly.  He allowed me to scratch his comb, tickle his neck and 

when I put him on the ground he stood there, considered what to do next and then walked away.

I went into the house.  After a few minutes, Buck and the ladies came 'round to see if there was any lettuce left for them or perhaps something more interesting.  I'm not going back out there though.

Some Plan.

It has been difficult to find information that I'm comfortable with about what to do next.  Winter is coming.  It has been lovely and warm, and Buck & the girls have gone back to their summer ways of lounging on the outdoor furniture, scratching and begging, fluttering up and down the glacial erratics out back, chasing the new girls around the garden and rushing up to the van in hopes that it contains something magic, just for them.

Today it began raining and being gray, and we were all reminded that the halcyon, thoughtless days are over, and if we're lucky, we'll have a week or so before global climate change slams us with another 3 feet of something cold, damp and hard to get through with bare legs the circumference of a ball point pen.
With this in mind, I have been researching coop heating options that won't set fire to the chickens or their dwelling, but stories of people's combs freezing and falling off doesn't seem like much of an alternative.  The combs do not grow back, once frozen off, and as I have said in a previous entry, the people who think that's ok might not feel that way if it was their comb falling off.
I have found over these months, that there are things that bother me that don't bother chickens.  I can't always tell where concern ends and transference begins.

There are heated floor pads.  There are heat lamps.  There are wall units that look like a flat piece of enamel [that looks the most promising].  There are ceramic lamps that emit no light so that they don't keep the chickens awake.
No inexpensive options that are safe.
It's a good thing I'm not trying to make these chickens pay for themselves.  It would come out to about $9.00 an egg.
I can consider it expiation for the decades of devouring their children.

Fashion Statement?

Were the Elizabethans trying to look like outraged chickens?

Fine. I'll do it myself.

This morning I overslept a bit and was woken by the sound of happy chickens, gurgling on the porch.
"How did they get on the porch?" A voice in my head asked me as I woke up further.
"I don't know."  I said back.
Then Buck could be heard crowing - full volume, not muffled by chicken shed, right under my window.
Some mornings I get up and let them out and then go back to bed.  I'm hoping this wasn't one of them as I watch for signs of creeping dementia.
Forgetting that I had gotten up was not what I had forgotten, though.  I had forgotten to close the smaller chicken door, so it was open all night.
Still have all the chickens - how did that happen?
I dragged a bag of greens behind me to deflect attacks but Buck was determined to hammer me this morning for my carelessness.  No amount of salad was going to fix this.
I ended up throwing the bag in his path and getting back to the house before he got over being confused.
Today is dump day anyhow, I'll clean it up later.....

Sooner or Later

"Buck, I'm telling you that
 sooner or later,
 you're going to have to put that
 other foot down."
"No, I'm not. "
"Yes, you will."
"No, I won't."
"Yes you will."
"Not..."

This is the gist of the morning conversation.

The ramp is not too bad but the ground always has frost on it, and if I had bare feet, I'd try to get away with keeping one of them tucked up into my feathers for as long as possible too.

I won that argument.  Buck had to use two feet and a beak

 to express his opinion of my shoes .

He should talk.

A minor indignity

In his enthusiasm, Buck tripped over the edge of the big water bowl.  It might be 24" across and 9" deep.  His intention was to flap his way to dominance, and make the secondary point of letting me know that he was unhappy with my weather management and the solid condition of the water in the coop overnight.  He wound up standing chest deep in the water bowl looking thoughtful.  After about 5 seconds, he jumped up and out, shook himself and charged around the yard in a couple of circles.  It reminded me of the scene in the Producers where Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel are having a set to about Bialystock having grabbed Blume's blue blanket from his hand.
"I'm wet, I'm hysterical and I'm still in pain."

Sartorially Challenged Chickens...

After grocery shopping at a local farm that supplies many of the stores around here with free range eggs, I walked across the parking lot to the field to get a closer look at their chickens.
They had a number of roosters, none as big and handsome as Buck.  In fact, a couple of the roosters were limping.  There weren't any that weren't bedraggled, and the hens were sparsely feathered.  Some had been so chewed they looked as though they were suffering from freezer burn.
The woman at the farm stand told me that all the chickens would soon be moved into the big chicken barn for the winter.   She said they wouldn't be coming out again until spring .  I suppose that in order to be in the egg business, you have to have a volume of chickens, but it doesn't seem to be as good for the chickens as it is for the egg business.
I'm seeing what kind of time and thought it takes for someone like me with no veterinary background flying only on good intentions to keep my chickens cheerful.  If my livelihood depended on them as commodities instead of sentient beings, my perspective on their happiness would be different.
Plenty has been put out there about the treatment of meat chickens without me adding to the gross out fest, it's enough to get to know some chickens to see their beauty, sweetness, humor and intelligence 

I don't know what that is, but I'm not stepping in it.

