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Dispatches from the Co-Prosperity Sphere

We are not defined by the products we buy, the cars we drive, the books we read or the movies we watch. We are more than consumers. We are producers, and we believe that every new skill we acquire makes our lives and our world a little bit better.

3.29.2006

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.

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