Butter and Egg Men

We had our first little tiny egg on Saturday and then Sunday, nothing. We checked. About eight times. Monday, two. Tuesday, two. This means that in four days we've gotten more eggs than we usually eat in a week. And only two of the hens are laying so far.

*sigh*

We've also had some interesting coop power dynamics. We chose Cargill as our rooster partly because of his calm disposition. Now I'm hearing from other chicken rearers that araucanas are sort of wimpy. It's true. Back when we had lots of other roosters, Cargill was definitely NOT the alpha, even though he knew that he was the Golden Boy. Now, Cargill acts like he's the elder statesman of the group. He's the one who does the most early-morning crowing, and he tends to be where the food is. When danger threatens, he shows his leadership by leading the way to the best hiding places.

Arthur, on the other hand, is the young Turk. When the Pirate lets the chickens out in the morning, the hens are normally first out of the gate, but Arthur is hot on their heels running after any hen he can catch. On the other hand, any hen who's not exactly in the mood need simply turn around and snap at him to get him to back off. We saw the black australorp giving him a "You talkin' to ME?" challenge this morning, and he wisely ran away. She is bigger than he is, after all.

Arthurs hot-bloodedness doesn't end with chasing all the hens. He was also hopping out of the yard at every opportunity. We'd come downstairs to go out on an errand and there he'd be, scratching at the sprouting grass under the henhouse. We'd catch him and put him back in the yard and when we got back, there he'd be, rooting through the blackberries near the creek. We'd catch him and go upstairs, and the next time we came out, there he was dustbathing next to the house.

I went upstairs and fetched the scissors while the Pirate grabbed him one last time. I pulled his wings out and took a good three inches off the flight feathers on each side. He might be able to manage a sort of power-assisted hop, but not much more. For the past two days, he's stayed in the yard like a good boy, although he can be heard later in the mornings, after Cargill's done announcing the dawn.

Our butter and egg men. They're silly.

Our Blessed Event

Yup, that's exactly what you think it is - our very first egg. The chickens are about five and a half months old at this point (they arrived at our place 10/18, so they were most likely hatched 10/16) and we've been expecting eggs any old time. This egg is approximately two-thirds the size of a normal "large" store egg, and is a rosy brown speckled with tiny white dots.

The Pirate and I did hear some commotion in the henhouse this morning, but because it's spring, when  a young man's fancy turns to love, we just thought that it was Arthur, our resident rakehell, having his wicked way with someone. Our eggs are sure to be fertile, we know that much.

The rice hulls were all moved to one side and the shell was a little cracked on the end, so we've chopped some straw and mixed it in to give the eggs a little softer place to land. My mother was thinking that six nesting boxes wouldn't be nearly enough for eight (and later twelve) hens, because when she was younger they had broody hens that would sit on their eggs until the eggs were taken. Well, obviously, not so our hens. The Pirate said that this morning, when he went inside the henhouse to turn off the heat lamp, one of the Barred Rocks was heading back inside to check things out, so it's fairly certain that it was one of them who left the egg. The Barred Rocks are the most "mature" of our flock - the most curious, the most assertive, the most mischevious, but they're not broody.

Now begins the period that to me is the most troublesome. The laying has started. What are we going to do with all these eggs?

Pirate Home Improvements

You know, I have to hand it to that man I married - that combination of Socrates, Errol Flynn and Betty Crocker who also plays a mean game of cribbage - during my recent long illness, he didn't just keep up with the kids, the house and the animals, he even spent some quality time with his power tools making some improvements to their little habitat.


Case in point number one: the new nesting boxes. "They look like bookshelves" I hear you cry. Oh, wait, that was me. And indeed, they do. On the other hand, I know of no chickens who can read or possess the thumbs necessary to use books. On the other hand, I know many chickens who are in need of comfy, private accommodations in which to make their morning ovulary deposits. The stuff in the bottoms of the boxes is rice hulls which the soft-hearted Pirate allowed the cute little smiling guy at the feed store to talk him into buying. I hope they work, because I have absolutely no idea what else we'd do with them.


