Oh, Butters

Despite having a ton of stuff to do today, I decided to go run errands instead. I really don't get out a lot lately, so when I'm in the mood, I figure I better take advantage of it, even if it's just to go buy chicken feed and toilet cleaner. Anyway, before I left, I put the ducks up and let the chickens out — a little early but that's our normal routine. My dad and I both check on them when they're out, and sometimes, we'll sit out and read or do yardwork.

So, about an hour and a half after I'd left, I had this weird feeling about the chickens and predators. It could have been the general anxiety I have about everything, or it could have been a premonition, who knows, but a few minutes later my dad called and said "Well, Butters is dead."

Oh, Butters. Let me tell you about Butters.

Back when I ordered my chicks from the hatchery, my mom said, "Why don't get some of those little ones with the feathers on their head? I love those." Polishes. She followed some people on Instagram and YouTube who had farms and raised them and just loved them. So, I did. Because at that time I was in the mode to do whatever I could to bring her a little bit of joy.

If you've never seen a Polish chicken, they're tiny little things with a big poof of feathers on top of their heads. They can't see to save their lives. I ordered a white one and a black one, but they were out of black ones, so they sent me two golden-laced ones instead. They were the color of peanut butter when they arrived, and before I had names for anyone, I would call them the Peanut Butters. Fast forward, and that's what I ended up naming them: Peanut and Butters. I also chose Butters because of the South Park character. Their personalities aligned.

So, my mom ended up with three Polish chicks that she never really got to enjoy, which means I ended up with three Polish chicks. After dealing with my mom's lengthy hospital stay and death, my dad helped me finally move all the chicks outside in September, and I noticed right away that something wasn't right with Butters. She laid down a lot, even to eat. She had absolutely no tail feathers. She stayed hovereing in a corner most of the time. The next day, I saw another chicken go after her and then I saw bloody spots, so I brought her back in the house.

Butters spent a couple of nights on the porch to rest and cover. I doctored her up with some stuff to prevent infection and gave her lots of protein. She perked up a bit and seemed really lonely, so we decided to take her back out and see how she'd do with the others. I sprayed some some stuff on her that will help keep the others from pecking at her, and I trimmed the feathers on her head, hoping it'd help her see a little better.

She was so happy to be back with the flock, and she required a little extra help in the weeks after that, but she really started to flourish after a while. Maybe a little too much. Butters became quite feisty and confident. If anyone pecked her, she pecked them right back. Her tail feathers grew back, and soon, she was bigger than Peanut who is kind of a weirdo too. Even so, she still seemed to have something not quite right going on with her. At first, we thought maybe she was actually blind, but then we started researching and decided it was possibly some kind of neurological thing. Either way, she was thriving, despite her disabilities, and everyone stopped picking on her for the most part.

Butters was hesitant when I first started letting them out for free-range time. While everyone else roamed, she stuck close to the coop and run. To be honest, for a while, I debated keeping the Polishes in their own coop. They're not super compatible with free-range time because something can sneak up on them oh so easily. Even trimming their head feathers didn't do much to help with their sight. But I also made up my mind a few years ago when I first had chickens that I'd rather them have short happy lives than spend years cooped up, literally, in a cage. I'll do everything I can for them and anything that I believe is in their best interest, but at the end of the day, God and nature will decide. I did a ton of researching and soul searching, and this is just how I feel about the circle of the life. I think if you ever want to invest your money, time, or heart into livestock, unless you just want to keep a couple as little pets, it's important to decide what mentality about death you're willing to develop because it's an unavoidable part of it... but that's a post for another day.

Back around the end of November, my two roosters got into a bit of a squirmisth. Again, this is another post for another day, but this left my big guy, Rudy, a bit beat up and with some hurt feelings. He sat and moped under their coop for a couple of days, and Butters stayed by his side. For about a week, she followed him everywhere he went. Until recently, Rudy had been one of the lowest on the pecking order, even though he's a guy and easily two to three times as big as the rest of the chickens, and I think Butters understood that and knew he needed a friend. Then again, Butters loves having friends. Anytime she spotted one of the other chickens sprawled out in the sun, she'd run over and plop down beside them. She was just a social little lady who wanted to belong so badly.

Well, over the last week or two, Butters has become quite adventurous. She has a tendency to wander off on her own, but the other two Polishes do that too. I kind of think they don't realize they're doing it. Anyway, we did so much to help her build her confidence, and maybe we did a little too much because she thought she was invincible. Last night, she was halfway into the woods, and I told my dad as went over to herd her back, "That girl isn't long for this world."

I had no idea just how right I was. We're not entirely sure what happened, but it was most likely a hawk or an owl. I've never lost a chicken to an aerial predator. Foxes and coyotes, yes, but the local hawks have never been successful. What seems unusual is that only one of my other chickens seemed scared or acted like she knew something was amiss. We actually thought it had gotten her too until we found her hiding somewhere. The others were all business as usual, even my two roosters who are actually really great at keeping an eye out for predators. But, like I said, Butters liked to wander off by herself, and the boys and the other girls were probably off somewhere else when it happened.

