PRISON BREAK!!!!!

Today was the first day outside for all the new little peeps. Grandpa got me a wire 'fence' put together to contain them. I corralled them all in their stock tank, loaded them in a box (which is more difficult than you'd think.. corralling 12 baby chickens is liken to corralling 12 two year olds running free in a field)

When you reach into the stock tank to grab them, they all scurry together, to and fro, hiding in the most lucrative spots, of which they are none, so instead, they just pile on top of each other in a frantic roiling ball of chicken feathers and beaks, screeching. 

As chicken luck would have it, I managed to get them all into the box, dumped them into their little circular wire fence and stood up to watch them, PRISON BREAK.. the littlest 6 were escaping, from this side and that side, and over there, and over here, and as fast as I could grab one and toss her back in the circle, out another one popped and another and they were everywhere and in a moment of panic, I started screaming, “PRISON BREAK, PRISON BREAK, HELP!!” as I was grabbing and tossing and losing ground. (yet another good reason we don't live in town...)

At which point, Grandpa shows up - probably in response to the screams - but I think just to make fun of me.... and calmly pointed out, as only wise old men can do, "Why don't you just put them back in the box instead of in the wire?"

hmmm... well, maybe he had a point... but that was beside the point....

So I manage to catch all of the baby 6, ooppsss. except for one little tiny Silver Lace beauty who managed to escape. As I chased her, she ran faster and faster, back and forth, here and there. I ran to grab the pond net, came back and found she'd hidden herself safely UNDER the trailer sitting in the yard. Alas, I was not deterred and managed to scare her out from under there and capture her with the net. 

By now, Grandpa has gotten some smaller gauge wire and made the pen baby proof (Really, this whole fiasco was kind of HIS fault, wasn't it!!) so all the little peeps enjoyed a few minutes of fresh grass and sunshine for their first outdoor adventure. In the meantime, my big 3 girls were in the garden scratching up my pea seed....

Chickens....the life of a chicken farmer....

The babies are getting bigger. The first batch of yellow puff balls now have wings with real feathers, and are starting to change their colors from the ubiquitous yellow to streaks of brown and white.

Their first experience with some other than baby chick food was yesterday when I gave them some cracked wheat bread crusts. That must be their favorite food because those little babies scampered and pushed and fought over those crusts so much I had to give them more, and more!

I have no experience in transitioning the new chicks in with the 3 girls so in an effort to help them be accepted when the time does come, I took some of the wood shavings with chickie poop in it and sprinkled in the coop, hoping familiarizing them with the scent before we make the move will help.

My 3 girls get to play outside almost every day, at least for a little while, but rustling them up at dusk is sometimes an adventure. I have discovered their favorite food is tortilla chips, so every evening now, I grab a chip bag with a few chip crumbles in it and start shaking, wandering around the yard, yelling, "bock, bock, HERE girlies, girlie, girlie, girlies, bock, bock" until they all come running, Red leading the way, with Blackie and Hawkie poking along behind her. I thank my lucky stars the neighbors are too far away to hear my voice, and realize I am indeed, THE CRAZY CHICKEN LADY of the neighborhood :)

Sometimes, chickens are just chickens, no matter how much a true girl lover imagines them to be these intelligent, personality filled creatures. My big girls are usually in their coop/yard during the day while I am at school, but this morning, it was a crisp bright spring morning, with sunshine and warmish temps in the forecast, so I thought I'd leave them outside to play all day long.

When I got home from school, Red came noseying out to meet me, 'bock bock bock'. Hawkie lingered in the tall weeds beside the driveway, foraging for bugs. I didn't see Blackie right away, but I could hear her. A panicked, "SQWACK, SQUAWK, SQWACK, SQUAWK!!!" echoed throughout the yard. It didn't take but a few seconds to locate here, under the front of the plow truck. Initially, I thought how funny she looked and how she was making a statement announcing that she was THE BOSS from behind this frame which holds the snow plow on the front of my truck. But as I was taking her picture, and she was frantically bobbing her head from side to side, yelling, "SQWACK, SQUAWK, SQWACK, SQUAWK!!" I realized she could not get herself out of the huge space between the frame where she'd gotten herself. (Now mind you, a small cow could fit in that space.... but she somehow couldn't find her way out!) Laughing uncontrollably, I pushed her head down and out she popped, racing to the coop, still screaming, "SQWACK, SQUAWK, SQWACK, SQUAWK!!!"

Yeppers, sometimes, a chicken is just a chicken....

The first batch of babies this year are getting bigger and bigger. They have feathers instead of fluff and their necks are longer. Instead of little fuzz balls, they are looking like gangly chickens. Their bright yellow color is fading, and the stripes on their wings are more pronounced.

All these changes are in sharp contrast to the six new babies who still have that joyful roundness to them. In their stocktank, all together, they make an interesting dozen. I love that they seem to have all accepted each other willingly, curling up to sleep stretched across each other, under each other, scattered on the make-shift perch I created from a grill grate on top some bricks.

Pulling off the blanket, or reaching your hand down into the tank, causes mass chaos with chicks scattering every direction and loud peeping ensuing. I wonder what their little chicken brains think... the sky is falling, the sky is falling comes to mind :)

A few more days for them to all be together and I will separate out the first batch of babies to graduate into a new cage, all in the grand process of getting them ready for the entrance to the coop with the girls.

The eggs started coming. You'd think after a while, the magic would wear off, but I swear, every single egg I collect is as exciting as the one before. If I go out to check and one of the girls is sitting, I keep going back, pestering her, until she lays it! Three girls, three eggs, three beautiful tasty miracles, almost every day!

I do miss the double yolk ones Pinkie used to give at least once a week. Those eggs were something even more magical!

But the best part of the eggs is Rylie's reaction. She'll ask, "Grandma, did the girls lay dem eggs special for ME?"