14 inches of it.  All over anybody's FB page is glorious paeans to the snow, but not 'round here.  I'm thinking if this is what we are in for, I'm putting the chickens and the cats in airline grade carriers and taking us all to the keys.  I'd go further, but I don't think immigration would allow me to land in Santiago with 8 chickens.
It is sunny now, and warming up, so I opened the coop and got blank stares from everyone.
Yesterday I made an awesome haul from the grocery store of chicken scraps which included bunches of basil, lots of salad mix and 3 loaves of locally baked artisan bread, all one day past the date, but it's in such good shape that the chickens have to share.  I'm not throwing basil away that's mostly better looking than if it had hung around my fridge for a little too long.
They were mostly very excited about the bread, but showed some interest in the greens as well.  I hope they'll appreciate the greens more as the winter comes on and they're harder to find on the ground.
After a bit, the brave chickens hopped out, trying to land in the holes my boots had made.  They are on the porch enjoying the sun.  This tells me that the best place for their winter dust bath location will be on the deck where they'll be out of the weather but I won't have to construct another shelter.
 Buck is just happy to have all the hens nearby so he can stop with the hyper-vigilance for a few hours.

Even chickens face uncertainty

Buck has been in a nasty temper ever since the October nor'easter, today I tried to give him and the ladies a bowl of treats and needed to use a barbecue spatula to hold him off so that I could put it on the ground.
I was going in to the house at one point and he came up behind me intent on bruising my calves.
I tried to close a door and he went after my shoes.  He especially has a problem accepting shoes.  Is he jealous?  Would  he like a nice pair of chicken wellies?
I have to stand there on one foot with the sole of my shoe facing him, waiting for him to get tired of attacking it, and go away.
Maybe he's a Muslim chicken and considers it a profound insult to be presented with the sole of a shoe.

Little does he know that trouble is brewing in the kingdom he rules with an iron claw.
Wind turbines, 1.67 miles away. Will he and the girls lose their balance  and fall off their perches?  Will they feel like a little Dramamine crumbled into their food wouldn't be amiss?
Some of the health effects on humans are irritability and depression.  What do you do about depressed chickens?
I already am dealing with one irritable chicken, but will depressed hens lay?

Fine Feather

"What are you doing?" Buck yelled at me this morning.
"Put that BACK" he advised.
Since I have had chickens in the yard, my place looks more raggedy than ever, and gets worse faster than I can keep up.

In honor of having the floors redone, I thought I could rake the walk, sweep away the chicken debris and fallen leaves.  People have commented to me that my house looks deserted.  I've been leaning on the electric heat, so there's no smoke to show that I'm here, my van is covered with lichen, and chickens stand around underneath it.  Add to this picture the downed branches from the storm and my unwillingness to shovel and you get the idea.
I had not quite gotten as far as the mailbox when Buck came charging around the side of the house squawking at me, calling the ladies brigade for help and proceeded to, what I can only describe as systematically, engage 5 pairs of chicken feet to kick all the leaves back on to the path.
This was followed by crowing, lungeing and drawing himself up to his full height and stamping off in a marked manner.
I raked the path again in Buck's absence.
I returned from a trip to the market to find the path covered with leaves.

You're not bringing that thing in.

Today I picked up a painted stool at a roadside sale.  It's a 3 legged stool, painted to look like a spotted animal of some kind, with a moon face on the seat.  I'm not sure what the idea was, but Buck would not let me bring it in the house.  He ran to the van as I was getting out of it and launched an attack on the furniture.  I tried to dance around him in a circle to get by, but he was focused.
By the time I go to the porch, he had knocked two of the legs out of the stool and having wrestled them to the ground, went after the remaining bits in my hand.
I dropped it on the porch to his hissing and growling, and realized I'd just paid money for kindling.

You Gonna Eat That?