My poor dad is having a hard time with it. Mr. "I don't care anything about farm animals" has become quite the farmhand over the last few months. With my mom gone, him retired and recovered from his health issues, COVID sticking around, and me working so much, he has taken over many of my animal duties. And Butters was his favorite little feathered friend. My chickens aren't crazy about being handled, but he had Butters trained so that he could just pick her up and hold her without much a fuss. He buried her, and I'm pretty sure he didn't eat supper tonight. I told him that my mom had wanted these Polish chickens, so maybe she's finally getting to spend time with one of them now.

So, that's the story of Butters — the mightly little chicken whose 7 months on this planet made quite an impression on my family. We'll probably cut out free range time for a little while, and when they do go back out, it will be mostly supervised. After this weekend, the weather is supposed to warm up a bit, it's about time for fox and coyote mating season, and that hawk or whatever it was will likely return. We'll figure out our balance again and move on. That's just what you have to do.

RIP, sweet Butters.

Follow me on Instagram for more pictures and videos of Butters

Jasmine

Since I've been documenting my chicken drama here since March, I thought I'd take a minute to talk about how it all came to an end today. I don't like how it happen, though, but I guess that's not my call.  

If you're new here, the just of it is this: I had a sick chicken in my flock in March. After some TLC, a vet visit, and some medication, she mostly recovered, but my flock wouldn't accept her back. During this time, four random chickens — two roosters and two hens — randomly showed up in my yard. (How does that even happen?) The roosters quickly disappeared, and after trying to find a home for the hens, I decided to keep them. Why? They weren't mean to my sick chicken like my other gals were. They actually kind of loved her. So, after a couple of months of trying to deal with this mess, I built a brand new coop, and I had my old crew in one coop, and the sick chicken and the two newbies in the other. I can't express how stressful things had been up until that point. I'd almost lost all interest in raising these birds, something I'd been really passionate about before.  

Just when I thought the stress was over, it wasn't. Sick chicken, Marigold, died about a week after I finished the coop. She wasn't expected to live long anyway as she had some internal issues with her egg-laying parts. Shortly after Marigold died, one of the two strays, Tulip, got super depressed. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't walk around much. I believe she mourned herself to death, because a few weeks later, she took her last breaths in the garage. 

That left Jasmine. Oh, Jasmine. She was small, but she made up for her size with plenty of attitude. She hated being alone in the coop and eventually stopped sleeping in it and moved to the garage. She'd greet any cars that drove up. She went broody once, and I briefly considered ordering her some babies so she'd eventually have her own flock, but I don't think I could have handled it if she'd eaten them or something. So, I finally decided to let her join my flock. They didn't get along at first, naturally. She remained pretty low on the pecking order, but eventually they let her pal around with them. Mean Myrtle still pecked her when she tried to eat with them, but she followed them around the yard and slept with them in the bushes. 

She just wouldn't sleep in the coop. Either coop. She slept in the garage for a while, but eventually, she even stopped doing that. I searched the yard over, but I couldn't figure out where she was spending her nights until one evening, I was in the kitchen, and I saw something out of the corner of my eye in the cedar tree that towers over the back patio. "What kind of bird is that?" I said to no one in particular. It took me a few minutes to realize it was Jasmine. She would climb up the patio steps, fly up on the railing, jump into the tree, and walk the flimsy branches until she was in a safe spot. 

What could I do? I let her sleep there until temperatures dropped into the 20s last week, and we experienced an unprecedented snow. My dad helped me get her into the garage where she stayed for about four days. As I said, she's a feisty little thing, and I am personally afraid to mess with her. She's pecked and clawed the hell out of him multiple times, especially when he had to break her from her broody spell. Once the snow melted, Jasmine tried to return to the tree every night, and every night we had to coral her back into the garage. 

Until last night. We had her schedule figured out. She always got into the tree around 5:20, right before my chickens went into the coop for the night. Just before dark. My dad was working out. I was charging my phone. We met on the back patio at the same time we always did, but that damn chicken was already in the tree. I think she tried to outsmart us by going to bed early. At this point, there wasn't much we could do. She wanted to be in that tree. She thought she was safe there. We thought she was safe there. Until she wasn't. 

This morning, my mom and I were working on our antique booth, and my dad called. He'd discovered feathers all over the backyard when he went out to work on cutting up all the trees that fell during last week's snow, and Jasmine was nowhere to be found. When he let my chickens out, they were spooked. They spent the day hiding in the bushes, only coming out when I took them some sunflower seeds. My first thought was a coyote was still out early this morning, waiting when she got down out of the tree. After all, they've been hanging around lately. But that didn't really make sense.  

