Foiled Again

Well camouflaged....

I kept thinking we should have more eggs. Violet has been the only steady layer the last few months. But Mabel started laying a few weeks ago, and the two little Bantams and Pearl lay occasionally. The Australorps are not to point-of-lay, yet. Two to three eggs a day shouldn't be an unreasonable expectation.

Mabel: "What eggs?"

Violet has delivered a few to the front door recently. Yesterday I saw one sitting on the loveseat, newly deposited, and went out to say hi to Violet. I sat down on the wicker loveseat, and she hopped up and visited me for a few minutes. We had a brief conversation, she examined the rings on my fingers, then hopped down and headed around the side of the house. In order to get to the front door she had soldiered through the 6 to 8 inches of snow that remain on the ground. The coop would have been much closer for her than the loveseat on the front porch, but she felt compelled to bring her eggs to the door, apparently.

So I knew she was laying steadily. And I can usually tell Clover's eggs from Oreo's. They are both small Bantam eggs, but for some reason, Clover's have been bumpy ever since the chicken heist.

But there just weren't many eggs showing up in the coop. So I shouldn't have been so surprised to find a hidden stash of eggs this morning.

I noticed Mabel has been hanging out in a narrow space between the garage and a long aluminum ladder that is leaning on its side against the building. It doesn't really look like there's enough space for a hen there.

Today, I went out to take them some clean water, and saw Mabel poke her head out from between the rungs, watching me. I went over to see what she was up to, and happened to glance a little more closely at the dark ground space beside her. Last fall's leaves had gathered behind the ladder and against the wall, so they were camouflaged, but I caught a glimpse of an egg. And then another.

Mabel watched me for a moment then kind of sidled her way past me and over to the coop. There was an air of innocence in the way she looked around, as if she was pretending she knew nothing about that clutch of eggs. I went back inside to get a container and came out to see how many hidden eggs were there.

The one on top was warm. I looked pointedly at Mabel. The rest--16 in all--had been frozen, and were cracked and damaged from the cold. Some were clearly Bantam eggs. All were brown, so Pearl was cleared, since her eggs are white.

I tossed the 15 frozen eggs in the trash, and slipped the fresh one into the fridge, along with one that had been properly laid in the coop nesting box.

I'm not sure why they are finding places other than the nesting box to lay their eggs. I think I'll see if we can modify to coop nesting boxes to be more enclosed, since enclosure seems to be an enticement, and their nesting boxes in the coop are somewhat open.

But finding them tucked away behind the ladder has me wondering what creative place they'll find next. Stay tuned...

Poultry Snow Palace

Clover standing on her tiptoes trying to see past the snow.

After weeks of unseasonably warm, dry weather, we woke to about a foot of snow on Friday morning. The night before, I'd given the ladies fresh water, topped off their feed, and left them a bowl of yogurt and some applesauce. I knew they'd be in no hurry to come out the next morning with snow on the ground, and figured I'd buy a little time on a snowy morning before forging a path to the coop and run.

As it turned out, it was a snow day for M&L. After it warmed up a little bit, they went outside to let the hens out and had plans to build a snow fort. But somehow that plan evolved with the influence of the chickens.

At first, none of the hens really wanted to come out. But then I saw Mabel take a flying leap from the run, apparently thinking she'd get over that white stuff and into the garden. She didn't anticipate that the snow was everywhere. It was an impressive flight for a heavy chicken, and she landed in the foot deep snow like a rock. This seemed to shock, then puzzle her. She sat there, immobilized. I watched as she looked around trying to figure her way out of the mess, then M rescued her and put her back in the run.

In the meantime, Clover had waddled out the run door and was walking back and forth along the shoveled path. This was definitely a case of a chicken wanting to get to the other side. She stood as tall as her bowling ball-shaped self could get, trying to see a way through or over the snow. The Australorps stood tentatively inside the run, looking out with concern. Pearl was happily eating the grain and kale I'd tossed out, and Oreo and Violet, having seen as much snow as they cared to see, were roosting on the high perches in the coop where it was warm and dry.

I gathered a couple of eggs, and headed back in. A little while later I looked out to see that the girls had shoveled out the snow then piled a bunch of pine shavings on one area. A network of shoveled paths led to and from the opening, and the hens were strolling in various places along the path. When one of them had the urge to run and flap wings, they did so by following the path in its curves around the bird bath and through the garden. They did not stray from the maze of paths. The two Australorps wandered in circles in the center of the shavings as if they were gossiping ladies out for a walk in the park.

M&L were busily building up walls. I saw L place Pearl on top of the berm. Pearl, having a strong sense of decorum and self preservation, hopped back to the safety of the path. L busily  appeared to be creating steps for the chickens to climb up and down. Eventually, they had created a number of "rooms", corridors, and stairsteps in the heavy white snow.

