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.