Long story slightly shorter, my dad thinks something got her in the night. A big limb from the cedar tree she slept in had fallen, creating something of a ladder to the top of the tree. There were little scratch marks up and down it as if something big had climbed it. A raccoon maybe? I can't be sure, but whatever it was must have grabbed her while she slept. I just hope that whatever it was, it killed her quickly. She more than likely would have put up a fight at any other time of day, but chickens can't see what's coming in the dark. 

Believe it or not, my parents were attached to her. I think they took it pretty hard. I'm sad, but I learned a long time ago that when raising animals like this, you can do the best you can, but there is no right way to both keep them 100 percent safe and let them live a free and happy life. I mean, a coyote snatched my little Rose right out from under me back in February. There was literally nothing else I could have done for her, and I've gone to great lengths to protect these girls. You have to detach yourself a little, especially if you believe as I do that animals just don't belong in cages 24/7. 

But I'm glad that Jasmine had a home for the last 9 months of her life, and she didn't have to be a "street chicken," though she still had that instinct. I'm glad she got to pal around with my chickens, even if Myrtle pecked her. I'm glad she had a yard where she was happy to dig and run and explore and nap in the sunshine and the dust-bathe in the bushes. I'm glad she enjoyed treats like biscuits, sunflower seeds, kale, corn, noodles, and yogurt. And if there's a little chicken heaven out there somewhere, I hope she's reunited with Marigold and Tulip, and they are living the high life.   

When it rains...

When it rains, it pours. That's been the theme around here lately, both literally and figuratively. While Atlanta did enjoy a few days without rain this week, dryness hasn't been the norm. We've seen flooding, downed trees, power outages, and everything else that comes along with day after day after day of wet, stormy weather.

As a matter of fact, the weather could be what started this little turn of bad luck I've run into for the last two weeks.


My mom and I have a booth in an antique shop here in town. It's located in an old K-mart building— it's been there since sometime long before I was born—and the building isn't in the greatest shape. Luckily, the entire shop is moving to a newer nicer building later this summer. As a matter of fact, that move is one of the big items on my 70-item summer to-do list I mentioned a few posts back.

Or it was on my list. I got to cross that one off.

Early last week, I was sitting here minding my own business when the store manager called and said we'd better get up there as quickly as possible if we wanted to save our stuff. When we arrived, the entire back corner of the store was flooded, nearly ankle-deep in some places. The ceiling tiles were caving in one-by-one. There was a waterfall of rain cascading down the wall behind our booth, and it was raining inside in other spots, the flood spreading. Every five minutes or so, another ceiling tile hit the ground hard and water swooshed in behind it. The lady who runs the booth across from ours was also there, and we laughed a little too hysterically when the Mission Impossible theme blared over the loudspeaker.

A few ceiling tiles missing.

Look closely at the doorway, and you'll see a waterfall.

Standing water is always fun.

Naturally, I was wearing a pair of cheap Old Navy flip-flops that slip and slide if I so much as look at anything wet. By the time we left, my pants were soaked almost to the knees, and I'd fallen at least four times. The only thing on our side was the fact that we've sold so much inventory and haven't replaced it because of the move, so there wasn't quite as much to pack. We had four grocery carts full, and I managed to get them all into the car so that we only had to make one trip. I'm not sure where to put it on a resume, but I have some mad packing skills after all the moving I've done in my adult life. 

After that, the rest of the week just kind of went downhill. My mom ended up having to have several unexpected medical appointments and procedures (not a big deal - just had to take care of some business, basically, and prep for some future stuff). Once they called when we were halfway to one hospital to tell us that we actually needed to go to another two counties away. Once they didn't have a time set up, so they called and asked if we could be about 30 minutes away in less than an hour. We were both sound asleep when they called.

Because it wouldn't be my life without some kind of animal mishaps, I ended up with a sick cat and a sick chicken during this period. I had to change the sick cat's vet appointment three times to give you an idea of what my schedule has been like. Fortunately, the doctor thinks it's just allergies and a respiratory infection. Unfortunately, he made giving her a pill and eye drops look ridiculously easy, so I left feeling cocky about my ability to do it just as well. No comment on that. 

She looks calm, but try giving her a pill and eye drops.

Sadly, the sick chicken won't be recovering. She died this morning in my parents' garage. It was Tulip—one of the new girls who showed up out of the blue back in April—and she's been a little off ever since Marigold died. Part of me thinks she mourned herself to death. If she had a disease, I would think the other hen would have it, too, and if it were something else like being egg bound or an impacted crop, I don't think it would have taken her three weeks to die. Yesterday, I went on a little shopping spree for all the foods and medications I could put together to try to make her well again. She did perk up a little, but today when I saw her heaving in the garage, I knew it was the end of the road for her. 20 minutes later, she was gone. I've felt so helpless dealing with her lately that it's almost a relief to know she's not suffering anymore

RIP, Tulip

So, remember that coop I spent two weekends building for my three little misfit chickens? There's only one left, and now I have to figure out how to make sure she's healthy and integrate her with the others. I'm right back where I started but not quite as stressed out about it. 

On top of dealing with a sick chicken this morning, someone tried to break into my car. In broad daylight. Who does that? 

Between sick animals, flooded stores, running a gazillion errands, almost daily medical appointments with my mom, and a few other private things, work has been something I squeeze in when I can, and sleep comes second. Aside from what mother nature forced me to do, my 70-item summer to-do list hasn't been touched, and I have 47 days to make it happen before I go out of town. 

It hasn't been all bad, though. Someone I used to work with contacted me to see if I'd be interested in writing for their new business venture, and I'm really excited about that. I also received word of some interest in some of my personal writing, and while I won't know anything about what's going to happen there for a while, it's a nice reminder to not let these rainy days and weeks stop me from losing focus on my goals. 

How not to build a chicken coop and other unofficial start to summer musings

Memorial Day was two weeks ago, which means summer is unofficially here, especially if you live down South where the thermometer says it long before the calendar does. The school year is over, and everyone is loading up the car for the trip to the beach, lake, or other exciting vacation destination, or parking themselves on a float in the pool with an icy cold drink and a bottle of sunscreen. 

Well, almost everyone.

I've been a little busy myself. I love the summer and its lazy days, but after a year or two of crazy family stuff (deaths, moving, health problems, etc.), I feel like projects that should have been long-completed are ready to come out of limbo. I'm working full-time again for the first time since my mom's extended hospital stay last fall, plus working on some writing projects of my own. Throw in a few random weird things, like stray chickens showing up in my yard and my AC giving out, and I just have a lot to tackle in the weeks to come. I've got plans to travel and enjoy life a little more later in the summer and beyond, but I'm hoping to spend June and July and the first week or two of August taking care of my 70-item to-do list (I'm not even kidding with that number). And so, I started on Memorial Day weekend.

First big project of the summer? Testing out my carpentry skills.

The first thing on my huge to-do list was to build a second chicken coop. If you'll recall, someone dumped two stray hens near my house, and I had all kinds of plans to find them a new home until I realized my solitary confinement hen, Marigold, loved them and I could give her a flock of her own. My dad met me at Lowe's one day in his pickup truck, and I spent about $180 on wood, nails, and other materials. I spent all of Memorial Day weekend working on it.

Tulip ready for her new home.

The problem is that I've never actually built anything. My mom and I built the first coop for my original chickens together, but she did most of the work. I just handed her things. We didn't speak to each other for a week after the fact either. She's handy. I'm not. But she was sick with bronchitis, and I was determined to do it all alone anyway, because that's just how stubborn and independent I can be.

I sawed all the wall frames by hand because I haven't the first clue about using an electric saw. In the midst of it all, Jasmine, one of the newbies, became broody and sat on her eggs for nearly a week before I finally pulled her off and dumped her "babies" that were attracting four-foot snakes to the yard into the trash. She hates me now. 

Jasmine giving me dirty looks after I made her give up efforts to become a mom.

Wall frames, sawed by hand.

Before I knew it, I had an actual wall for the coop. It just didn't stand up straight on the base. And if you removed that piece of wood you see propping it up, it fell over. And then it started pouring rain and lightning, and I got frustrated and ill and thought I was going to have to start all over because none of the walls were the same height, and if you look closely you can see that nothing is really measured correctly.

I am no carpenter.

Marigold and Tulip check out my work space.

So, the next weekend — the first weekend in June — I decided I had to get this thing finished. I was tired of hearing my mom complain about her garage smelling like a barnyard since the newbies were sleeping in there, and I'd already devoted one whole weekend to it. I didn't want to drag it out. And quite frankly, I felt like these damn chickens were taking over my life. I wanted everything settled down. Long story short, I caved and let my dad help me put the rest of the walls together. He's a little handier than I am, but my mom has all the skills in this family. Between the two of us, we managed to get everything together but a door. Them we had to catch these chickens that had been running wild for months and put them in there. I'm pretty sure the neighbors got to hear my dad use every curse word ever created.

It kind of looks like a coop.

I went from "I'm a strong independent woman" to "Daddy, can you help me?" in mere hours.

After four days of hammering and sawing, Marigold, Tulip, and Jasmine were in their home. They didn't fight. Marigold was happy to be out of the tiny cage she's been living in since her medical scare, and I'm sure she was happy to be living with other chickens again. You would never think chickens could become lonely but she did. Oh, she was so lonely. It thrilled me to see her with the other two. I literally decided to keep the strays and build this coop all for her, a dumb old chicken that doesn't even lay any eggs.

Marigold and Tulip enjoying some treats in their new digs.