To make the Avian Americans feel better about an early winter - some places got 31" last weekend- I put out a bowl of what chickens would have wanted if they'd come to the door on Hallowe'en:  Peanuts, grapes, ciabatta and carrot shavings, served on a bed of lettuce, garnished with Purina.

Mostly in the morning Buck puts his beak near the open door, sees white on the ground and grumbles.  He won't come out unless it's above 35 degrees [F].  He doesn't encourage his ladies to either.




 The B's won't consider it as long as they
 have water and food in their shed,
 but after the night I put them in the main coop they were the first ones out hopping
through bootprints to get to the porch.
These girls are very easy to catch, and seem to like being held and scratched.

It took a couple of days of thawing out for Buck to feel as though it would be a good idea to get some sun.
I barely do any shoveling for myself.  If they think I'm going to shovel and elaborate run for them, well..... maybe what I'll do is figure out a way to do what was done 150 years ago, to squash the snow down evenly and not hurt my back clearing it away.
During the night, the girls are picking the feathers off Buck's neck, so that now as his tail feathers grow back, his neck feathers are vanishing. I"m feeling such a dread of winter, wondering if the chickens are too.  I know the breeds I have are supposed to deal well with cold, but they are out there with bare heads and feet.  Can they fluff their feathers up enough ?  Are their heartbeats fast enough?  These are things I don't know.  I wonder, do chickens get Seasonal Affective Disorder?  Do they yearn to be in Borrego Springs?

twick or tweet

One of my granddaughter's favorite jokes is the one that starts " A duck walks into a bar...."  We tell it now this way:  Buck walks into a bar and says to the bartender "Got any Gwapes?"
" No we don't have any grapes, and even if we did, you're a chicken, and we don't allow chickens in the bar.  You have to leave".
Buck leaves, but comes back in a few days and goes into the bar again,  goes up to the bar and says to the bartender-
"Got any gwapes?"
"No, dammit, I already told you, we don't have grapes, and we don't serve chickens, if you come back here again, I'm going to nail your beak to the bar."
So Buck leaves, downcast.
A week later, he comes back, walks into the bar, hops up on the counter and asks the bartender -
" Got any nails?"
"No" he answers " I do not have any nails!"
"Got any gwapes?"
This has come up to the status of a bedtime story, and I hear her telling it to other people with added variations of her own.
I'm thinking I might have to put out a bowl of grapes and seafood delight on Hallowe'en because the only visitors I'm likely to have way off the main candy route is a flock of visitors from another galaxy disguised as chickens.

Chickens in the Snow.

We are having our first Nor'Easter, it is as unwelcome to the chickens as to me.
If I really minded snow, I mean to the depths one must need to mind snow, I would go somewhere less pale for the winter.  Venezuela, maybe.
After about an inch of heavy snow and it being dusk, the chickens decided to roost wedged up against the house in a pile hoping to rush inside if the door opened.  They resisted all suggestions to go where there was shelter, food water and a nice place to sleep.
I'm having the floors refinished this week [note to self;  Next time, do this in the summer.] so all my stuff is either on the porch or the deck.  The chickens have gotten their wish, to roost on my furniture.  Becky & Barbie were perched on and befouling my turntable, so they were easily nabbed.
 Buck would have to be next.
I took advantage of how mellow he's been lately to get close enough to grab him and pin him under my arm like a handbag.  He looked sorry to have been so easily deceived, but happily jumped into the coop with Becky and Barbie. They were not as happy to be sharing a coop with the established chickens, and though they have been flocking during the day, how they get along through the storm will tell me more.
Bette, Stella, Feather and Pearl were snatched in unresisting pairs.  I'm not sure they're easier to corner with Buck out of the way, not getting all bent out of shape when they squawk, trying to help or express himself.  At least it's one less element to deal with.
 Bibs is still in the shed, she is growing feathers back, and I'd like to keep it that way.  She was the best at hiding, I found her crouched silently under a low bush that was the same color as she and only catchable by persuading her to jump up on a tarp covered object, making it possible to grab her as she slid back down.  I have found that when I catch a chicken, if I hold their feet underneath them,the way you do a cat, they calm right down.
Buck's recent pacifism doesn't extend to the guys who are refinishing the floor.  They reported to me that Buck seemed really friendly, watching them all day lounging just outside the door.  Then he went after their calves with an enthusiastic beak as soon as their backs were turned.

Stupidity is a Mother.

That stupid electric door, or the stupid timer, or the stupid person who can't figure out how to get the thing to work reliably is putting my chickens at risk.
The Omega chicken of the bridge club, Pearl, the non-conformist, the dreamer was the only one in the coop last night as I went to do a beak check.  The door had closed shutting everyone else out.
The shed contained the B girls and Buck.  Buck had muscled the ground hen, Bibs out of the favorite cat carrier and was hunkered down inside it giving me the eye.
"What're you looking at.  Never seen a chicken before?"
I had no flashlight and just assumed that the others, Bette the Alpha, Feather and Stella the inseparables, had followed Buck and were roosting in there as well.
This morning, I approached the shed to the sounds of arguing.  The B's were trying to figure out how in the hell that big damned rooster got in there, and Buck was attempting to charm them.  Well -  What passes for charm in Buck's mind.  Looks more like frottage and innuendo to me.
Anyhow, I let them out, crouching out of the way to avoid the flying feathered bodies of hens let loose as though shot from a cannon.
Buck strutted out looked at me.
 "What."  he said.
From under the house across the yard came running and flapping  the alphas who  had something to say to Buck.  Buck circled them dropped a wing, stomped on the ground and life went on as usual.
Bibs is getting tiny little golden feathers.
I still want to keep her separated from everyone at night until she looks less like a target and more like a chicken.
They are all  hanging out  more without needing 50' in between the two groups at all times.
I'm hoping that in another few weeks they might happily share a perch, but I have heard from several people that some groups of chickens just never learn to like each other.

Coming Home to Roost....

The missing hen, Bibs, has turned up, and she is in one piece, but still no back feathers.  This morning, I let the hens out, and there she was.  She must have turned up yesterday late afternoon and slipped in to the coop with the other B-list girls, so wherever she had gone to hide, was a good place, and she kept her beak shut.
 I was unable to find her after searching, making clucking noises, qwa,qwa noises and spreading treats around.
This means I'm still on chicken therapy duty, trying to keep her from getting destroyed by her place in the social order.  She does have a few tricks of her own up her sleeve, I guess.
The leaves are 1/2 down, and I notice that everyone is a little more nervous about their aerial visibility, jumpy at the sound of a blue jay and hanging out under cars or decks more than usual for a fair weather day.
I'm thinking of putting together a small hoop set up to give them a protected place to be in the winter.  This isn't entirely benevolence, I want them to be able to get fresh air  without my life being about shoveling out square footage for chickens.
I'm more convinced than ever that the pretty hens I've acquired are menopausal, not that I care about eggs so much, but it does mean that they won't reproduce  in the spring.
 It could just be that they're taking an incredibly long time to feel that the accommodations are up to snuff and that it's safe for them to drop eggs.  It hardly  matters since Buck takes a look at them and says "Nothing doing".
They're pretty, though, and they still eat ticks.

Chicken Down

Last night I picked a friend up at the train station with time enough to get home and make sure the chickens were safe.
Maybe the wind blew the little chicken door closed.  There was a closed and empty coop.  I checked on the new girls in the shed by asking them if they were roosting, and got a couple of muttered replies, so I knew someone was in there anyway.
I thought the answered clucking I heard  sounded wrong for the new voices.   When I came back with the flashlight I got more response -
"Get that light out of my beak, I'm trying to sleep you idiot!"
Buck and the girls were lined up on the sawhorse with Becky and Barbie on the perch above them and no sign of Bibs.  I thought she was probably in one of the nesting boxes, as she prefers to stay close to the ground.
She was with everyone when I left a couple of hours earlier so I figure one of two things happened.
She didn't dare go into the shed with the Alpha chickens or she was grabbed by some hungry sanctuary dweller before bedtime.
It was good to see that everyone could be in one place without squabbling but it was not good to have lost a chicken.
 No sign of her today either.
Tonight, at dusk, I was in the kitchen, and Buck came to the door.  This was new.  He looked at me as though he hoped he could get me to have a clue.
 I thought maybe he was lobbying for snacks but when I came out with lettuce, he was heading for the chicken house, calling his hens to follow.
 I know it's anthropomorphic to think he was telling me that they were about to roost, and would I please come and close the door properly or make sure they could get into the coop,  but being anthropomorphic has never bothered me before.
What should bother me is the feeling that I'm being managed by a chicken.

If you wait long enough

A reason or purpose might emerge for almost everything that was judged as a failure too early on.
The B's love to hang around the lower branches of a peach tree that I cut down a couple of years ago because it was a nuisance and dropped bitter little peaches everywhere that only the chipmunks were interested in.
The tree took advantage of a 2 year period of time in which I was too lame to do any yard work to grow back, hydra fashion with 9 peach trees where there had been only one.

If I had been able to stand up long enough and if it had been a priority, I would have cut the thing down a few more times, but because I was unable to, there are 3 chickens who have claimed it for their own, and feel sheltered, happy and safe there.  I could not have foreseen this.
I'm certain there are many other things I complain about that resolve into grace over time.  Trouble might be that it's over geological or galactic time, and I don't get to see the end of the story.
There might be some dinosaur in the spirit world thinking the same thing.
"Who would've thought we'd turn into chickens!"  She's saying to herself.

Chicken on a String

I was cruising through youtube videos the other day looking for more variations on the chicken dance.  I was reminded of the story of Nasruddin in the market.  He sees a bag of potatoes, and picks one up, bites into it, howls in pain.  He has broken a tooth on what was a rock, not a potato.  He reaches in to the bag again, takes another, and bites into it, howls in pain, drops the rock a second time.  After repeating this, the bemused passerby asks " Why do you keep doing that?"
"I was hoping to find a good one".  says Nasruddin.
There are many videos of the Chicken Dance, done many ways, and most of them are just annoying.  Some are silly enough, but I guess the thing is, it is still the Chicken Dance, no matter how you film it.
My chickens are considerably more graceful and charming than any human   pretending to be a chicken - you will never see a chicken pretending to be a human - and then of course there's the surreal world of Lawrence Welk.
Amid this video search came up other topics, I liked the chickens breaking up an argument between rabbits - see "Chicken Police", I liked the two young men playing banjo and fiddle while chickens roamed around in time but there were plenty of disturbing things out there too.
I have seen people with pet chickens who are accustomed to a gentle leash designed to restrain but not hurt them, but there was some guy out there, who so reminded me of some of the creepier guys I've known who had his chicken on a string and jerked her around in a way that he seemed to think was funny and cute.  The hen didn't care for it.  She gave up struggling soon, and acted in a way that I could only describe as sad and hopeless.  She kept trying to make herself small and invisible, and he kept yanking the string.  I didn't watch all of it, but I felt very church-lady-ish as I left my opinion on the site.  I was at least hopeful to see that in the dislikes/likes category, the dislikes far outweighed the likes.
Another was a man who decided his chicken should learn how to swim in the pool and was surprised to find that the chicken caught pneumonia and died a week or so later.  He responded to people's suggestions that there was a connection between throwing a chicken in a pool and a fatal respiratory infection with surprise and confusion.
We as a culture raise animals by the millions in conditions we don't want to know about, slaughter them as though they were weeds and ship them off into a soulless food distribution machine by the ton.
We treat our companion animals with more care than we treat our children.
Is anyone surprised that with such distortions the world is in trouble?
I have entered this sharing space with chickens world with unconscionable unconsciousness.  I can tell myself I'm doing my best, but time will tell.  Aside from books and serendipity, there's not much information out there about chicken welfare.  Cows we get.  Cows are mammals.  Chickens are an alien species, not like us, but if you spend any time around them, you can see they are very much like us.  They have social relationships, needs for comfort, safety and sustenance.  They are curious and oddly trusting.  Buck has been here for only 4 months, and in that time has gone from being a really aggressive rooster to more of a pacifist.  All it took was safety and the chicken equivalent of cookies.

Phantom Chicken

Chickens in their dreambodies

float through the kitchen

imagining they live in a palace 

where all the food 

is locked behind metal doors

Evil Chicken!

