Bullies and victims

Yesterday, at last, I succeeded in dropping a worm at the feet of the bullied Dark Cornish hen. She looked right at it and walked away, as if eating it would get her into worse trouble. I begin to have more sympathy with the aggressors.
The White Orpingtons recognize food, or at least to potential for food, critical seconds before any of the others. They are learning that when I approach the tractor, something tasty is in the offing and by the time I toss in whatever it is, they are already in position. Whatever lands, is in their beaks while the Buffs are still looking at it deciding if it's edible or not. The difference between survival instinct and bullying is blurred with chickens.

Mr. Peepers

Mr. Peepers as (presumably) she came to be known, was quite a hit with both John (50) & Drake (2-1/2). John cleaned up one of the Rubbermaid totes that started life as worm bins (we’ve failed twice at vermiculture, but that’s another story), and were re-purposed (I love that word) as compost haulers (3 of them fit perfectly in the back of my Jetta wagon, and I’ve been making frequent trips to pick up TAGRO for the garden, free if you shovel it yourself). It became one of Drake’s agenda items when he came to visit: to feed & water and admire Mr. Peepers with John. Also a lesson for Drake in not beating your smaller, weaker friends over the head, regardless of how entertainingly they react.
Mr. Peepers has now gone to live with the fellow who bought our fish pond (another thing that does not mix with toddlers) for his ducks. His chickens are younger than ours and there was a better chance of him fitting in with that crowd.

Newbie

A neighbor knocked on the door last night, with a young chick in hand. “A feeder,” he said, by which we assumed he meant he bought it for his snake who turned it down. But then I thought, this is the kid who oohed and aahed over our chickens last week, was amazed to learn that you can buy baby chicks, and whose father vowed that if he brings home any chickens it will be my fault and they will be mine.
John has found her a cardboard box, a couple of jar lids for food & water, and intends to take her to the feed store tomorrow in hopes they will take her. We don’t fancy introducing a baby to our lot; they have already trampled two of their sisters (this was before we got them). But I am skeptical of the feed store being willing to take an unknown bird. We’ll see. John is still traumatized over crushing the head of the baby bird he found on the sidewalk under our cherry tree 3 days ago.

Chicken tractors

Glowing descriptions by Michael Pollan of Polyface Farm, and recommendations of other chicken farmers notwithstanding; consider carefully the mix of chickens' inexhaustible excrement (see previous post) and toddler play area.

The idyllic model of the mobile chicken run that gives the chickens access to a continuously replenished source of bugs and little green sprouts, while simultaneously fertilizing next year’s garden or pasture does not compute on a 3,000 square foot city lot.

We are now considering dog-kennel fence panels which, while more permanent than the wheeled tractor, still will not require the sinking of new fence posts. It will, however require the transplanting of one rose bush and a ton of deep purple iris, and reassessment of what gets planted on the other side of the portion of fence that will be shared with the garden. I WAS planning on using that fence for the peas to climb on…

Oh, and should I mention money? $5/dozen for the free-range organic eggs at the farm stand no longer seems quite so extravagant. But consider it the price of an education.

About Chickens

Turns out every idiom involving chickens is true:
Chicken s**t (it never ends!), Chicken-hearted, Chicken feed (they are quite happy with the dregs: weeds and cores and peels), Chicken out (although not with the same meaning that we use it), and of course, like a headless chicken...

We bought a mix of brown layers. We wound up with (I'm guessing, they're still young) 5 aggressive White Orpingtons, 3 very sweet Buff Orpingtons, a gorgeous Black Australorp and a hen-pecked (see what I mean?!) Dark Cornish. I keep trying to give extra treats to the Cornish, but she skitters into the crowd, and one of the Whites invariably gets it.

Today I dropped one of our extraordinary (i.e. huge) nightcrawlers at the feet of the Black and a Buff. They hesitantly pecked at it, but shied away when it moved. "It smells like worm, and it tastes like worm, but it looks like snake." A white finally took over. "If you're not going to eat it, I will!"