That's why I had some mixed emotions when I found that Marigold's stay in the new coop and here on earth would be a short one. Last night, I went out to take some berries to both sets of chickens for a little snack. When I went to the new coop, Tulip and Jasmine, the strays, came right up, but Marigold didn't appear. I'd been out there earlier, and she'd been fine, but I had a feeling something was up. She was always the first one to the door when I came out.

Her lifeless body was on top of Jasmine's nest, as if she'd been sitting on the eggs, trying to lay one or keeping them warm. There were no signs of foul play (from predators or the new chickens), but the vet had warned me not to be surprised if I found her dead one day out of the blue. I have no idea if laying chickens can activate each other's hormones the way women living in the same house can, but if I had to guess, I think living with the other two maybe got something stirring inside of her, and after her medical issue she just wasn't strong enough to lay another egg. The rest of the flock is perfectly healthy, but I will be keeping an eye on them over the next couple of weeks and taking some extra steps to keep them that way just in case.

RIP, Marigold. June 8, 2015 to June 10, 2017

So, I spent two whole weekends, $200+, and a lot of back aches building a coop that only served its purpose for six days. If it were just the two strays, I probably could have worked them into the old flock pretty easily, but the original four would not accept Marigold. To be honest, that's a little aggravating. And I'm not crazy about having two sets of chickens when it's not necessary, but this issue has taken up almost three months of my time, and I need a break from all this chicken drama, so they'll all stay where they are for now.

The other big project I had taking up the last couple of weeks was turning a swampy green swimming pool into something in which people actually want to swim. Since my grandfather died, that's kind of been my responsibility. So far, I've always hired someone to do it, but this year, my dad and I decided to try it ourselves. It took a month — I just didn't have the time to dedicate to it — but I was finally able to swim earlier this week. It felt amazing to be back in the water. Last summer was such a blur — I think I can count on one hand the number of times I actually got into the pool.

Before

After

This weekend, my cousin and her kids came into town and we spent a large portion of yesterday swimming until the mosquitoes got so bad last night that we had to take cover. Spraying the yard for mosquitoes — another project to add to the list.

Had so much fun with this kiddo!

This one had a little too much fun.

So, now that the pool's under control and the chicken drama is under control, I'm moving on to other projects. Some of them are work and career-related. Some of them are personal. Some of them involve helping my parents finish the move they started two years ago, consolidating all of my belongings in one place, and working on getting back into my own place..finally. Nothing exciting. Just getting caught up with life to make it a little more enjoyable, though I can't promise you I won't spend a few days at the pool with a good book in the meantime. 

What are your plans for the summer? Will you be relaxing or marking off a long overdue to-do list? 

On chicken coops, disturbances, green pools, and long to-do lists

Last week, on the day I decided to keep the stray chickens, the animal situation at my house got a little weirder.

Around 2:00 that afternoon, I heard the chickens screeching like the world was coming to an end. I didn't go out there at first. They scream the same way if they see a bee buzzing around that they do when a coyote creeps into the yard and eats one of them.

But a few minutes later they did it again. I always take a nap on Tuesday afternoons, and I'd been asleep for a couple of hours, but I manged to drag myself out to the back porch to see if I could determine what was causing the commotion. That's when I spotted something white and furry creeping around the back of the coop.

Possum? Weasel? Are weasels white? Are there weasels in Georgia?

I put on my shoes and went out to investigate. What I found was not a weasel at all, but my little 8-month-old indoor kitten, Lily. I haven't introduced the kittens, Lily and Annie, here yet, because, well, they're cats. And I'm not a cat person. There's a whole story as to why I adopted them, but that's for another day. All I know is that they don't go outside, yet there was Lily, creeping around the chicken coop like a little white weasel.

Lily is the little jerk on the right.  Annie is the other one.

She wouldn't let me catch her, but I managed to scare her back into the garage, shut the door, and shoo her back inside. She's sneaky like that.  

A little while later, I had the chickens out for some free time, and once again, I hear them screeching. The dogs were on the back porch, and they were barking and growling. I glanced out the kitchen window, and it didn't take long to figure out what's wrong this time. There are two horses and four donkeys randomly wandering around the yard.

My chickens obviously don't know that they are farm animals, and these are farm animals and they should all get along, because they were having little hissy fits all over the patio. I was wearing a long dress, and some of them even tried to get up under it to hide.

Someone told me that the horses and donkeys heard I was keeping the chickens and decided to see if I'd keep them too. I can't say I wouldn't be open to it, but they actually have a home - they just don't like to stay there. As a matter of fact, they'd gotten out last weekend when a popular TV show filming next door to my house, and I'm pretty sure they disrupted that a little bit...at least that's what I gathered from all the braying and laughter I heard.  

