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.