Spartacus!

This morning, Buck knew who he was and he knew he was not a slave.
I approached the coop to let him out, bearing in one hand a towel and in the other a broom.
He came charging out with something on his mind, and saw the net and trident.  He took to the air and came down heavily with his short sword, and headed for my knees, going in for a cripple with the intention of a slow kill.
For the rest of the morning, I put my head out of the door to see him looking at me from behind a bush or a post.  He would have gestured if he'd had hands, his gaze told me, the first 2 fingers of his hand to his eyes, pointing back to me.  "I'm watching  you".

I saw him standing at the door.  Waiting.  I walked by and he pecked the door.
That's one pissed off rooster.

A missed opportunity for the fox

Today I got around to putting together the electric chicken door, and timer.  I was hoping to come home from Morris practice and find that everything had worked as planned, but that didn't happen.  I came home from Morris practice alright, and found the chicken door closed as it was supposed to be.  I still had to do a beak count though, so I aimed the flashlight into the window of the coop and saw no chickens.
I called the chickens, fearing the worst, hoping that all I was going to have to do was crawl under the house to find them.  I felt very guilty thinking of their panic at  finding that someone had done the equivalent of short-sheeting their beds.
I heard a sleepy cluck or two, so I got a bigger flashlight.  They were all underneath the coop, completely unprotected.  Buck got moving first, a little too lethargic to be aggressive, but perky enough to elude capture.   Holding the flashlight in my teeth, and chasing him around the obstacle course I've placed around the coop to keep him from rushing me during the day, he was eventually persuaded that he should get in the coop, but he wasn't happy about it, and hearing the hens squawk as though they were being murdered complicated matters.

 Out of 4 hens, I was able to catch only one correctly reaching under the coop, grabbing her in a way that wouldn't be too distressing or bend anything the wrong way.  The other three I grabbed tails as they tried to take off into the woods, and pulled them toward me so that I could get them around the middle and bring them to safety.
They didn't care for it, and I hope they forgive me.
 I hope they forget about the rude handling they received from someone who normally is the distributor of treats, and think maybe it was all just a bad dream.
I'm not sure though.
 I closed the doors on the hen house and stood outside eavesdropping on their conversation.  It was more animated than their usual bedtime talk.
They sounded pretty indignant.
Well.
I'll buy them some grapes tomorrow.

Menopausal Henhouse

Over the last few days Buck has been aggressive and unpleasant, coming up to the glass door and throwing himself at it, bringing his hackles perpendicular to his neck when he sees me as he comes out of the coop in the morning, letting me know what he thinks when I gather the eggs, and pretending to be standing behind a bush when his intentions involve jumping, flapping, hissing and waving sharp pointy toes around.

I think he needs more hens.

I think 4 isn't enough to keep his attention on hens and off protecting turf.

On Craig's list today I found a number of people in the area trying to rid themselves of superfluous chickens, especially roosters, but also menopausal hens.

In the chicken world, as in the human it seems that females are undesired consumers of resources when they aren't dropping eggs anymore. 

If God doesn't make mistakes, why do chickens have a 20 year life span  and a very much shorter egg span?  There must be some purpose for the old chickens.

What wisdom would some old birds freed from the brooding  process impart to the  girls?

"Dearie, don't let him get away with that behavior."

"Baby girl, don't encourage him.  Just step aside.".

"Sister wife, stay with the flock, you don't want to get out where the weasels can find you".

"Don't eat that."

It would be interesting to see how seasoned hens would deal with Buck.  Would they accept his dominance?  Will they follow him around the yard and do as he says?

Whatever they do, they're welcome to come to my house and  consume resources if they will eat ticks.  It's worth it to me to stay off antibiotics.

Even chickens have to endure winter

I was in Agway today, asking questions.  I went through 2 or three people before I got someone who did not tell me they weren't "A chicken person".  The trouble with that is that I'm not a chicken person either, I just happen to be a person who is taking care of some chickens.  It often feels as though a ship crashed in my yard dispensing alien beings with needs and plans and it is in my best interests to figure out what they are trying to tell me.  I have learned that when Buck is displeased or upset, he wants me to pay for it.
During the summer, they all knew what to do to get out of the sun,to stay cool and to conserve energy, but I remember how damned tough the last two winters were for me, and I'm worried now for them with their little bodies and their thin skin, their uncovered heads and naked toes.
I have heard that their combs can get frostbite, so I asked about a heat lamp for the coop.
"That'll work if you need to pamper them." the expert said.
"What if they get frostbite on their combs?"
"Well, then, they'll kind of fall off, and grow back later".
I thought that was cold in itself.  I wonder how he would feel is exposed bits of himself fell off in the cold.  Of course, those bits don't grow back in humans, and we tend to take our discomfort more seriously than the discomfort of chickens.
"What about dust baths in the winter?" I asked
"mmmmpphhh!!!"
I was happy to be providing amusement.
"You think I'm going too far for these chickens?'
By this time I had a growing audience of Agway employees, so I just grabbed a few bags of chicken treats and went off to buy sand and create a winter chicken spa.

