Little Beggars

Now that the weather is nice, my girls are spending their non-egg laying hours (or break time as it is referred to by their union) free ranging in the sunny backyard.  They love to scratch for bugs in the flower beds, take dirt baths in the freshly tilled garden, and eat anything green and leafy they can find.

Stay out of my parsley, girls.  I know it's you.

Whenever our squeaky back door opens, the sound sends chickens running from all directions in the expectation that something delicious is being brought to them.  How pavlovian.  Just yesterday, however, the girls discovered the door from which the squeak and the subsequent treats come.

Yo, we know you're in there.

Bring me blueberries.

Sometimes I stop and think ... what a strange life I lead.  

Overachiever

3 inches is, by definition, a very large egg.  Freakishly large.  Like, skyscraper large.  I've seen the bird that laid that egg, and I'm telling you, I would have demanded a c-section.  Turns out, it was twins.

One day I'm giving out kale and bread and cucumbers, the next day it is ice chips and epidurals.

Hoarding

So what if I waited 5 long months for fresh, backyard eggs.  I just needed to see a whole dozen of them there piled up and looking all homegrown and delicious before they could be cracked and consumed.  So, I hoarded.  I'll admit I caved on the first few, but when they really started coming, there were no eggs of any sort - scrambled or otherwise - on my children's plates until there was a carton full.

And then, there was.  And now, we dine.

A First Egg

My Henryetta is a late bloomer.  She's the last of my four girls to lay.  In fact, it took her almost 6 months to the day to get good and ready.  For a chicken, that's a bit on the slow side, although we prefer the term delayed.  I let them out yesterday for a little backyard free ranging, and I knew that an egg was brewing because every so often Henryetta would squat, pause, and then, as the mood would pass, she'd be up again and on the prowl for assorted bugs and seeds.  Squat.  Pause.  Forage.  Repeat.  The sun set on her big debut, however, and so it wasn't until this morning that we found a tiny, cold egg in the corner of the coop, and we knew exactly from whom it had come.

First eggs are always small, sometimes even half the size of a regular-sized egg, and often irregular in some way.  We've had misshapen eggs, an egg without a yolk, a double yolker, an egg with a discolored band around it, and other assorted surprises.  However, the eggs will get bigger and more uniform over the course of the next couple of weeks and months until they are all sufficiently large and perfect.  And by perfect, I mean, of course, the way all things homegrown are unique and sublime.  For comparison purposes, here is Henryetta's first egg next to one from another of our chickens who has a bit more practice.

Despite the size difference, I'd say they're both pretty grand.  My very own backyard eggs from my very own backyard chickens.  Who would have ever thought?

A New Approach

It's funny how when you get the one thing you thought you really wanted, you quickly find out that what you really want is more of that one thing.  And so it goes with the first egg.  Now that the novelty is behind us, I'm ready for a whole skillet full of fresh backyard eggs.  Problem is, my poor Easter Egger is pulling all the weight.  You see, Easter Eggers are known more for the colored novelty of their eggs and not their production of them.  However, my girl is giving it her best shot.  I'm getting an egg every other day, or so.  Those other chickens (note their demoted status), who are known for their high production rates, are taking their sweet, sweet time figuring out exactly how the system works.  I feed you.  You feed me.  You don't feed me.  I eat you.  Such is the life of a farm chicken.  Good thing these girls have a patient, suburban mother.

To encourage the process along, I have increased their waking hours by use of a light in the coop.  In winter, when the days grow shorter, egg production decreases because chickens need a certain amount of daylight to produce an egg.  So, by artificially extending their day, I increase their laying potential.  I turn the light on at dusk and leave it on until I head for bed.  Then, I plug it back in first thing in the morning so that the day is stretched by about four hours.  My chores would be made easier by one of those cheap timers currently being sold with the outdoor Christmas lights and inflatable Santas.  Note to self, stop at Lowes.

Also, if you'll remember, I borrowed a few wooden eggs from my boys to leave in the coop as a subtle suggestion of where and what to lay.

I was complaining yesterday to my husband that those silly hens still haven't started to fulfill their end of the deal.  He came up with a rather ingenius suggestion of his own.  Forget subtly and the wooden eggs, he says.   He pointed out that all this positive reinforcement was getting me nowhere.  "The kind of reminder you need out there in the coop is a nice shiny stew pot."

Hmmm.  Has merit.

Get with it girls, and lay me an egg.  Or else.

Let the Laying Begin

You'd be surprised how totally thrilling it is to find your first egg.  I would know.  The first egg has finally appeared.  There was much yelling and jumping and hugging of chickens yesterday upon its discovery.  We discussed amongst ourselves for a good minute or so just which brilliant chicken left us the surprise ... until the adrenaline rush dissipated, and we were left holding a blue-green egg.  The Easter Egger.  I knew she loved me.  Isn't it splendid?

Everyone wanted to hold it, and I feared for it's safety, but it was finally tucked safely away in one of the many crates we've been saving for just such an occasion.  It is a little on the small side, but first eggs always are.  They get bigger as the chicken gets more practiced.

We decided to scramble the egg and share it, and it was as delicious an egg as there ever has been.  

We rewarded Mazie with some peanut butter and jelly crusts and a handful of blueberries.  They are two of her favorite snacks.  There was a little confusion on her part, but nevertheless, she enjoyed the party immensely.  

Much love, Mazie.  

All Grown Up

It is hard to believe, but my girls are 19 weeks old today.  Ah, they grow up so fast, don't they?  Usually hens come of laying age at about 20 weeks, although anytime after 18 weeks is fair game.  That means that I am fairly giddy every morning as I skip out to the coop in hopes that someone left me a little present; a small token of their appreciation for all of the love and tasty scraps I lavish on these spoiled chickens every day.  Nothing yet, but I remain increasingly hopeful and excited.

They say you can tell a hen is ready to lay by the size and color of her comb and wattles.  So by the look of things, I'd say Penny owes me an egg any day now, don't you think?

The other girls seem to be savoring the last of their childhood and hanging on to those pinkish combs.  I'm guessing we're still a couple of weeks out where they're concerned.  

Last week, my hens simultaneously turned 18 weeks old and finished their most recent bag of "start and grow" chick feed.  This was fortuitous timing, because at this age, it is recommended that hens graduate to big girl food and begin eating a layer mash or pellets nutritionally designed for the egg laying stage.  As an accompaniment to this new, main course, I also added a side of ground oyster shells (calcium for strong eggshells) and grit (to aid in digestion).  They seem to be pleased with the new selections and polished off their layer pellets in record time.

And finally, to further boost morale and comfort, I cleaned up the coop and put an extra layer of fluffy straw in the nesting boxes.  I also left a few wooden eggs (borrowed from my boys' play kitchen) as a not-so-subtle suggestion:  LAY HERE, LADIES.

Let's see if their little bird brains can take a hint. 

Love Hurts

It is altogether possible to love a chicken too much.  Here's how.

Backyard chickens are outside pets.  To be such, they must live outdoors in the wind, rain, and freezing temperatures.  I am sure this is why they grow feathers, and most definitely why I built the Chicken Hilton.  But you see, from where I stand in my warm house gazing out at that dark coop, I still worry.  Tis the season for cold nights and frost and extra blankets.   So, last night as I was tucking my girls in for the evening, I decided it was high-time for a heat lamp.  You know, just to take the edge off.  I clamped it onto one end of the roost, and trotted back to the house feeling much happier about the well-being of my girls and certain that they were all out there thanking me for their improved lot in life.

Call it a hunch or mother's intuition, but I decided - rather fortuitously - to pay them one more visit before turning in for the night.  There they all sat, happily roosted, basking in the glow of the infrared bulb and looking like they were on summer vacation.  I was just imagining them all in little chicken bikinis when I realized that something was not right with one of my girls.  She was a feathered mess.  I panicked, yanked her out of her warm slumber, and ran her to the patio where my husband and I gave her a once over in the light.  Something had gotten her.  I just knew it.  It looked like her back and tail feathers had been ripped out leaving her soft downy bottom layer all exposed.  She seemed annoyed, but otherwise fine, and we could find no other evidence of foul play.  A total chicken mystery.  Slowly, the truth donned on my husband.  After he picked himself up off the ground where he almost died from a fit of laughter, he pointed out the painful truth:

YOU MELTED YOUR CHICKEN, CHRISTY.

And so I did.  

No more warm lights.  Just dry, fluffy straw, a clean perch...and maybe a mint for their little pillows.

Day of Reckoning

At 10 weeks or so, you are supposed to be able to correctly sex your chicken with some degree of absolution.  It is hard to believe, but my girls have already passed the two month mark.  It is assumed that at this point in their short lives, tell-tale signs will appear that will help you to officially label your birds hen or rooster.    This is assuming, of course, you have sexed chickens before, or that you have multiple chickens of the same breed for comparison purposes.  But for novices like me with a small backyard flock, we are left to freakishly and obsessively examine every feather, every bump on a comb, and every squawk for fear that one of our beloved shes is actually a he.  I am one such freak.  In fact, I am so currently freaked that I have spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the computer scouring the internet and lurking in chicken chat rooms for any morsel or clue that might lead me to a positive conclusion.  It is shameful, I know.  I am embarrassed to admit it, but heaven help me, if one of my girls crows, I may just have to list my piece of suburbia and head for the rooster lovin' country.  Such is my fondness for my flock.

So please, for the love of chickens and all that is fluffy, could someone with knowledge of things such as pointy hackle feathers and spur bumps and varying degrees of red combs give this chicken lover a good nights rest?

They are all 10 weeks and a few days.

Iron undies on.

Lay it on me.  Pullet or roo?

Barred Rock (feelin' pretty good about this one).  I'm going to go with pullet.

Buff Orpington (feeling good here, too).  Pullet for sure.

 Easter Egger.  Confidence waning.  Apparently, they are easy to sex by color which indicates pullet, but she's got some serious spur bumps.

Rhode Island (or production) Red.  Optimistic.  However, her comb is slightly redder than the others.  Her legs are no thicker.  So, pullet?

UPDATE

The consensus appears to be that all my girls are indeed just that.  Girls.  What a relief.

Crazy Chicken Lady

I am growing increasingly worried about my reputation in the neighborhood.  You see, I love my chickens.  I love to love on my chickens.  Every day, when I think the neighbors are otherwise occupied, I sneak out to the coop and give my girls a little attention, because, you know, these feathered fowl are more than just birds.  They are pets.  Hilariously entertaining and affectionate pets.  My girls and my fondness for them are becoming more and more difficult to hide.  What must the neighbors think?

Just last week when all was quiet, I took a little watermelon treat out to the chickens.  No trip to the coop is complete without a little interaction.  Lost in love was I until I looked up and discovered two men, who had been burying a cable next door, staring silent and in awe at the crazy suburban lady talking to her birds.  Busted.

Crazy chicken lady.

Moving Day

There comes that inevitable day in every mother's life when her little chicks must move up and out.  Mine has arrived, and so I bravely donned my crocs, tucked a tissue in my pocket, and moved those messy, slightly stinky chickens into their own home.  So long laundry room; hello coop.  I will say, it went well.  I kept a stiff upper lip, and I'm fairly certain my girls don't miss their cramped quarters or the daily sound of the spin cycle.  We'd been practicing in preparation, and the last few days, I've kept the chicks outside in the fresh air and sunshine.  However, they would return each night to the safety of their little cage and heat lamp.  After tracking down a bale of wheat straw, I made their new digs as warm and cozy as possible, and banished them forever to the great wild suburban backyard.

My resolve was immediately tested.  No sooner had I committed myself to the new arrangement than a storm moved in.  Flash flooding, straight, 60 mile an hour winds, lightning.  I debated rescuing them, but a kind, firm "no" and long-distance hand-holding from my dad helped us all weather the storm realistically.  Next came night with no red, warm light.  Just a dark, lonely coop.  I'll admit that I checked on them once, maybe twice, ok 4-5 times before turning in, but alas, the sun rose again and my girls are officially chickens.

Chicken Fro

We're still working on those feathers.  Here is the latest look.  It seems to be popular amongst all the girls Henryetta's age.

Mangy Chickens

There is a reason you only see pictures of brand-new baby chicks or their full grown counterparts.  The juvenile stage is not kind to a chickens.  It is happening to my pre-teens.  Their feathers are coming in, and it's not flattering.  Thank heavens there is not a rooster in sight.  We'd have some seriously low chicken self-esteem around here.  Here's a little photographic evidence.

Now those are some girls that only a mother can love.

Chicken Chores

Every couple of days I pull clean-up duty and do battle with the wet newspaper and pine shavings lining our make-shift brooder.  On the off days, I simply fluff the shavings and maybe add a few more to compensate for those the girls have scratched through and pushed onto the floor.  This is most definitely their favorite hobby.  Mine is now vacuuming.  If they keep it up with their barnyard manners, their cage may just find a new, permanent home on the back patio.

These are the supplies you'll need for cage cleaning:  fresh shavings, newspaper, food, and clean water.

Roll up the dirty newspaper with the shavings inside and compost.  Sweep (or dump) out any left overs.  Resist the urge to vacuum your floor.  Yet.  I clean the tray on the bottom with a damp paper towel.  Add a new lining, some fresh bedding, top off their food, rinse the water container, and you're done!  

Now, the aftermath.

You may vacuum.

Growing!

It is unbelievable how fast these chicks grow.  The first three are now 11 days old, and Penny, our late arrival, is not but a couple of days behind.  We're not sure when she actually hatched.  She's still a little smaller, but catching up quickly.  They've discovered they have wings and are not particularly good or graceful fliers.  In fact, when they decide to stretch their wings, it really resembles more of an awkward jump, and is usually much to the chagrin of their cage mates who often fall target to crash landings.  They are sprouting feathers and spend a lot of time preening out all that adorable fuzz.  Each chick has its own personality, and it is so funny to watch them express themselves to us and within their own little chicken posse.

Gerty (a Barred Rock) is most definitely the brains of the bunch.  She is so curious and always interested in people, sounds, and anything new that finds its way into her cage.  While the other girls may stand back, Gerty isn't afraid to investigate whatever piques her interest.  She is usually the first to greet me, and although she tolerates being held, Gerty prefers to roost on your hand and talk.  She was also the first to eat a bug.  Smart girl.

Henryetta (a Buff Orpington) is so quiet and shy.  She'll greet me at the cage door, but will run for the far corners when I reach in for her.  I think she may also have landed at the bottom of the pecking order because she just seems so docile and not really interested in climbing up the social ladder.  Not a forward mover, this one.  She keeps her eye on the prize though, and is the fattest chick.  It is obvious Henryetta spends a good deal of her free time at the feeder.  My kind of girl.

Mazie (an Easter Egger) is the girl in 4th grade with a training bra.  She is by far my biggest chick and is developing faster than the other girls.  She knows her size, too, and likes to keep everyone in line.  She may not be the brightest, but she is where I place my bet for the first egg.  I love her blue legs.  All chickens that carry the blue egg gene will have dark legs like Mazie's.   

Oh, sweet Penny.  Penny (a Rhode Island Red) is a favorite around here simply because she's the runt and is definitely the most affectionate.  She comes when called and will jump out of the cage at me when I open the door.  Penny has found her place in the group, but would much rather be out with us.  She'd love for us just to carry her around on our hands or shoulders as we go about life.

The boys love to babysit the chicks outside in the big coop.  The rabbit cage seems sufficient, but it has to feel good to get outside where they really have room to practice their chicken skills.  I was worried about maintaining a constant temperature when they first arrived, but really, it's not that big a deal, and if you've ever experienced an Alabama summer, you know that they are plenty toasty in the great out of doors.  I clean their cage every other day, but those naughty chicks love to spill their food and fill their water dish with pine shavings.  Those are daily chores.

It is safe to say that a week and a half into this whole chicken business, we still LOVE it!

Some Men Bring Flowers

My sweet husband knew I was disappointed to only have received three chicks, so when he walked in the door yesterday afternoon, he came bearing a fluffy little Rhode Island Red.  I had been worried that I wouldn't be able to find a chick near enough in age to my girls this time of year.  Most feed stores carry them as a spring item, and Craigslist hadn't turned up a thing.  I knew of one place that had been promising a second shipment of chicks, but none had been delivered.  However, he tracked her down, picked her up, and came in all smiles with my new little peep!  What a good man!  Meet Penny, our newest (and final) chick.

I had read that integrating a new bird into an existing flock can be difficult on the new girl.  I was hoping because mine were all so young that we wouldn't have any problems.  Hens have a very distinct pecking order (where the term originated) and an addition or deletion can upset things.  Sure enough, and true to form, Penny was circled and given a few good pecks.  We all watched and intervened as much as we could, but this social hierarchy is very much a part of chicken life and they had to work it out amongst themselves.  There is only so much an outsider can do.  Fortunately, it didn't last long and Penny is now an accepted part of the flock.  And, I'm certain she knows her place at the bottom of the totem pole.  

She has so far turned out to be one of our sweeter chicks.  She seems to have imprinted on Brad, and if you know my husband, this is pause for a good laugh.  He is not the mother hen type.  She jumps right into his hands and comes when he calls.  Apparently, it was love at first sight.