One of the horses actually ripped the hinges from my chicken coop door, so I'm going to have to make some repairs. As soon as I build the coop for Marigold and her new pals. Oh yes, Marigold and the new chickens get along fabulously. She lets them into her cage, and they all eat together peacefully. I'm so happy that she's no longer depressed and lonely that it's worth the $200 I spent on supplies and the fact that I'm going to have to build the new coop in 90-degree weather later this week.  

Of course building a new coop is just one of the many things I have to do over the next few weeks. I just sat down the other day and made a to-do list, and by the time I was finished, I was too tired to mark anything off of it. Between work and home and animal projects, I should be pretty busy for a while. Next up, getting the pool cleared so I can jump in after I build the chicken coop in 90-degree weather.  

And so I can kick back on a float and start on my summer reading pile. If I have time. If I ever have time...

Two (or more) more reasons why I'll never be a real farmer

One of my goals in life is to have my own little farm. A plot of land, somewhere in east or north Georgia probably, with some chickens, goats, horses, dogs, and maybe a few other creatures. More animals than neighbors. This is a fairly new item on the old bucket list, but it's a lifestyle I've fallen in love with just dabbling in gardening and chicken rearing on my parents' property.

I'm just not sure I'd be all that good at it. 

Meet the new gals in town (and Sadie's baby doll).

If you'll recall, I spent much of March and April babying and spending hundreds of dollars on a chicken who will probably never lay eggs again. If I had a dollar for every person who told me a real farmer would have eaten her by now, I could have paid for her vet visit twice. Even the vet casually mentioned that it was chick season across the street at Tractor Supply. When she was healthy, I began the process of reintroducing her into the flock, but it was ugly. Apparently, my mistake was not letting them battle it out for the pecking order, but when I see three hens piled on top of Marigold, clawing at her, my only reaction is to scream and flail my arms and put everyone in timeout.  

Just as I started working on the process, two stray roosters showed up in the yard, and a few days later, two hens. At first, it was cute. Maybe some of my gals could have babies. But then it became stressful trying to keep three sets of chickens separated. Chicken drama consumed my life. Then the roosters disappeared out of the blue one night. I searched the neighborhood to find the hens' original home, but I came to the conclusion someone dumped them. I moved on to trying to find them any home any all. Lots of takers and lots of dead ends.

In the meantime, I got sick. Some sort of flu or cold, but I failed to rest or medicate during the first few days and it turned into a nasty case of bronchitis. I had the worst sore throat I've ever had in my life. I was dizzy. I got winded walking down the stairs. I still can't breathe properly or eat or talk without coughing. My voice is just coming back, and it's been almost three weeks. Playing keep away with three sets of chickens every day just made me sicker and more annoyed. Throw in the fact that the two strays have been sleeping in the garage, which now smells like a barnyard. That's pretty much all I remember about the end of April/first of May.

When it became obvious that the last person who wanted the hens wasn't going to get them, I took to Facebook. I may have begged for someone to take them shortly after breaking up a fight that involved all seven chickens, my dad, me, and a few garden tools. Thank God someone who I knew would give them a good home stepped up. As I made arrangements with their new mom, I was elated. All I had to do was catch and drive the chickens into the city — yes, these poor little country strays were moving ITP — and I could go back to trying to get my five to live peacefully together again.

But Monday night rolled around, and I was in bed and all I could think about was those two poor little chickens who someone dumped on side of the road. They like it here. They think they are home. My heart ached for them.

I also thought about my poor Marigold who lives alone in her little cage, and how my other four are so mean to her, but these little strays just love her to death. They let her peck all over them, but she also tries to protect them when the others go after them. They're kind of like her own little flock. Not only was I sad to say goodbye to them after all this time, but I thought this could be the answer to Marigold's solitary confinement.

Marigold has been living alone in a small cage next to the big coop.

The next morning I had to drive my mom to a medical appointment, and without prompting, she suggested that she would be sad to see the chickens go. My dad later texted the same thing. I weighed my options. I'd have to build a separate coop for now. I'd have to get Marigold and the two strays to live together peacefully and eventually, try to get them all to live together. It's easier to introduce three hens into a flock than it is one, I'd read. And now that I'm finally recovering from my illness, it might be a little easier on me.

Good Lord, I'm keeping these chickens.  

Hoping I didn't sound like a lunatic, I contacted the strays' new mom and asked if it'd cause her any trouble if I decided to keep them. Not only was she gracious, but she offered me some wonderful advice about chicken integration.

So, now I have to build a second coop. My mom and I built the first coop together, and I'm pretty sure we went days without speaking to each other after the fact. And I've decided I need to build a fenced-in yard between the two coops. And the current coop was supposed to be temporary, and is falling apart, but that was before all the hell that last year brought, so I need to make some repairs. And when I move back into my own place, I'm going to have to move all the chickens into one or two completely new coops there. But the strays will have a permanent home and Marigold will have some companionship, and my other four can get more than a few minutes of free-time a day because I no longer have to keep everyone separated.