Bedtime Fracas

Sometimes a long day full of disappointment and rejection can send you to your roost with a sense of powerlessness.
In the morning before I let the chickens out, I can hear Buck's list of grievances being aired on the other side of the door, and the sympathetic, but by now probably somewhat automatic responses  of his ladies.
I have set up a daunting maze of tree limbs near the coop door so that I can open the door and nip behind them, thwarting him in his quest to begin the day by hurling himself at my shins.
Tonight I was going to clean out the water dish and refresh it, but I didn't get that far.
Buck went in first, and the hens followed one by one, Pearl racing across the yard at the last minute.  I closed the big door and went around to close the little chicken door, not noticing that the big door had not closed properly, but had swung wide.

Headed back to the house, I heard a tattoo of  rooster feet behind me.  I grabbed a piece of plywood and turned to face down the feral chicken.  Instead of Buck's usual response to armor, which is to attack, he stopped dead in his tracks.  He looked confused.  He mumbled.  He attempted to get around it to the other side.  I moved it to mirror his movements until I had exhausted his capacity for strategy.
If only other unforeseen challenges were as easy to deflect.
I'll be ready in the morning though.  Buck does not forget.

Chicken in a van

This morning I was stacking tires and junk in the back of the van to go to the dump, it being dump day, one of the week's highlights.
In the 30 seconds it took to turn my back for the next couple of tires to be rolled to the van, the van filled up with chickens.

They vacated when they realized there was no food in the van, and there were tires.  I sensed their disappointment.
Having divested the van of chickens, I went in to the house to get coffee and a wallet.
I was about 1/2 a mile down the road before I knew that something was amiss.
Pearl had snuck back into the van and was [mostly] enjoying the ride, but had decided to come and ride shotgun.
When I returned her to the yard, the rest of the bridge club was relieved.  Buck was indignant.  He felt that now he had solid evidence as to what had been the fate of his 2 hens in July.  I threw them some grapes in haste, and drove away, feeling that retribution was at hand.

Night & Day

At night when the chickens have gone to roost, it is my job to do a beak count before closing the door against marauders.  Nearly every night I get a shot of adrenalin when I think I'm short a chicken.
Have you ever been on public transportation and had some big overly friendly guy crowding you?  He breathes things at you that you would prefer not to hear and try to ignore.  You take a step back, but there's nowhere to go, and he leans in further, muttering.
This is what Buck does to the hens on the perch.  There is room there for about 6 more chickens the way he is pushing them against the wall.
What I don't understand is why in the morning when I let them out, he's the one to go after my shoes or my knees.  Seems like he's King of the roost, and should be happy to have that extra hour of crowding hens while I oversleep;  but no.
This morning I opened the chicken door [soon to be electronically controlled!] and stepped behind the wood pile.
Buck came down the ramp, talking to himself.  Grumbling, looking around with pointy eyeballs.  He spotted me, took a couple of running steps in my direction, noticed the impediment, turned and stomped off
"Grrr-warrahwarrah!"  he said, and ran in circles around the hens.  This morning, they all ignored him but not so much that they didn't find time to step aside.  I took the chance while he was distracted to make it back to the house before he knew I was gone.
I think I heard "I'll deal with YOU later"  being crowed after me.

I said to him what I always say ;  "You're welcome."

Animal dynamics... Dynamic animals

 The girls are appraising the porch for coolness, perchitude and bug availability. I guess one of the fall projects is to prevent this, because it is only a matter of time before they have mastered the cat door.






 Charlie and Tutu have  strong opinions about importunate chickens and they aren't shy  about expressing them.
I have heard that cats have 2 more facial muscles than humans, so I'm thinking there's a reason for that.


It's been a shock to the feline population to discover that there are people in this world who will just muscle in where they're not wanted and take over, leave a mess with not so much as a thank you.  The autocratic rule of the cats has come to a close as all dynasties must.  They must learn to cooperate; to share - to keep out of the way of more aggressive life forms than theirs.
The cats aren't interested in life on other planets.  They are having enough to deal with on this one.  A chicken slave revolt, among other things.

It's all relative

This year has been about clearing away the decades of accumulated "stuff" that George Carlin would have called "shit" because it wasn't his.  So much gets dragged home over years of raising a child.  I'm stunned really.  I'm getting to the end of it though, and the space is getting taken up by chickens, at least outdoors, or in my mind.
The last big thing to go was a lovely old desk of my grandfather's.  I'm not good with things.  They deteriorate faster under my stewardship than my ancestors would have hoped.  My brother is another story.  He is good with stuff- fixing it and maintaining it.
He came by today to pick the desk up while Buck circled around with a question mark hanging over his comb.
"That was my future roost."
After loading it, we sat out back with a cup of tea and some light conversation.  Buck noticed that the stranger who was changing the environment without presenting bribes or identification was within reach.
Unlike my other visitor who was a little bit nervous about the gallus monstrous, my brother ignored his attempts to point out who was in charge.  Buck stomped around the lawn furniture in tighter circles.  He snapped viciously at the potted herbs around our feet, pausing between attacks to evaluate the level of response.
Just before leaving, Buck demonstrated one of my favorite tricks.  Being hand fed.  One peck to see if it's edible, if yes, a second peck at the hand holding the treat to engage the "drop - the - food" reflex.
Buck loves donuts.  He's a good cop.

Buck on Patrol.

There are many things that Buck must be on the look-out for.
He must be ever vigilant to protect from threats both foreign and domestic.
Things are not always what they seem.
An innocent hot tub?

Could be a giant stew pot.

Towel?

Buck has a clear memory of the towel.

There is nothing like the sweetness of a vanquished foe.

Next post.  Buck subdues the evil pillow and protects the hens from the suspicious broom.

Are we having fun yet?

Buck wakes up cheerful, full of beans and ready for love.  I'm not sure I could say the same for the girls.  They act as though they would prefer to have the time to linger over the first trashing of the garden and bug-picking.  Once Buck has grabbed one of them, expressed himself and sauntered off pointing out to all spectators his masculine marvelousness, the hens go back to their contemplative examination of the yard.   They pretend nothing happened, but not before they have restored their dignity by shaking themselves thoroughly while staggering away. They are like girls on a date with a masher who upon their escape, whip out a compact, fix their hair and make-up, straighten their skirt and hail a cab.
I have read that chickens have one eye on the sky for predators, and the other for examination of objects closer to them, and I see the hens busy with breakfast, but still very adept at jumping to the side when Buck is circling.  Also, he isn't very subtle.
I can see why Buck finds it demoralizing to be caught and picked up by humans.  We have to do to him pretty much what he does to his hens, grab him by the neck and push him down to the ground and tamper with his view of himself as ruler of creation.
Not much difference between us if it comes to that.  The unexpected interference from whoever is in charge of me stepping in, grabbing me by the throat and forcing me down to the ground...  It really messes with my idea of myself as being in charge.  It also interferes with breakfast.  Maybe I should keep an eye out.

Specialist, schmecialist, get your hand out of my ass.

Buck has been a little wheezy for a couple of days.  Can chickens get asthma?  What do I know?   I thought from a bit of reading about it that there could be all kinds of lurking respiratory dangers that would spread through the flock faster than you can say "Buck!".   I called my vet who has been wonderful with my cats, very understanding about my dogs and to whom my family has always gone with all problems animal.
"I don't know anything about chickens." He says.
Well, that makes 2 of us.
I called an avian specialist in a town under an hour away, and made an appointment for later that day.
Come 3:00, I get a towel and a cat carrier, invade the coop where I have made everyone stay rather than be miserable out in this torrential rain we're having, and corner Buck.  He is hunkered down, ready for a final spring so I catch him in mid-air,  wrap the towel around him and pop him into the cat carrier.  The hens are all standing around  saying things like
"Did you see what she did to him?"
"Oh, I know...."
It's so awful!"
"Oh, I know....."
He crowed most of the way to Marlborough, and kept it up in the vet's office.  The other patrons and their patients seemed to get a charge out of a chicken in a vet's office.  I suppose if I had taken him to, say, an Orthopedic surgeon, they might think I was taking that politician from Nevada at her word and bringing him as payment.
Buck and I waited, he told everyone what his opinion of them really was, and I filled out forms - 3 pages - containing questions I could not answer:  How old is he.  Where did he come from.  Please list all vaccinations.  What is the problem.  How much does he eat.  Does he live in the house with you.
I figure most of the birds this guy sees are parrots or other slave birds, because he had no idea what breed he was, how old he was or why he was asthmatic, but gave me anti-biotics, just in case anti-biotics were what was needed, and I was grateful that he had taken turd samples to look for parasites, [there were none, they wouldn't dare] and stared down his beak under a bright light, and examined his feet that I didn't get around to telling him how I feel about anti-biotics.
I'm going to go with nature's anti-biotics, and up the vitamin C content of his diet.
I watched Buck being manhandled mercilessly in a way that I couldn't have imagined him tolerating if I had not seen it for myself.
All the way home Buck was thoughtful.
He laid down in the center of the carrier and nibbled some grapes.
When released back into his home, his ladies were still there, glad to see him clustering around, and as I walked away I could hear him telling them -
"Brrrr.....ack!  Grrrrr ipity waht -  buh!!"

Buck hears himself, and likes what he hears.

I have a very small house.  All the easier for the chickens to race around it to stand outside whatever window I'm near and complain about the service, or comment on the decor.  The latter, with more perspicacity when they have managed to get inside the house and are evaluating the furniture for perchage.
I'm not going to add on to this place at my age, instead I'm getting rid of all the stuff I don't need and my descendants have let me know they don't care about.
This weekend, it was the piano.  I don't know how long a story you want about this, but probably not as long as it is, so the short version is after several hours of grunting and wheezing I got it dismantled down to the harp, and with the help of a neighbor, hoisted it back up off the floor where it had fallen and shoved it out the door to await its fate on the deck.
When is rains, or it is mid-day, or the hens are tired of looking for food, when the wheedling for Purina behavior is no longer effective, the girls will come and lie down outside the glass door and preen.  They  enjoy the shade of the piano harp and it looks as though it might foil predators.
I heard more noise being made than was customary for siesta time.  It got my attention because Buck though not stingy with his communications doesn't keep on crowing without it meaning something  like -
"I'm the greatest!  I am undefeated by the evil towel!  I laugh at your broom and pillow!"
" Check out the moves!  & the plumage!"
or
"Get off my lawn!  You want a piece of me?!"
Today he went on and on for nearly an hour so I thought I should check it out.  The girls were having a nice lie down, gossiping among themselves.

 Buck was standing as close to the harp as he could get and crowing his most magnificent and elongated crow.  When he stopped, he leaned in to the piano  to hear his voice echoing through the strings.
At first I thought I was imagining things, but he kept on doing it.
The hens ignored him.
If he keeps it up, I'm going to have to take steps.

Cuddly Buck

I just wish I'd gotten the earlier photo of Cayce holding Buck under one arm and his German Shepherd puppy under the other, with each one snapping, hissing and snarling across Cayce's body.
What happened, was this.  The 6 week old puppy smelled chicken, the chickens smelled baby wolf.  Buck was pretty sure he could nip the situation in the bud by killing the puppy with his bare claws.  The puppy, aptly named Storm, was pretty sure she was up to her ancestral heritage of grabbing herself a bucket of chicken, even if that chicken was 3 times her size.  She's got a big dog's ego, and Buck remembers his dinosaur ancestors.
I heard that Gallus Gallus and Gallus Domesticus are our modern genetic representatives for T-Rex.  I would have thought velociraptors, but judging from the size of T-Rex's legs, and his [or her] cantilevered tail I would imagine that they were built for speed.  As I have said before, it's pretty hard to outrun a chicken, especially when they run under things where I can't go.
Cayce can pick Buck up, without a towel, tickle him into a stupor and walk away with impunity.
On this day though, the only person who didn't come out of the 3-way confrontation unscathed was Cayce who sported several Buck bites on the arm he'd held the puppy with.  
What Buck lacks in accuracy, he makes up for in enthusiasm.

The Bridge Club

In response to the suggestion that we get chickens, my mother used the argument that chickens made her uncomfortable because they reminded her too much of her contemporaries.
In deference to that idea, I have referred to Buck's girls as the Bridge Club, though no husband of any of my mother's friends would have rippled through the room posturing and commenting during a game. Not if they wanted their wives to give them any positive attention over the next 24 hours.
These girls are every bit as intent on their bidding and the remaining number of trump cards, though. It's a carefully organized society.