I looked over at our neighbor's snow. Her yard was covered with a pristine glistening white blanket that looked like icing on a cake--not the slightest footprint marred its surface. I wondered if she looked over at our yard and pondered the expansive Poultry Palace that had appeared.

Chicken Vision

Betty can keep any eye on me--and still see what's going on around her.

Our chicken coop is about 50 feet from the house. When I open the back door, the hens almost always come running to see what I've got. But what has surprised me is that sometimes I'll be inside the house, and will just look through the window or door to check on them, and they'll come running.

If I'm outside looking toward the house, I can generally see if someone is standing right in front of the window if I look hard enough. If they are standing back from the window a few feet, I can't see them.

But even if I stand a few feet back from the window, the hens will still come running. And then they'll stand there looking directly at me, cocking their heads and training an eye on me as if to say, "I totally see you."

If I don't come out, Violet and Mabel will hop up on to the step in front of the door and peer up at me.

At first, I didn't think they could really see me. But their expressions are so intent--and they aren't just looking at the window, they are looking at my face, and are maybe a little annoyed that they came running all that way and I'm still standing inside. There's an air of expectant impatience about their glare.

If I stop and think about all their scratching and searching for small bugs and seeds, it seems pretty obvious that they must have decent vision. Curious, I decided to read up on chicken eyesight. I'd always heard their eyesight was poor at night, but how well do they see during the day? Is it my imagination, or are they using their X-ray vision on me?

Turns out, chickens do see well. In fact, they see colors that humans can't. Recent research revealed that chicken eyes are better "organized" than human eyes, and that this means they can see color better than humans. According to the author of the new study on chicken vision, Dr. Joseph C. Corbo of Washington University in St. Louis (WUSL) School of Medicine:  

“'The human retina has cones sensitive to red, blue and green wavelengths. Avian retinas also have a cone that can detect violet wavelengths, including some ultraviolet, and a specialized receptor called a double cone that we believe helps them detect motion,' Corbo adds. Additionally, when eating colorful fruits such as berries, the creatures need to be able to distinguish between poisonous plants and the real deal." 


In fact, chickens can see things that are moving so quickly they would appear as a blur to humans, and they can keep one eye on prey while keeping the other eye on morsels of food. This would explain how Violet can gobble up oatmeal while giving Mabel the stink eye at the same time.


I look out the window with new, well, perspective, on my chickens.

Walking with Friends

Tybee holds the end of his leash while on a walk.

Lately, I've been walking with James Herriot.

I'm following a course through the old streets of this small Colorado town, my iPhone weighing in my pocket, my earbuds plugged in, as the voice of narrator Christopher Timothy brings the life of a Yorkshire vet into clear focus in my mind. I'm listening to the audiobook version of All Things Bright and Beautiful, and as I pass familiar houses, fence-lined yards, and early 20th century homes at the foothills of the Rockies, I'm seeing gray stone walls threading through green fields, Yorkshire farmers and their animals, and James Herriot's cast of affable characters.

Today, my 2-year-old Weimaraner, Tybee, walks along with me as I listen to the story of Herriot walking with his own dog. I understand the comfortable companionship the country vet feels with a dog at his side.

Herriot's real name was James Alfred (Alf) Wight, born in 1916. I was probably in junior high when I first picked up All Creatures Great and Small and entered the warmly painted world he recorded. He would have been a practicing vet at the time, halfway around the world, but near enough in imagination for me to feel the cobblestones beneath my feet and the warmth of equine muscle beneath my fingertips. I could see the expressions of animals and owners he described, and it was as if I rode along on his farm calls through the dales.

As an adult, I've re-read the series, and watched the BBC shows on DVD. And I've discovered the audiobook versions. You would think I'd get tired of the stories, since I've heard them before. But they are like those much loved family tales that re-surface around the Christmas dinner table and still make everyone laugh. I know how they'll end, but it's in the telling of them that I am captured and transported. I remember the budgies and the beagles and the shorthorn bulls; Tristan and Siegfried, and many of the clients he works with.

I walk with Tybee, and the air is cold, snow flitting from gray skies. Tybee was found somewhere in Kansas by animal control when he was about 5 months old. He was severely underweight, sick with canine influenza, and fleeing a cat with great sorrowful yelps. He gratefully jumped into the officer's van, then, through two foster homes and Mile High Weimaraner Rescue, found his way to us.

I would not say we have always walked in the most companionable way. He has tripped me more than once while walking or running. He's busy looking around, pondering the scenery, and he steps in front of me with uncanny timing, sending me sprawling across the asphalt, then looking at me as if he's wondering what I'm doing on the ground. A new game? An opportunity for play?