"Yes, Rylie, they sure did." (and really, honestly, if it weren't for Rylie, there'd be no girls, and with no girls, there'd be no eggs, so they are truly laying dem eggs ALL special for her!)

....and of course, she loved the 'double o-kers' most of all....Every egg we broke open she'd get excited, anticipating maybe it'd be one of the most special kind.

Hawkie was the first layer and has always been the most faithful and dependable layer. Initially, her eggs were tiny, almost robin sized, but always tasty. But over time, hers have gotten to be almost as large as the others. Their bluish green color is beautiful, and their taste is simply heavenly.

I've even learned to boil them successfully by pouring a generous splash of vinegar in the water to make them easier to peel.

I just filled dozen #50. 600 eggs since last August. Isn't that some milestone???

When the first six girls arrived, I cavalierly named them: Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo, Patty and Nugget. I didn't care what names they had. They weren't going to be around for long. IF they survived baby chickendom, and that seemed a big IF.... I certainly wasn't going to get attached to them and keep them past butchering season so names were irrelevant.

But summer came, the babies turned into the girls, and time ticked on past. Having chickens became a natural part of life at my house. I forgot the butchering plan. I forgot I didn't like chickens.

I started to recognize the individual personalities of the girls. Meenie lived up to her name. She was vicious, wicked mean. If you got near her, she would peck you. If you didn't get near her, she'd chase you so she COULD peck you. Meenie bullied me, she bullied the other girls, she was just mean. Then, Meenie got sick. Then, Meenie died. And I felt something unexpected: I was sad. As mean as she was, I couldn't help but feel a part of our little flock was missing. I felt almost responsible for her death because I'd been calling her Meanie instead of Meenie in my head.

As all the girls started laying eggs, we tried to track which eggs came from which girl. One consistently layed huge brown double-yolkers. I had it narrowed down to a red chicken but couldn't decide which one produced these lovelies. Catching the smallest red chicken sitting in the nesting box one day, my husband grabbed a can of fluorescent pink paint and sprayed her white tail feathers. From then on, she was known as Pinkie and was the source of the double-yolked eggs we discovered.

Another red chicken got sick and died, having crawled far under the nesting box in the process. I bawled like a baby as I had to use a pitchfork to drag her out and a 'dispose' of her. Not long later, the girls were out playing, suddenly, three ran squawking for the coop. The other one had just disappeared. I searched high and low, calling and calling, but no luck.

Then there were three.... who became known as Hawkie, Blackie and Red.

Their adventures have been many... including them getting lost tonight in the spruce tree scrub by my house. But knowing them as I do, I simply rattled the tortilla chip bag and called, "Girlies!! bock bock!! Girlies!!" and rattled a bit more. They came scampering, through the underbrush, over the fallen trees, through the swamp, making that magical musical sound happy chickens make when they know they are loved and cherished.

The little chicken loving girl was so excited waiting for the chicken babies to come this year. Grandpa and I promised her as soon as we came home from our spring break trip to Seattle to see her Aunt Betsy, we'd get the baby chickens. Well, 2 year olds don't always understand and she was insistent that we were bringing the babies home with us on the airplane. When we came home, but the baby chickens weren't with us, she was disappointed. I promised they would be here for Sunday, her special day with Grandma and Grandpa.

Saturday morning, we got up early, headed to Marquette, 100 miles away, to get some supplies and baby chickens! Of course, Tractor Supply had to be our last stop so I was giddy with excitement all morning. But when we got there, it wasn't meant to be. There were a few mixed sex babies, and lots of ducks, but nothing I wanted for our babies. I left Tractor Supply with chicken food, a stock tank to keep the babies in, and a downtrodden face. I knew it was a 2 hour drive home, and I wasn't likely to convince Grandpa to give up another couple of hours to drive to the next closest Tractor Supply, but I knew I had to have baby chicks by tomorrow morning, so I called the other store, who assured me that had tons of pullets in stock. I stopped by and picked up Rylie to tag along and off we went to get our babies. She was excited beyond belief, almost as excited as I was. We made our purchase, even stopping to get a pink toy car for the little chicks to play with, and headed home to tuck them into their new home.

Sunday morning, Rylie played with the babies, holding them gently, enjoying their peepings and scamperings. She named one Dog Chicken and agreed to name another Peepers. Grandpa and I were amazed at how much she'd grown up since last year's babies. Then, she'd point to the chicks, "want dat one," pet it quickly, "done" and then point to another, "want dat one", pet it quickly, "done", as many times as we'd pick them up for her. She was afraid to hold them, even in a towel. Their scratchy claws and beaks were just too much for her not quite 2 year old self to handle. Now, at almost 3, she is braver and smarter, asking for the brown striped one or the one that "sits on my hand" and actually holds them, petting them lovingly.

Until the poop incident......

When Mommy came to get her, Rylie excitedly took her to see the new chicks. She proudly showed the babies to her mom, the pink car she'd gotten them to play with, their wood chips, everything about them..... when she was holding a baby, it did the inevitable and pooped on her hand. Suddenly, my little chicken chasin' farm girl FREAKED out. I ran to get a wet washcloth to wash her hand. Her mom swears if she had had a knife, Rylie would have cut her own hand off in the 10 seconds it took me to get back. As we washed her hand off, she settled down until she realized her shirt was covered as well. And of course, it was a pull-over hoodie so getting it off was difficult.

I kept the shirt, scrubbed and soaked it to make sure the pink Carhartt had no remaining remanants of chicken poop, and left it in the front room in the official 'go home with Rylie' spot. When she was here after school Monday, she saw the shirt, cautiously picked it up and asked, "Grandma, did you WASH this?" I assured her I did, but my guess is, that shirt won't be a favorite ever again!