M is for Murder

As I water the garden with my brand new multi-option jet sprayer, I realize the dog is jumping at the chicken fence more than usual. "No! Bailey, no!" ... back to watering. But she just won't quit! Again, I scold her from afar like a parent in the grocery store who yells just for show and turns back to scanning the chip aisle as their kid rips open a cereal box. Bailey usually comes when called and definitely stops whatever she's doing when she's told no. Unfortunately, I have recently taken a position at a corporate entity which is effectively extinguishing my acumen. Hindsight being 20/20...this was the moment the female intuition should have kicked in.

As I round corner of the raised-bed tomato jungle, I see the perp. An over-sized rat tail is attached to something that hides behind a wide sunflower leaf. Quickly switching the hose setting to "jet" mode, I give a 5-lb possum a direct and thorough shower. But it's standing with its paws laterally clinging to the fence and its body tilts at a 45 degree angle as it is pummeled with the steady gush of water. When I let up with the spray, it gently sways upright again and freezes for a moment, looking like it is trying to figure out if what just happened will happen again.

I know that one can't take Old Yeller behind the garage in St. Louis City but what about pests or wildlife? Hunting permit needed? I switch on the garage light and go in for a closer look. Dripping wet with a mosquito taking advantage of separated fur exposing fresh skin on its nose...the scene is so pathetic that I immediately feel guilty for trying to work up the courage to shoot it... Damn You.




The damage has been done in the coop (and I still didn't know the extent) but I have to get rid of this thing so tomorrow it won't return for a full-blown homicidal spree. It no longer has murder in its eyes but it definitely looks crazed and lost. I wonder if possums can take abilify. They probably have the dexterity to open a safety-seal. Anyway, this thing has gotta go.

Bailey is instructed to sit at a distance that keeps the thing frozen and I retrieve a box from the garage which is obviously too small for the job but it's all I've got. As I knock it loose from the fence with a pitchfork and attempt to scoop the thing into the cardboard transportation device, it starts to bite the rungs and climb up the handle! A shriek, arm flailing and swift but purposeful move later, the culprit is now in a box closed with the "left, bottom, right, top and tuck" method... and no air holes. This thing has claws and teeth that have evolved for trash-scavanging and chicken-killing so a box is definitely not going to contain it well... ah yes! A log should do the trick. So the person who had a C in high school physics puts a big heavy log on top of a rather flimsy box top but it works for the time being.

I call Jerome outside and he helps me scoop one rigor-mortised hen into a Jay's Internatonal Food produce carton. I was actually thankful for the calcium-ion induced stiffness because it made it pretty easy to roll the thing out. I let Jerome in on the plan: he drives a few miles away as I hold the box (already wearing leather work gloves) and I'll dump it a safe distance away so it can rummage in peace through someone elses yard. The log drops through the box top now shaped like a funnel, not only almost squishing the traumatized mammal but breaking the cardboard so there is no longer a lid to the cube. Quickly coming to terms with the fact that I may very well have to aid in putting this animal out of its misery (and it's my fault), I remove the log to see a shocked but intact little possum.

I wonder if anyone saw me walking 10 blocks in 100 degrees wearing my long-sleeved, long-pants scrubs, lightly shaking a cardboard box (after trial and error, this kept it scared enough to not move and come to bite my hand off but didn't seem to have long-lasting ill effects). To a bystander, I'm sure I'm now the one looking like some abilify wouldn't hurt. After an arm-exhausting walk, I released the literally and figuratively shaken little creature, making sure it was a relatively nice house with an unkept yard so it would feel at home despite the relocation.

And then there were three...

Phew!

So apparently blogging is for those lucky individuals who have between scant and moderate amounts of free time to dedicate communicating with an unknown public. That has not been me for the past oh...six months? Speaking poorly of my social life but positively delightful towards the prospect of backyard chickening for newcomers, I still have had time to collect eggs, feed, water and occasionally clean. Moving a few months ago was a breeze thanks to the back garage at Jay's International Food Market, two of their plastic produce containers were taped to each other, creating an open cube which was the perfect size for chicken transportation. They love giving them away - go get some for your farming and gardening needs! Just walk into the back and ask for them, receiving a smile and a small attempt at cross-cultural communication. I can't even understand accents from England, though so I'm not a good gauge.