Every now and then when a player is dummy, she can leave the table for the duration of that hand. Nobody asks any questions, but in the case of chickens, if Buck notices that one of his ladies is missing, he has many questions. Also, accusations, usually directed towards me. I happened to be in the way today while Buck was rounding up a disobedient hen, probably Pearl, the most notorious non-conformist. She pretends to be deaf when he calls. First thing in the morning when Buck is coercing a little sugar out of the hens, Pearl is the first to go under, the least aware of how fast to sidestep his brutishness, so maybe she doesn't give a rat's hinder what he's saying to her from her safe perch on my window.
Buck doesn't give up.  He saw me in his path,  let out a growl, danced sideways, and puffed himself up.
"Clear off , YOU!"
I stepped behind a conveniently located shrub, let him hustle past, keeping up his talk at the errant hen.
"Broowwahh, tak bik brrrrut brrrut. bickity bickity groooooo."  ["How many times do I have to say it.   It's dangerous to get separated from the flock!"]
"Quwa?"  she says.
"Buck, Buck."  she says. [Which I think translates, as ' Oooh, you gweat big mans" but I could be wrong.]
What is really going on is that Pearl is trying to find her way into the house where the motherlode of cat food is, while the other girls cluster around behind Buck who is looking through the back door at the cat food, vocalizing like an Irish Tenor.
She's no dummy.

Invitation to Fear

Yesterday Buck showed me how quickly fear manifests as action. I have worked on just handling him and understanding his language enough to read the warning signs. In my journey to understand the chicken mind I have found that being afraid is squirting lighter fluid on an already burning coal.
Why be afraid of a chicken who, though more mobile is much smaller. I have handled small children having tantrums who have frightened me more.
A friend was visiting, it was a fine September day, perfect for sitting on the deck with cups of coffee. She could not calm down.
Buck jumped up on the deck from underneath where it is nice and cool and there are plenty of bugs and walked once around the table eyeing her as though he were auditioning for an episode of Law & Order.
If you are sitting down, not shuffling your feet or waving towels around, he will just finish patrolling his beat, and go on to more interesting pursuits.
She got up and moved so that if Buck jumped up on the deck again, she'd be able to see him coming.
He jumped up on the deck again. Noticing that the seating arrangements had changed, it was his job to check it out. This time he growled before going back under the deck. A pattern of movement developed, like a dance, ending up with Buck being confused about her behaviour and deciding to put a stop to it. Her voice got shrill, Buck got busy. I interceded.
Throughout this I had been telling her that he wouldn't do anything other than walk around if she just stayed in her chair, but she'd had past experience with geese, and at one point told me that she would claim her right to be afraid. Her fear manifested as just the thing that would spark Buck's aggression - acting twitchy, shuffling her feet and waving brightly colored towels around. He takes his job of protecting the girls very seriously and like many tough guys, doesn't have much sense of humor.
This reminded me; I fear things that haven't happened yet, that happened at one time, that may never happen or that aren't happening now, when just holding still and watching is all that's needed. Thanks, Buck!

Red Light!!

Remember that game?  I guess chickens remember it too, because Buck was playing it with me this morning.
I overslept, the occasional consequence of frequent insomnia, so it was almost 10 AM when I went to let the chickens out of their nice, still new, house.  The ladies were on the perch, though they had left 4 eggs in one of the nesting boxes - they seem to prefer the one that's least accessible because it's behind the food & water.  Buck was drumming his toes impatiently and came out grumbling.
"About bloody time!!"
"Sorry...."
His mood seemed to indicate taking the judicious course of standing behind the door, then moving to behind the big water tub while he was busy molesting hens, then through the brush pile which would make it troublesome for him to come stomping up behind me.
Have you ever been rushed by a chicken?  It's quite an experience.  I have wondered what would happen if I did not defend myself, but just had thick trousers and heavy shoes on.  I could let him get exhausted, but I haven't had the nerve for this yet.  I still block him with my shoe, or try to grab him.  Easiest just to use subterfuge and scuttle behind obstacles as I make my way out of, or back to the house.
Though he was way at the other end of the yard, I heard him run around the house after me as I was on my way to the car.  I turned and stopped.  He held still.  I turned to go to the car again, and heard the sound of a very large chicken behind me, gaining ground.  I stopped and turned.  He stopped with one foot still in the air.  I made a last sprint for the van, getting the door closed just ahead of his beak.  In the rear view, I saw him fluff all his feathers out to full length, shake, crow, and swagger off, undefeated.
I have been trying to find out what breed he is, and the nearest I can tell unless someone knows more, which is highly probable, he is a brown leghorn.  I am told this is a rare breed.  If Buck wasn't enough by himself to be special with his arrogance, superiority, attention to detail and beauty, this would be enough to keep him out off the grill.  I should probably find a brown leghorn hen to add to the flock.  Every high school girl's room needs to have one prima donna.