"Buckie"

Before my 6 year old granddaughter, Ingrid understood that you can't outrun a chicken, she got the bad end of an encounter.
Buck hadn't been here very long, and was still highly sensitive to the slightest disturbance in the Wa.
That is, it took the tiniest perception of encroaching life forms other than himself or his ladies to set him off.  One day when Ingrid was coming to the house from the RV that her parents were working on refurbishing, Buck came after her and he was really putting his back into it.  In her attempts at escape, she tripped and fell into the garden.  He set upon her, and began pecking at her head.  He was prevented from doing any damage, Cayce picked him up and removed him from the area.
 Ingrid was way less traumatized than I thought she should have been or than any of the rest of us were, but she was after all born in the year of the chicken.
For a week afterwards, he was lurking just behind every door or bush when she went out, hoping for the opportunity to finish what he had started. Ingrid would periodically announce "Evil Chicken!!"
A couple of days ago, I heard that Buck's previous landlord actively disliked him, was possibly mean to him and so he went from being a normally aggressive rooster to taking a scunner against one particular man.  The problem with this, the problem that chickens and other animals don't seem to be able to grasp is that humans, when annoyed or inconvenienced, kill.
 In the early days, I could make my hand into a claw, crouch slightly and announce " No Chasing!"  He would back away and stomp off muttering "Grraahh buh worrah worrah...", but one day he decided to take me up on it and went after my hand.  That was when I instituted the policy of always having a branch nearby to place in between us, making it not worth his while to attack.

Today, there was something different.  I am probably premature or excessively optimistic but it seems that Buck hasn't so much as tried to destroy a shoe for over a week.  He still stands at a distance that feels like boundary violation of my personal space and with decisive briskness tears up whatever vegetation is nearby; not much, they've chewed up most of it - or picks up small twigs and tosses them into the air.  I have come to understand this as a polite request for cat food or other treats.
 It seems that even Buck can be made complacent about politics when he has a full belly and a warm place to sleep.  I expect next to come home and find that the remote is missing.  Anyhow, evil chicken or not, he is still so far, very much a live chicken.

Chicken rehab

This is not celebrity rehab.  My chickens are not getting high off mushrooms in the yard or fermented corn or unharvested illegal herbs. No, this is rehabilitation in the sense of getting the Omega hen to heal up enough so that I can let her take the air a bit.
She has scabbed over nicely, no apparent infection, so I carefully opened the cage with one hand, the other ready to prevent the rush that surprised me last time.
How does a chicken go from looking like a lump of feathers to propelling herself with instant top speed with no warning?  She's refused food and water for two days.   I got her out of the cage, calmed her down, and inflicted a further indignity by maneuvering her into a "chicken saddle".  Yes, the thing finally arrived, and I was ashamed to see how easy it would be to make, compared to what they chicken accessory vendors charged for it!  It doesn't cover her tail, but it will help, I think - I hope.

She ran off at top speed for the bushes, and wedged herself under them before Buck had time to get interested.  The Alpha Girls took brief notice, but it being too much trouble to go after her, Pearl, the Omega of the originals, went after the other 2 new girls who have so far kept their feathers and their health.
Bibs is so naked and chewed; her status is so lowered by the added article of clothing, that she is beneath notice for now.
 I probably should have refused this chicken when the women handed her to me, I seem to remember a pause, as if she was waiting for me to ask for a discount, or a different chicken.  It was $24 for three of them and when I handed her $25 she made no move to get change.  I must have looked like an easy mark.  Wouldn't be the first time.
I see that she's choosing at night to go in to the cat box to sleep while Barbie & Becky prefer the Eastlake chair.  I'd really better get that out of the shed this week or it will be too late to save it.  The smell of chicken shit is pervasive when allowed to soak into fabric, I'll bet.  All it needs to perfume the air is a bit of heat from the wood stove.
Looks like I'm going to be coughing up for another electric door before winter, but first, I have to install a window and fix the warped doors on the shed, I'm not confident that everyone will be happily roosting together by November.
A niece of a friend has passed on the only sensible suggestion as to how to get new hens to assimilate. The plan has to do with synchronizing their hormone levels.  Of course, that was too logical for me to leap to on my own, but hens being so much like middle school girls, naturally I should have remembered that members of the clique get their periods around the same time.
There might be hope, but it means trying to separate out a section of the main coop so that hens are safe, visible, but not peckable until that happens.

                                       For now, they share pillage space.

A different kind of clean

Buck takes a bath.

It is a rare and unguarded moment in his day, that he feels safe enough to do what chickens do best and with enormous entertainment value; clean themselves by burrowing into what is left of the garden, scooping dirt up over their backs and rolling.

The girls on the other hand, do this with great frequency.  It reminds me of the man who will not throw the nasty old sweatshirt away vs the woman who is tossing out shirts weekly, some still with the tags on them. [What on earth possessed me to buy THAT in the first place?  It makes me look like a potato!]

It is even more unusual that Buck bathe at the same time as his ladies.  I have most often seen him standing guard, all suspicion and responsibility.
When Buck reincarnates as a human [or perhaps I have this wrong, and he was human already, but did so well that he was rewarded with being a chicken] he will grow up to be in the State Police.  Maybe in that era, he'll have hovercraft and be able to really fly, not just dream about it, and disappoint himself whenever he leaps off the deck only to land thumpishly in the leaves.

C'mon & Let me see you shake your tailfeather....

Buck is down to one tail feather.   He squandered a couple of them attacking an inert object, The girls have bitten most of the rest off, so now he's shaped like an Araucana.

The next generation of tail is coming in, lovely iridescent green feathers.  I'd better get some hay for the hens' nesting boxes, because I suspect them of pulling out Buck's feathers to improve their nests, leaving their own intact.  Is this Chicken Vanity or convenience?  I don't perceive Buck as the type who would sacrifice his plumage for the greater good.  He's more the type who refuses you a mortgage and raises your insurance premiums.
Still, his self image does not include shame or the possibility that his alphatude could be in any way threatened by the loss of a feather or two, or eight.  He's like the old bald dude at the bar who still thinks he's hot enough to hold the attention of a waitress young enough to be a friend of his daughter's.
The vet, the "avian specialist" was unable to determine Buck's age.  Said he could be anywhere from 3 years to 6.  I still haven't found out how one determines the age of a chicken.  Hens are obvious, if they are laying they are young, if they are not, they are food.
My hens will not be food, at least not human food.  If a coyote or some other hungry dweller in the sanctuary gets them, I know I will have done my best to prevent it.  As I am allergic to eggs, the whole topic of eggs is beside the chicken point for me, I'm happy to have gotten through a summer without being infected again with Lyme's Disease and the only thing that is different is chickens in the yard, sucking down ticks.
It is interesting to me that the man in the street's opinion of Buck is heavily weighted on the side of the stew pot.  Is it that human need we have to feel as though we have control over our environment?  That we can do as we like, and don't have to feel threatened by a 2' tall, 11 pound person with no hands or English language?  Really?  How hard is it to deflect the occasional bad temper of someone where the scale is tipped so obviously in my favor?  I'm surprised and entertained to see, for example, my 6'4" cousin reluctant to get out of his big 4wd truck because Buck is circling it muttering innuendo and inhospitable personal evaluations.
It is said that to run from a grizzly bear isn't the thing to do. It is what I would do, and though Buck might like to think so, he is no grizzly bear.
Over the last couple of months I've learned  that the least ire is aroused by holding still or moving away slowly when he has given me the signal that all is not well. It continues to be a good policy to carry something to place in between myself and a pissed off rooster but I'm finding that he perceives me less as someone who is going to mess with him and more as someone who might have grapes.

Separate but Equal

Oddly, the effect of putting the brutalized hen in a cat carrier in the former chicken house has been that the other two {Becky & Barbie} have insisted on being in the shed as well.  Are they wondering if they belong there?  Are they taking precautionary measures against ending up with bloody beaks and tails?  During the day, they stay in another part of the yard from Buck and the bridge club.  Should night be any different?
A local grocery store gave me a lot of corn that they could no longer sell, and the chickens love it.  I break the cobs in half and toss them over the side of the deck, and wait for the clatter of little toes over the rocks and through the leaves.  If I throw any to the B's, the originals prance around threateningly until I feel as though I'm in the front row of something by Sondheim & Bernstein.  Or Shakespeare.
Well, they are made of sterner stuff than I, so today I moved my garden tools and work table back out of the shed, as well as the nice Eastlake chair I'm hoping to re-upholster eventually.  It has been a roosting destination for the last couple of nights  and is somewhat the worse for it.
I put in some nesting boxes.....- ok, I put in some cat boxes with tops, and put shavings in them to make them more enticing, and fastened a nice fat branch about 4' up in the corner.  When I went to check on them, I found them there.
 "The hell with the warm boxes" they said
"Give us a nice branch we can crowd together on" they said.
So now I know there is no escape from the unwelcome task of making a window in the back of the shed, repairing the doors and installing a heat lamp.  I thought buying a well planned chicken coop would spare me, but I'm still learning about chickens, and they are still patiently teaching me what works for them.
In their obviously intricate social world there are some people with whom one simply does not associate.  There are no suck-ups or flatterers in my flock.  They are honest chickens.  They don't like something, they say so.  Their enthusiasm is as undiluted.  They are passionate and unapologetic.  There is one flock that belongs and there are the interlopers.  I can put the B's in the main coop at night, but there is a wave of protest on both sides.  Now that they each have a place to sleep that feels safe and comforting, I'm hoping they'll learn to at least share a neighbourhood.  Separate - but equal.