The new garden on Juniata is in full swing. Now weighing the food produced and the number of eggs documented, the urban farm is fruitful...well...veggieful. The grapes, apricots, figs and raspberries are coming soon. The oh-so-wonderful boyfriend Jerome has repurposed some cedar fencing and built a smaller, much cuter fence to contain the chickens with freshly clipped wings, avoiding turning the yard into an airport once again.

Growing our own food has made me more conscious of where the waste goes and I have noticed that the kale, parsley stems, etc. are hard for the chickens to simply peck and swallow. With maybe 5 extra minutes a day, I have been putting the extra compost into a food processor and cooing with delight as the chickens devour the greens like they've been starved for days.

Small P.S.: Trying to pry myself away from the cereal aisle, I've discovered a tasty, raw, enzyme-filled alternative to Joes-Os:

Soak buckwheat groats for 6 hours, changing the water at 3h. Sprout for 1-2 days. Dehydrate until crispy.

Is there such thing as a lazy farmer?

Looking at the last post date, the chicken blog is accurately representative of most of my goings-on. Updates:

Gave 3 of the hens to a new friend who mentioned within minutes of our knowing each other that he has been combing St. Louis for some time in search of laying hens. Having twice unsuccessfully arranged for my friend Mohamed from Sierra Leone to come over and "take care" of my extras, this was a lifesaver for several transient beings. Upon arrival at their new home, they quickly segregated, causing alarm for I have inadvertently raised bigot Buff Orpingtons. Thankfully, my flock has increased in diversity, preventing possible blunders such as this embarrassment. Even if you try to raise 'em right...

Here they are sleeping in their new home (on the bottom)


Recently, I have been brought into question by friends in nursing school as to whether or not my chicken-feeding practices are ethical because of an experiment that I thought was funny and cute. What does one do with an extreme surplus of eggs which they can't sell and have already given them out to the mailman, police waiting at the speed trap, the neighbors, yoga teacher and friend at school? Especially since it was cold outside, I cracked a dozen eggs or so, whipped them up with the shells and gave the hens a warm scrambled egg breakfast which they gobbled down with fall-time delight. I thought it was great!

Other small updates:

The Auracana either escaped or her departure was facilitated by a larger mammal or bird of prey. This is the same one which I have twice jumped the fence to rescue it from the Airedales next door so I am wondering if it expired via terrier. Either way, I was a little p.o.'d because that's my only hen which would have laid "easter eggs." They can lay pink, blue, green or speckled eggs but none of my girls from this season have started laying yet and I don't suppose they will until the weather warms up again.

Wanting to give away 2 more hens. Takers?

Need to sell 1 chicken coop which needs minimal work and one frame. Takers again?

With winter coming, the demand for coops, chicken-ware, accessories and guidance has followed my fall metabolism and slowed to a crawl.

My booth at the Green Homes expo seemed to generate a significant amount of interest in backyard chickening. There was a lecture (posted at the Green Homes Festival Site here: http://greenhomesstlouis.org/festival_workshops.html



Tips for winterizing your coop:

Ensure a draft-free, enclosed space for your hens to roost at night with at least 10 inches per bird of perch space. The roost should have 9 inches on either side so the hens have enough space to get on and off. To insulate, stack hay bales on the North side to block cold winds and allow sun to enter on the South side where it is strongest. The East and South sides may be insulated as well, being sure there is enough of a roof or awning to prevent snow from blowing in on your poor birds! Be sure to send them to bed with a belly-full of scratch so they can metabolize the high-fat and high protein snack while they sleep which keep them warm.

In case you'd like to predator-proof your feathered friends: Chicken Saddle Thanks for the link, JSM. Also, here's these funny chicken diapers if you want to give them a break from winter weather indoors without the poop clean-up: Diapers


Also, my friend Chris Powers band, The Griddle Kids had a show recently at the Stone Spiral . When you combine their super clever lyrics with a harmonica, folk string instruments, drums using drum brushes (which was nice to not leave the coffee shop deaf), a sing-along, a great follow-along program AND hot chocolate...for sure the perfect way to spend a cold night. Here's the program:

































































































And one more link - I don't know how this guy got in there, but I want in too...assuming he'd leave once I claimed the flying egg and I could read books about herbs and folklore all day long. The Nest Rest

Note to self: Wear helmet while tending to hens.