And here was another of the Pirate's little projects. One of our ongoing issues has to do with the fact that chickens are rather indiscriminate poopers, and at the same time, they have a liking for flying up onto anything and perching there. The combination means that they will poop into their own water on the average of forty-seven times a day. And twice a day, we go down and clean it off and empty out the dirty water and give the chickens a good talking-to about hygiene and manners, but I fear that it's all lost on them. So, what lectures can't accomplish, carpentry can - a ramada for the waterer that keeps the chickens from pooping right into the water. Come summer, it'll also provide the waterer with a modicum of shade, keeping the water that much cooler. Well done!


And there it is now. The view from under the coop - a veritable mountain of chicken poo. Well, that's what it may look like to you, but it's spring, and what it means to me is that we now have a whole lot of pretty impressive fertilizer for this spring's vegetables! Kinda makes your mouth water, doesn't it? No? Well, never mind.


And here the little darlings are now. The reason there's a huge mountain of poo under the coop is because the coop doesn't have a solid bottom. Think about those wooden soap dishes made of slats - that's our chicken house floor. And at night, the chickens all cram themselves onto the top perch (there are two more perches just as nice, but no, they all have to screech and flap to get a spot on this one!) and stay right there until morning, letting the chips fall where they may.


Just for good measure, I took a picture of the porch right in front of the chicken house, and a big fat stack of the thing we buy most often at our place - straw bales. We need straw for the floor of the henhouse, straw for the chicken yard so they're not walking in the mud, and occasionally we use straw to keep our driveway from falling into the creek. And yes, that's what the little red boat on the left is for - the creek. Just in case there's a flood and we need to get downtown in a hurry.


And here's what happens when you let your kid take the chickens outside for walkies. She throws scratch around like Mardi Gras beads, and a month later we've got a lawn grown up from the spilled grain. That's okay. The chickens will eat that too!

Winter Wonderland

Sleighbells ring - are you listenin'?
(I think it's the phone.)

This is the roof of the henhouse, covered with snow. Let me just say this: I live in central California, people! I live within 20 miles of the beach! It's NOT supposed to snow! And yet, here it is.

In the lane, the snow is glistenin'.
(And I'm sure cars are skidding all over the road, because nobody here knows how to drive on snow.)

We woke up this morning when the Baby Goddess came into our room and said "Outside, it's white all over everything." We looked outside and the world was covered with a light dusting of snow. "Quick, take a picture!" I said, thinking that it would all be gone by noon. But, here I sit, watching it come down with a will that says that it likely will still be here at noon.

A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight
(because we have the good sense to be indoors)
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Here's Sarah, the white araucana hen, charging down the snow-covered ramp from the henhouse. She doesn't seem to mind that it's freezing out and that there's snow under her feet.

In the meadow, we can build a snowman
And pretend that he is Parson Brown
(wait, I think that *is* Parson Brown - quick! Knock the snow off him and get the poor man some brandy!)

The chickens were less interested in the snow and more interested in anything that might be hidden under it. You know, like, corn or millet or some tasty beet greens.

We'll have lots of fun with Mr. Snowman,
Until the other kiddies come around.
(Which is highly unlikely. I'm fairly certain that everyone else is doing what we're doing - digging in and hoping that they have enough firewood and candles to get them through)

On Friday, I went to a couple of downtown Boulder Creek stores for stuff, and in both stores I saw folks stocking up on candles. It surprised me that these folks don't have the good sense to just have candles on hand, as a matter of course. I grew up in the early '70s, so of course there were candles everywhere. I think they're great, but it wasn't until I moved here that my penchant for candles could be construed as anything more than a fanciful indulgence.

This was the scene outside my window about 10 minutes ago. Note the actively falling snow. It's just not fair. It's stopped now, but the sun hasn't made an appearance yet.

When I look up above me, I can see snow clinging to the skylight. When there's enough sun and heat, it'll start melting and running down and forming puddles on the roof, but for now, it makes out house look like it has some kind of scrofulous skin disease.

And here is a blurry photo that the Pirate took of the thermometer/rain meter at the end of the driveway. Note that it reads barely above zero Celsius. He said that because it was about 36 degrees out, it wouldn't rain anymore.

He was wrong, of course.