So, yeah, it's going to be a bit of work for something most people would have fried up for Sunday dinner by now, but it's worth it.

I guess.

A quick study in animal husbandry

My entourage while I work on the porch the last couple of weeks.

Up until the last few years, I'd never been much of an outside kind of person. The family joke was that my enjoyment of the great outdoors was limited to walking to and from my car. But then I started dabbling in gardening and became fascinated with growing flowers and vegetables, and practicing and reading about horticulture led to my desire to also dabble in livestock.

As it turns out, you don't dabble in livestock. And that lesson became clear to me a few weeks ago.

It was a stressful time. The hot water heater was broken, and my dad and uncle were taking a while to fix it, which meant no hot water and sometimes no water at all for several days. And if you have been around me at all in the last month, you know I just finished up the Whole30 diet, and I complained about it the entire time to anyone who would listen.  I went days without eating due to lack of time and water to prepare any kind of real meal, and then I went days without eating due to a stomach virus. I also kind of maybe decided to dance up the stairs one night and twisted my knee and couldn't put weight on it for several days. Throw in the fact that my mom was sick, and we weren't exactly sure why, and work was crazy, and a couple dozen other things, and I had no time or room on my plate for more catastrophes.

So, naturally, when I ran out to the chicken coop one day to let my five remaining chickens out for free-time, I saw drops of blood everywhere. At first, it didn't occur to me that something was wrong. The chickens peck each other. They kill small animals. Blood isn't totally unusual. Plus, I was kind of delirious after having existed on a diet of bananas and sparkling water for three days.

But then Marigold, who, let's be honest, is not my favorite chicken, because she's always been kind of bossy to the others, comes out of the coop about 20 minutes after I opened the door. She's scared, she's walking strangely, and shy little Iris who won't stray more than about 20 feet from the coop, even when the others are all the way on the other side of the house, started pecking her. Marigold hid behind a bush. I knew something was up.  I went outside to take a look at her, and I saw blood running down her backside.

Marigold has never been my favorite chicken, but we've bonded in recent weeks.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to catch her so I could put her in a separate quarantine cage, and scrubbing all the food and water bowls in case there was some kind of disease involved. I threw out all the eggs. I researched and called anyone I knew who raised chickens. I managed to narrow down her predicament to no less than ten causes. I went to the Tractor Supply store. I researched some more. I checked on her nonstop for the next few days. I can now tell you what perfect chicken poop looks like and exactly how their reproductive systems work.

But.

I knew I was in over my head when I read something about about lube and sticking my fingers in some places. I wasn't even sure I could find the places to stick them in if I wanted to.

Marigold in quarantine, looking into the big coop.

The night before I finally decided to call the vet, I couldn't sleep. I knew poor Marigold was probably suffering, and it was storming — hail, wind, rain, tornado watches. On Monday, I called my vet's office and tentatively asked if the man who once saved my Gabby dog's life would mind seeing a chicken. His website did say he saw birds after all. The receptionist kind of chuckled, but she told me he would see her the next day, and I felt so relieved.

There was just one problem: I was going to have to catch her.

Here's a little secret. I don't actually handle the chickens very much, and when I say I had to catch her to quarantine her the night this all happened, what I meant to say was that I flagged down my dad in the midst of the water heater drama and got him to help me catch her. I'm kind of afraid of being pecked. Animals who make sudden movements freak me out. That's why I don't like frogs. I'm sure there's some psychology behind that, but let's save it for another day.

About an hour and a half before I had to be at the vet's office, I put on some old sweats, some thick gloves, and gathered up my gear. Yes, I felt it was important to have gear to gather a chicken out of a three foot cage. Lots of gear. Garden tools, treats, boxes, tarps...  I was shaking — part nerves, part adrenaline rush — but she was super cooperative. I managed to use one of my tools, a broken down cardboard box, to push her towards the front and over to the side. I scooped her up, praying and pleading that she wouldn't try to attack me, and I rushed her into the $40 cat carrier I'd purchased at Walmart earlier in the day. It felt like the hard part was over.

The trip to the vet was quick and easy. He suspected she had become egg-bound at some point (stopped up if you aren't familiar with the term) and something had ruptured. While there was no sure way to fix her or even figure out what exactly was wrong with her without paying way more money than one might want to spend on a chicken, he gave me some ideas, some antibiotics, and some corny jokes and wished me luck. As I left, I asked his assistant if they saw many chickens. She said, "Actually, about four a month or so." At least I'm not alone, I guess.

The day ended up costing me about $200, after buying the carrier, paying for the visit and medication, and heading over to Tractor Supply and Publix to pick up some items I might need for the next two weeks of playing chicken infirmary. There was a good chance she would never lay another egg, much less survive this ordeal. I wouldn't even pay $200 for a great meal at Chick-fil-A, and here I was with one expensive free-loading chicken.