I've learned more body awareness when walking with Tybee. With Kipper, our Dalmatian, there are no worries. He's arrow straight in his gait and attitude. Tybee, on the other hand, wiggles and waggles his way along the road. He once ran into a parked car because he was so busy gawking at a stone lion in someone's yard.

We have ironed things out pretty well after a year of walks, and while he still gapes and meanders, I have grown accustomed to his ways, and he seems to stay out of my path more than he used to. It might be simpler to walk without him, but walks and runs would seem so one dimensional without a dog.

After our two Goldens became too old to accompany me, I felt a bit lost without them. It was lonely along the roads and sidewalks, and I missed their pure pleasure in the outing.

My dogs help keep me moving. If they don't get out, they get loony. If I don't get out I get cranky. When I get the leashes out to take Tybee or Kipper, Tybee bounces up and down and is completely unable to contain his enthusiasm. He'll try very hard to sit, then explodes into wildly goofy bounces before attempting to contain himself and sit. Which again lasts for about two seconds.

When we at last walk out the door and through our gate, there is a happy bounce to his walk. He watches cats, squirrels, and other dogs, notices people and strange statues in yards. The first time he saw a snowman, he shrunk away, backed up, and barked and growled at it. It is impossible to be in bad humor while walking with Tybee.

As we walked yesterday, I listened to James Herriot's description of walking with his dogs:

"This was the real Yorkshire with the clean limestone wall riding the hill's edge and the path cutting brilliant green through the crowding heather. And, walking face on to the scented breeze, I felt the old tingle of wonder at being alone on the wide moorland where nothing stirred and the spreading miles of purple blossom and green turf reached away until it met the hazy blue of the sky.

"But I wasn't really alone. There was Sam, and he made all the difference... He was to be my faithful companion, my car dog, my friend who sat by my side through the lonely hours of driving. He was the first of a series of cherished dogs whose comradeship have warmed and lightened my working life."

At that moment, I looked down at Tybee, who was clipping along in his characteristic long, disorganized, floppy strides, tongue lolling, ears up, expression open and happy. This dog that went unwanted early in life, hadn't had an easy beginning. He bears a nasty scar on one ear, and we have no idea how long he wandered the streets. Now he walks familiar streets with me, and has a soft bed and warm house. He has enriched and lightened my walks and runs, and I am glad for it. 

Short Memories

Betty and Pearl in a staring contest.

Chickens have short memories. Pearl was clearly feeling back to normal, so I decided to put her back in with her feathered friends. But in the few days she'd been gone, I knew it was entirely likely that they'd completely forgotten about her. With chickens, absence does not make the heart grow fonder. There was a chance they'd treat her like a strange interloper from a distant flock and pick on her.

Poppy and Betty. Teenage BFFs. You rarely see one without the other.

I thought about waiting until it was dark, and all the hens were roosting and zoned out. Then I could sneak her back in and they'd all wake up in the morning and think she'd been there all along. As much as it makes me laugh to picture their morning reactions, this is really a chicken re-intro strategy. The sun comes up and suddenly there's an extra chicken, and I guess they all just figure they never noticed that one extra one before.

But it was a beautiful day, and I hated for her to miss it. So I thought I'd see what happened if I just dropped her in with the flock.

I put her down and she was clearly happy to be out of that bathtub. Her eyes brightened, her tail lifted to a perky angle, and her cheek feathers puffed out. She set to work looking for scratch right away. But then Betty, one of the big Australorps--probably twice her size--noticed her. She eyed her suspiciously, then swaggered up to her, and stood up straight and tall and arched her neck over Pearl. Betty thought maybe this was her chance to be top chicken over someone.

Pearl has always been nice to the Australorps, who (until Pearl's vanishing and reintroduction) were the new kids in the coop. I wondered what she'd do. Pearl is less than half Betty's size. But she drew herself up as tall as she could, arched her neck, and glared at Betty. They were eye to eye. They stood there for a minute or so.

Betty reached down and, as if testing the waters, pecked Pearl on top of the head, but not too hard. Pearl assertively pecked Betty back and Betty squawked, turned tail, and ran.


That settled that. Pearl went back to scratching and dusting herself as if nothing had happened, having reclaimed her spot in the pecking order. The other chickens eyed her, but pretty much left her in peace.

I checked on her throughout the day, and she was running, roosting, and doing all the normal chicken stuff. No one was picking on her. And she was a long ways from the hen that couldn't walk on Saturday. It was a relief to see her back to normal. She's a very kind chicken, but that doesn't mean she lets anyone push her small self around.

Eating Local

One of my favorite Christmas gifts this year came from my sister. It's a book called The Feast Nearby, by Robin Mather. On the front cover it says, "How I lost my job, buried a marriage, and found my way by keeping chickens, foraging, preserving, bartering, and eating locally (all on $40 a week)."

