Keeper Dec. 6, 1997--Sept. 11, 2008

Found a link to the chicken book that's better than Amazon:
Chickens in Your Backyard

Eggs for winter

This about wraps up a year of chickens. The hens are still laying regularly but will slack off as the days get shorter. They'll need the break, so I don't plan to add artificial light to the coop until much later in the winter. Meanwhile, I'll have eggs for cooking because I'm freezing them.

Eeewwww, you think, frozen eggs. Warning: do not freeze in shell unless you want to eat crunchy bits of calcium after you thaw out exploded eggs. According to the book Chickens in Your Backyard, mix fresh eggs with half a tsp salt or one tsp honey for each cup of egg and freeze them in ice cube trays. When they're frozen, put them in plastic freezer bags and they should keep all winter and more, as long as the power doesn't go out for three days or somebody leaves the freezer door open....

One egg equals about 3 Tbsp of thawed eggstuff. Yolks and whites can be frozen separately if you're really picky and only the yolks need the salt or honey. I have been known to forget a bag or two in the freezer and find their little frozen bodies in the spring--the following year. But I'm sure other people are much better organized.

mud season begins

The chickens are confined to quarters more than I'd like because Darwin is fond of chicken poop, which makes him throw up. Both dogs are entering the end stage, which could last days, months, a year. No telling. This does put a damper on the blogging.

Also dampness in the chicken pen. I believe the rainfall for Aug. was an unusual 3 inches, turning their dustbathing spots to mud. I painted weatherproofing on the chicken barn but it's a flimsy thing. I wonder if caulk will stick? Just down the street there's a nice garden shed I'd like to levitate into the yard for the chickens.

Darwin's winning photo

Darwin's a top dog, winning the most votes in GalleyCat's Dog Days of Summer
cutest dog contest.

Unhappy Hens

The chickens are staging protest marches, lining up along the side of the pen facing the house and stomping back and forth. If they could carry signs, they'd say, "Freedom to forage!" and "We demand scratching rights!"

They've been in lockdown since Darwin, the older Airedale, developed expensive stomach trouble that appears to be aggravated by consumption of fresh chicken ca ca after the hens have been loose in the yard. This may last until the rainy season and I fear the hens will go on strike.

from chicken slum to normal pen

Zora taking her bath

Escargot and other matters culinary

Growing up here in the Pacific Northwest, I've seen plenty of slugs but never had snails in my yard until I moved here. Lots of snails, whose shells make them less gross than slugs. The chickens, it turns out, are very particular about which snails they'll dine on. They turn up their beaks at adult snails. I found a small one the other day and threw it into the pen with some other snacks. Muffin gave it a few whacks to break the shell and happily dined on young, tender escargot. Good thing they don't expect to dip the snails in garlic butter.

Snakes supposedly don't hear, except for feeling vibrations, and they definitely don't understand English. But there was a moment tonight...I put Matilda's thawed mice in the tank and she started sniffing around. She opened her mouth to start eating one from the tail end. I said, "Not that end, start at the other end," because it's easier for them to eat nose first (think of which direction the mouse's legs bend). She lifted her head toward me, paused, and went to the other end of the mouse to start eating. Coincidence, of course, but I like to imagine we are communicating.

The hen wanders again

I was on the phone a few days ago, talking to a friend, when a loud knock sounded on the front door. I opened it to see the two young women from the other side of the fence, both grinning. The one with the short hair and tattoos proffered her hands, clad once again in yellow work gloves and holding the black hen Zora. This time nobody was out of breath from chasing around--apparently Zora was getting to know them.

Telling my friend that I'd call her back because an errant chicken was at the door, I put down the phone and took Zora, clasping her between my hands the way my neighbor had. I said, "Again? I clipped her wings!"

After they left, I remembered I was barefoot. With reasoning that now escapes me, I shut the front door and turned to carry Zora through the house to the back door where I could slip my feet into clogs before venturing onto the hazards left by chickens and dogs in the back yard.

Speaking of dogs, there they were, jumping around, eager to sniff at the thing I held. Zora wriggled her wings out of my hands in the expert way of chickens and took off for the back of the couch. Thinking, "Please don't shit, please, please," I raced after her ahead of the dogs, scooped her up, tucked her against my side like a football and made for the back door. On the way, I grabbed a pair of scissors and we headed out to the coop, shoeless.

Zora got a little more barbering before I tossed her back with the other chickens. Either the trim worked or she has decided that the grass isn't any greener on the other side because she hasn't escaped again. Yet.

The great escape

Zora and Edna levitated the other day and shot out through an opening at the top of their pen. Remember, they are bantam Moderns—light-bodied and able to fly high into the trees. Not knowing they were out, I walked outside with the dogs and, oops, there were dogs and hens goggling at each other in surprise. The dogs charged after the chickens, I charged after the dogs, Edna flew for the coop, and Zora zoomed into the trees bordering the yard.

She landed somewhere on the other side of the fence and, despite much searching, I did not find her. I searched the surrounding yards at intervals throughout the evening but had no luck. When I finally gave up and went to close the door to the pen for the night, Zora had rematerialized and was pecking and scratching like everyone else.

I didn’t wring her neck. I don’t know how and it’s something you need to get right on the first try.

The next day she decided to go walkabout again, even with no one chasing her and all the hens together in the yard. I left her to her fate until evening when I heard her in the yard that backs onto mine. There's no gate between yards.

Fetching the container of meal worms in case I needed a bribe, I ran down my street, around the corner, down that street and around again to the other house. Knocked on the door. A young woman came out and I explained the problem. We searched around in her yard--no Zora, not a rustle or peep. It was time to leave her to fate or the neighbor’s Great Dane, whichever came first.

A half-hour before dusk I heard the musical sound of two young women’s chatter and uncontrollable laughter. It reminded me of nights in the college dorm. I wondered....

So I was not surprised a few minutes later when they appeared at my front door, all three—women and chicken—slightly out of breath. The women were grinning and giggling as they handed Zora over. Dodging and darting after an erratic chicken can be pretty fun.

“She’s like a little furnace,” one said.

Zora was indeed over-heated but that was her own fault. I gave the women some eggs. When the chicken books comment that keeping chickens is a way to get to know the neighbors, they are referring to eggs, not escapees.

I clipped Zora’s wings.