I need to buy stock in Tractor Supply. I spent lots of money there when the chickens are healthy.

The next two weeks were busy with round-the-clock chicken care. The vet suggested I bring her inside, and I started with the basement. She hated it, so I moved her to the porch, where the two kittens I adopted just before Christmas spent most of their days watching her every move. She was less than amused, but I think they all kind of grew fond of each other. I spent those days feeding her treats and giving her medication and even sitting on the porch with her, working on my laptop, just to keep her company. As time passed, she became stronger and healthier and ready to move back outside.

Marigold did not care for life in the basement.

It has been exactly 23 days since I first saw the blood dripping from her backside. She's perfectly healthy now, and while she's not laying eggs and probably won't anymore, I see no reason not to integrate her back into the flock. A few of the other hens have already let me know they have an issue with that, but that's a story for another post. As a matter of fact, I fully suspect it's going to take 23 more days just to move her back into the big coop unless anyone's got a good book on chicken psychology I can borrow.

I'm sure a better farmer would have stuck his or her fingers in some places. I'm sure a better farmer would see her as a waste of feed at this point and turn her into a Sunday dinner. My vet said some chickens are beloved family pets and some people don't care because they have 15 more at home and there are babies at Tractor Supply, so he's never sure how far to go in treating them. I suspect Marigold and the others are somewhere in between for me, but more than anything they've been one big lesson in why I'm probably not quite the farmer I once I thought I wanted to be.

I don't speak chicken, but I'm pretty sure she said "Go away, tiny white devils" on more than one occasion.

The hardest part of farming*...

One of my biggest fears since getting my chickens when they were just a week old has been keeping them safe from predators. We basically live in the woods, and hawks, coyotes, foxes, neighborhood dogs, raccoons, owls, snakes and other creatures who wouldn't mind a delicious free-range chicken for supper are everywhere.

There have been a few near misses. Once, I was at the pool and looked up just in time to see a hawk flying down at them. Once, I walked up to pick them some kale from my mom's garden and came back to find them all curiously surrounding a stray boxer who appeared out of nowhere. The poor things are not afraid of dogs. Last summer I discovered a snake who was about 4-5 feet long in their house, but I think she was just looking for eggs.

Unfortunately, last week, one of those wild creatures was successful in plucking one of my girls from the yard.

The ladies have a nice big house and plans to move into a bigger one this year, and they get to have their freedom for a few hours each day. They put themselves up when it gets dark, and then I go feed them and shut them up for the night, but for some reason they've been lingering outside the door a little when it gets dark, soaking up every last bit of sun they can. I don't blame them. We've reached the part of winter where it's depressing for the sun to go down by 6 pm.

Anyway, last Thursday night, I'd stepped outside to put them up, but they weren't all in the house yet, so I decided to come back inside and get the dogs' food ready while the chickens lingered. The dogs were outside, and I'd just been out there making plenty of noise. I was actually sitting just inside the door in plain view of the coop. There was no way something would grab one of them with all this going on.

Suddenly, I heard one of the chickens scream. If you've ever had chickens, you know they scream about pretty much anything out of the ordinary. But when I got outside, the dogs were chasing something into the woods, and I only counted five hens instead of six. I searched the yard and edge of the woods as best as I could in the dark, hoping she was just hiding. I got up the next morning and saw no signs of a struggle — no blood or feathers. She was gone.

So, now I'm down to five. To be honest, I'm not sure which chicken is missing, because three of them look just alike — my golden-laced wyandottes — and I have to see them all outside together to tell you which is which, based on size and personality. Rose is tiny yet outgoing, Myrtle is a big lazy gal who hangs out with Marigold (the head hen), and Iris is skittish, keeps to herself, and barely leaves the area by the chicken house. 

I'll know which one it was for sure in the next few days when I return them to short periods of ultra-supervised free-range time. In the meantime, I kind of feel like I let her down. I've decided the culprit was most likely a fox, coyote, or stray dog, but what kind of animal has the nerve to approach with humans and other dogs around? I wonder if she died quickly or suffered in pain for a while. I wonder if the other chickens miss her?

When I first put them into their new home, I decided I'd much rather them have their freedom, even if there's a risk, than to spend their lives in a cage and never get to experience digging in the mud for worms and scratching in the leaves and all the things they love to do. And I stand by that idea, but it doesn't make it any easier. Their new digs should provide a larger fenced-in area for that, and believe me, I've read every article online about how to make it predator proof. But given the circumstances of what happened last week, I've decided there's no way to completely protect them from harm unless you keep them inside your home. That doesn't mean I won't try, but it's one of the harsh realities of owning livestock, I guess.

*I realize I am not an actual farmer because I've raised half a dozen chickens and grew some tomatoes last year, but I don't let that stop me from pretending.