Talk about a case of the Mondays...just before I was about to leave for the gym, I realized that the chickens were clucking away, wondering why they were not un-jailed at their usual 7am wake-up time. I opened the door, filled the feeder and rinsed and refilled the waterer. In a hurry, I swung around to make my way to the side of the coop and out of the yard but was stopped short when my forehead became one with the corrugated steel roofing. Some choice words flew, I closed the gate so the chickens wouldn't fly and I headed towards my car. "Man, that hurt," I thought as I put my hand to my forehead....DOOM...my hand was covered in blood. Inside, looking into the bathroom mirror was surreal and I realized what a good job Johnny Brach's suppliers do when they make those glue-on wounds. It was identical to a rubbery-plastic-type costume I had adhered to my face just a year or two ago. Although this one was making me significantly more nauseated.
Thankfully, I had my workout towel in hand which turned into a coagulator on the oh-so-smooth gash in my forehead. Driving myself to the emergency room, I wondered, "Is this karma? No... no I just volunteered for a week! Not Karma...a lesson for rushing and constantly speeding on 55? Possibly" I contemplated other reasons for the demise of my previously unwrinkled forehead (now adorned with a definite dent) in order to distract myself from the gush which did slow to a trickle as I sat in traffic.
Upon arrival, I requested a plastic surgeon, Tylenol for the headache, Zofran for nausea and gauze with normal saline but the nurses there want you to see a doctor before you're treated (or self-medicated) for some silly reason and wouldn't fulfill my demands. After 5 hours of waiting, a regular surgeon visited my room with an extremely scary-looking needle that proved its length when inserted horizontally across my forehead. In 20 more minutes, it was stitched up and I was off to my first day of nursing school with a very swollen noggin that was still puffy and discolered with Lidocane.
Now, armed with duct tape and some packing styrofoam, I am rush-proofing the coop corners and opting to not include steel on the coops which has not had the edges sanded. See photo below for frankenstein stitches. Some clever friends of mine have asked me if I am "third eye blind," and have also labeled it as a "chicken scratch". Hardy-harr-harr....

even evil chickens are cute when they're tired

Pontchartrain #4 is the chicken who couldn't be tamed. No matter how many hours I spend tiptoeing to catch it, snatching it up in one quick movement followed by gentle petting and complements in a soft voice, it won't have it. Each time it catches a glimpse of me coming toward the yard, this thing runs in utter terror with a type of bounce easiest pictured while imagining a galloping ostrich. It's a tall-standing rhythmic yet nerdy-looking escape with its neck craning neck following the inertia of its burst from stillness to max speed. A poor egg-layer at best, this one is nothing short of a pain in the rear most days but does provide some comic relief and welcome entertainment.

Today, Jerome and I went to a vegan potluck....

Lemon pudding:
1 whole lemon,1 lemon w/o peel,2 avocados, soaked dates, pineapple juice for sweetening.

Kale Chips: Miso, garlic, shallots, Braggs, lemon juice in blender or food processor, coat raw kale and dehydrate from 4-6 hours on waxed paper in dehydrator, turning 1/2 way through

Horchata Popcicles (make horchata and freeze)


....and I returned home between 10:30 and 11:00 to find that the door to my coop had somehow closed with only two of the chickens inside.The rest were snoozing against the outside wall of the coop or found random nooks and crannies in the yard which made for an interesting late-night chicken retrieval mission by the light of the moon...and less romantically, my blackberry screen.

This night, I discovered how very endearing it is to have even the bat-out-of-hell chicken listlessly flopping in my arms as I stumbled to the coop over the empty plastic flower pots, garden tools and whatever else. I immediately was taken back to a time when I was small enough to tote up the stairs after a long night of popcorn and Gremlins. Not even bothering to hop onto the perch, it flopped down where I set it on the floor of the coop. Pulling me out of my nostalgia, I then began to wonder if it were dead. Checking for breathing, I concluded it was just a tuckered out piece of poultry and continued to escort the others inside. Most were also too tired to move and others reacted as though I were a bear and my arms were its clenching jaws of doom. I couldn't reason with them and transported them as fast as physically possible, suffering only minor surface abrasions.

The new chicks are snoozing in their Tupperware container (pictures tomorrow?), the medium-sized chicks are huddled in the corner of their compost bin-turned impromptu coop and the bigguns are sprawled out summer-style on the coop floor in positions that would concern me if I hadn't put them there myself. It is, indeed time for bed.

Document This!

Raising chickens has been rewarding, mentally and physically challenging, and (depending on the day) anywhere from worry-free to totally stressed.