Mather, a food journalist (and now senior associate editor at Mother Earth News), moves to her 650-square foot lakeside cottage in Michigan. Her book chronicles a year of change and eating local, with essays that not only tell her story, but cover food issues and offer some great recipes. (And hey, she spins and knits, too.)

I first became aware of the local food movement when I heard a radio interview with Barbara Kingsolver about her book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I read it several years ago, and was impressed--eating local is not easy, and she did so for a full year.

We 21st century Americans are used to having access to any food we want, any time of the year. Bananas from South America don't exactly leave a small carbon footprint on the way to my door in Colorado. Eating only what's in season for your region, raised nearby, or has been canned from local produce the summer before is a huge challenge.

We try to buy local whenever we can, especially through the summer at the local farmer's market. Our small grocery store often has local produce and foods available. And we seek out opportunities to support local farmers.

Our Thanksgiving turkey was raised right up the road. He came from Long Shadow Farm, where we picked him up on the Sunday before the holiday from Kristen and Larry Ramey. They raise turkeys, chickens, and lambs, and sell produce and delicious canned goods. They have a booth at the farmer's market in the summer, and I relish the opportunity to pick up a few roasters or stew hens, and their locally grown produce.

And gracing our dinner table at Christmas we had home canned applesauce, pickles, and jams, and local wine from Blue Mountain Vineyards. (It was very nice wine. We'll look for it again.)

Not only are we supporting small, local businesses, and reducing our carbon footprint, but the food and wine was delicious, and a welcome addition to our meal. And I think that value is sometimes overlooked--that beyond the ecology and environmental benefits, eating local is richly satisfying.

Reading Mather's book, the simplicity of processes and the personal connection she has with her food is appealing. Our turkey was raised, handled, and processed by the people who sold him to us.  The food we canned, the wine we drank, the honey on our table and the cream on our pumpkin pie seem more... personal, and somehow enriched, when we know its origins.

When Mather writes about buying meat from a local, small butcher, or cheese from a local dairy, or when I dip honey from a jar that was filled just down the street, there is a sense of community that surrounds the food and the meal. And community and food are a natural culinary pairing.

Pearl is on the mend...

Pearl, convalescing.

We've had a sick chicken in the downstairs bathtub all weekend. Pearl, L's favorite chicken, just wasn't herself Saturday morning when M went to let them out of the coop. She seemed to be having a hard time walking, and just wanted to roost on the ground. It wasn't too terribly cold, but she was fluffed up like it was sub-arctic out and she was trying to stay warm. Poor thing had the chills.

I scooped her up and took her into the house while M gathered some wood shavings and food. She almost seemed as if her legs were extremely weak or paralyzed. We gave her a bowl of yogurt, some water with vitamins and electrolytes (plus a splash of Bragg's apple cider) and her regular chicken feed. We have the heat lamp on in the coop, so I filled up a hot water bottle and settled it next to her.

All day long, she didn't really move much. I knew that she'd just laid an egg that morning, so she wasn't egg bound. Her crop was full, but not impacted. She was eating and drinking fairly well. But she clearly didn't feel well. I wondered if she had the same bug that Clover had back in November. Googling only added to my worry.

One very common chicken disease is Marek's--a virulent and highly contagious Herpes infection (it has a 100 percent mortality rate). Some chicks are vaccinated, but I didn't know if Pearl had been vaccinated or not since she came to us at about 15 weeks. One of the symptoms is paralysis, but she didn't seem to exhibit any of the other symptoms. And often the paralysis shows one leg stretched forward, and one leg back. This didn't seem to be the case either.

She had frequent visitors Saturday, checking to make sure she was warm enough and had food. By Sunday morning, she seemed to have improved and was gaining strength in her legs. Sunday night, she was clearly feeling better, and decided to roost on the side of the tub for the night.

Today, she looks good, but I'm keeping her quarantined a little bit longer, not wanting to expose the rest of the flock, and wanting to be sure she can hold her own out there with the big girls.

I had no idea chickens could be so fragile, but as I read about the various illnesses and diseases they can contract, I suddenly find myself behaving like a new mother, worried about the slightest oddity or deviation.

I cleaned out the coop this morning, adding fresh shavings. Violet and Mabel both wandered in to see what I was doing. Both were bright eyed, and the two Bantams and two Australorps both looked good, as well. I gave them fresh water, scattered some scratch grains, and watched them. It's supposed to be nice and warm today, and they are enjoying a day wandering in the yard.

Reading up on quarantines, I'm learning that Pearl may have to stay in isolation for awhile longer. Feeling bad that she's missing out on a good day in the yard, I take her a handful of mustard greens and a little more yogurt. Fingers crossed she'll be back with the other girls soon.