Scapechicken

A friend of mine said she really felt that chickens were the Devil's pets.  I thought that at least biblically it was goats, but goat aficionados tell me that goats are smarter, sweeter, nicer and more useful than chickens.  I have only the experience of my brother's neighbors keeping goats many years ago, so my response is that chickens smell better than goats.
But I'm getting off the track.
This morning I awoke with the hope that today the chicken saddle would arrive in the mail.  I wanted to buy one [they are cheap] before I try to make one and get it all wrong.
One of the three new girls has been a target of aggression on the parts of Buck's Ladies, and possibly, though I hope not, the other two girls who came with her. Somebody didn't like the angle of her beak before she got here, because she was missing her feathers on a 14" square area of her back, and her wings had been partially stripped.  No pictures of this.  Not charming.
Now that the electric door is working, I can sleep a bit, but I still go out and check on everyone first thing, make sure they have decent amenities and collect eggs.  This morning I found Bibs with blood all over her lower back and tail and a drop of blood above her beak.
She resisted being scooped up.  I stalked her around the garden for a few minutes until she was addled enough to go into the fenced in part of the garden where she was less successful in evading the towel.
I brought her in, speaking encouraging words to her, put her in the tub and cleaned off her skin as carefully as possible, put some crushed comfrey leaf on her wounds and wrapped her up again.  I do not know if anything I'm doing is right.  I wasn't encouraged by the vet's lack of knowledge and resorting to the usual doctor trick of giving me anti-biotics to feed a chicken, so I'm just trying to do what is logical.  The next problem presenting itself is how to keep the other chickens from killing her, so she is going to stay separated from them in the hen hospital until she's got feathers again.  I suppose if it gets cold, she's going to be in the house at night.  At the moment, she has a medium sized airline grade dog carrier to herself, in the shade, with bedding, food, water and treats.  I have spotted Stella circling it and muttering threats and promises.
This bullying brings up stuff for me, I have been horrible to other people, other people have been horrible to me. It happens.  In the chicken world, it is so naked and unapologetic.   "C'est Comme ça" as my grandmother would remark.  The pecking order. The underdog.  The Lottery.  The Scapechicken.

The Unseen Danger...

Coyotes.  Weasels, Owls, Hawks, Vultures,   Racoons & Fox; all these animals are circling around the property in search of a meal.  It's not good enough for it to taste like chicken, especially when they might be able to get an actual chicken.
This weekend the number of people who told me terrible stories about how they had lost their chickens, or how people they knew or were related to had lost their chickens was directly proportionate to the rise in my systolic blood pressure as I worried about everyone getting in to the coop on time.
I forgot to tell Rosamund that the chicken water has to be cleared out daily because they kick shavings and feathers into it. 
I forgot to tell Rosamund that even though Buck and the girls seem to have gone into the house, there has to be a beak count with a flashlight, or we'll come up the next day a chicken or two short.
 Barbie is determined to sleep in the former chicken house.  There is no explanation for this because she wasn't here when that shed was in use.  I do not want to cough up for another electric door and besides I need to have some shed space for my use, though Barbie doesn't think so.
 The other chickens who came here with her go into the chicken house and pile into the egg laying bins.  The Bridge Club perches up above and sneers down at them.  They've had a week to get used to the new girls - I think there's a little less name-calling going on.
Two nights running, I have gone into the shed with a flashlight to find Barbie roosting on some storage boxes.  It's easy to pick her up when she's sleepy,  for a moment her adrenaline is up, then after being patted and massaged a bit, she sticks her head in my armpit and goes back to sleep.  It's endearing.  My cats won't let me pick them up waking or sleeping, but the chickens, though they may resist being caught while on the run, once they are nabbed they give in to it - even Buck.
Though today he gave me a good bite and steely "So There!" sort of look when I tried to touch his comb.  I'm still not in the inner circle.
I wonder if this docility is a reflex that helps them accept their fate when they are grabbed by a predator.  I hope it includes endorphins.