(written Sunday)

Yesterday we extended the girls’ fence higher. While I was willing to build mesh covers for my garden beds, that would simply have goaded them on to the neighbors’ gardens.

They are not pleased. The 5 White Orpingtons are clustered in one corner, staring at the garage wall. The 3 Buff Orpingtons are clustered on the a-frame roost, staring at the alley. All their feathers are fluffed, rather like a dog with raised hackles, responding to a perceived threat. They look about twice their normal size.

Mistress Mack and Oughie are nowhere to be seen.

John & I, on the other hand, are rather smug. Not only did or plan succeed, but we actually made a plan together, and executed it together, and did not kill each other in the process. This is a milestone event for us. In 10 years of living together (OK, minus the 2-1/2 I was in Michigan) our only true collaborative effort was our move from Vancouver to Lakewood, and even that was more a matter of who coordinated which details.

White trash

Rain, rain rain. I got leek starts in before I went to Massachusetts, but it's
too soggy now to plant the rest of the onion starts. Luckily the chickens don't favor
onions because we haven't gotten them (the chickens, not the onions) confined to
their pen yet. I'm all for chicken-wire covers on the garden beds, but John
worries about the neighbors' gardens.
I talk about our home life at physical therapy, and my therapist nods knowingly and says "Oh, you're THAT neighbor."

Oh Mistress Mack, mack, mack,
All dressed in black, black, black...

Thelma & Louise are first out of the pen in the morning, first to recognize food coming - whether it's the shovel in my hand (digging in the dirt!) or the bucket of kitchen scraps in John's hand - and guaranteed to be furthest from home and any given time.

(We draw the line at letting them cross the street, and Bill next door shoos them out of his favorite lily patch. Otherwise they're on their own.)

Who's who

Can't live much longer without naming them.
Problem: 5 nearly identical white ones.
Solution: Let John & Drake (now 3) loose with a package of good coloring. ("Chicken paint!"
It's worn off quite a bit now, time to refresh.

Wintertime

It's dark and wet, and egg production is down. For our own breakfasts, we have been alternating eggs with steel-cut oats. (FYI, Bob's Red Mill - you know, the guy who turned his company over to his employees when he retired? - sells gluten-free oats.)
Turns out chickens LOVE oatmeal. With raisins. Or dates.

On a more general note, I find I have no guilt about the thickness of the apple peelings, or the number of pumpkin seeds that do or do not make it to the roasting pan. How does the nursery rhyme go?

Holy, holy bretheren, think it not a sin
When ye peel potatoes, to throw away the skin
For skin feeds [chicky], and [chicky] feeds me
Holy, holy bretheren, what think ye?

Educating the neighbors

Neighbor child, about eight, is fascinated by our chickens; she often hangs around our front gate, waiting for us – or particularly John – to come out so she can beg to come in and see the chickens.
Last week John did let her help him collect eggs. She was intrigued and horrified.
She: What do you do with the eggs?
John: We eat them.
She: You eat eggs that come out of a chicken’s butt?!
John: Where do your eggs come from?
This floored her.

She came back a few days later, demanding that John give her an egg. He did. And another egg. He did. And another egg. He refused. She accepted this, but could not reliably count how many eggs she had

We may have taught her where eggs come from, but it appears we must keep working on her counting skills.