Today, I experience all of the above.

Today's Lesson: Clip chickens wings even if they don't try to fly and even if you think they're too fat to get their portly little poultry selves off the ground.

Foreward: In bed around 6:30 in the morning, I hear the voice of the little girl from down the street, "Good Morning Chickens!" This reminds me of one of the main reasons I choose to continue my animal adventures. They have brought the whole neighborhood to my house at one point or another with questions about the experience, requests for eggs, kids excited to have their own petting zoo, and even the local police and city hall enjoy omelets, complements of 701 (my abbreviated address). Despite the majority of this entry projected as a dramatic tale of chickendom, I truly do enjoy every day on my little urban farm.

And now for the tale:

With three new hoodlum country chickens dropped off at my house, the chicken day from down under began....

The awkward meeting between the new Barred Rocks and my Orpingtons was to be expected. What I did not forsee was the quick flying lesson my Orpingtons receive when one of the Rocks decides the front yard seems like a good place to explore. (my house is at the corner of a busy intersection) Sprinting around my house (thank you fence-builder who has something against gates), I am successful in terrifying the escapee and it then wants absolutely nothing to do with me or my giant human arms which prove to be inefficient capturing devices. Used to my big-bootied mamma chickens, this one is fast. There's a small noise let out with each spring in its step that, despite the true cause of adrenal response, makes it seem like more of a cartoon character than inarticulate livestock.

Then I look up.

Chicken TORNADO.

The Orpingtons are testing their newly-discovered wings and flying around each other, at each other, onto each other. Chaos. The Barred Rocks were watching with as much of a smirk as their beaks could form, thinking "City Chickens." '

Problem turns into full-on situation in less than 45 seconds.

Finally I corner the Barred Rock adventurer by the sunflowers and it jumps back into the yard in terror. I stuff all of my new pilots into the coop which is way too hot for them to be locked into all day and decide to freak out for a few minutes before calling for back-up.

The wing clipping which ensues is complimented with angry flapping and chicken noises which have not been made before by my Orpingtons. Cursing learned from these new Barred Bumpkins, I'm sure. Next, I'll walk outside and they'll all be toting Red Ryders and the back yard littered with squirrels and blue-jays. When I demand to know what happened, they'll lie for sure - another habit learned from the striped heathens.

Wings are clipped, all chickens back to pecking at the ground and doing their calm, chicken-things.

Problem solved....Right?

After a late lunch and half of a mini bottle of muscato, I look out at my newly earth-bound friends to witness one of the new Barred Rocks snuggling up to the plastic fencing around my garden where there are squash vines traveling the length. They like to lay under the large leaves since there's not much shade around 14:00. A stream of words (some made up and some ghastly) comes from my vocal chords as I watch this jerk take his entire body and roll it into the fence, breaking the netting. Immediately, the rest of the 9-bird flock streams into the garden and starts to ravage my squash, kale and start to head for the tomatoes.

Come On! You have hollow bones! How is this happening?!?

Despite dieting recently, I am now wondering if I could eat 9 whole chickens in the next few days. That makes 18 chicken legs, 18 pieces of breast and 18 wings. I could have a barbecue. Or a potluck.

No, no - that won't do. Then I'll have to clean the house and get the hay unstuck from the bathroom drain.

Instead I step on it to Lowe's, get some yucks from the check-out lady when I tell her why I'm in such a rush and quickly install the new metal* fencing with an allowance at the bottom which is at an angle outwards for some extra reinforcement.

After the 2nd half of that muscato and some google-ing of baby animal pictures to de-stress, I collect the eggs for the day and give a few to the police chief who sits on the main road looking for speeders (he must have been busy about an hour ago).

This was probably the most stressful day ever as a chicken-owning twenty-something however I do realize that it wouldn't have happened if I would have heeded the warnings of about every chicken magazine, homesteaders manual and forum out there.

Note to self: Clip chicken wings, chicken wire fencing on garden, *slowly* introduce new birds

Since it's 10:23 pm now, I don't want to eat them anymore, I am glad that I am able to share the experience and eggs with friends, family and strangers. Looking back on the day, it is pretty comical even to someone who has been pooped on and struck with chicken wings of fury. I wouldn't tell them to their faces, but their conniption was not all that bad.

And Here's a photo of one of the Barred Rocks and I later in the evening after the dust settled: