#also I may or may not decorate a shelf to look like a claw machine for plushie storage

[tj-crochets]

Do you think a mini claw machine would be a better way to let people get plushies for halloween? Or would it slow things down too much?

[nookishposts]

Chicken Diaries June 21/20

We’ve had our hens almost 4 weeks. As first-timers we thought we would play it safe and get 6 ready-to-lay 18-week-old pullets instead of hand-raising cute baby chicks. They arrived in a green plastic crate and there exists a video of me opening that to release them into our carefully constructed chicken coop. Let’s just say they needed some encouragement. The process involved considerable cussing and laughter, some of it even came from me. But a few minutes effort and they began to come out of their conspiratorial little huddle in the corner and explore their new digs.

Instead of building a new free-standing structure, we decided to modify one end of the good-sized shed that came with this property. We cordoned off an 8 x 10 ft section , building a wall with wooden pallets and chicken wire, also wiring in the ceiling so nobody would be tempted to roost in the rafters and small prey birds wouldn’t have access. We installed 4 nesting boxes on a shelf approximately 3 feet off the ground, using plastic bins on their sides and screwed into the wooden framework. I’ve seen others screw plastic buckets to the wall, or use old record bins, milk crates, etc, and all research suggests it doesn’t really matter what they are made of as long as they are dark and cozy and quietly out of the way. I lined them with shavings and chopped straw and put a ceramic egg (golf balls can also be used apparently) to give the juveniles inspiration. I even hung an old towel cut into fringes over the top couple of inches of each opening, just as I have seen farmers do. Feed and water dispensers sit on a small platform. The next addition was a large cedar branch along one wall to serve as a roost. A 40 gallon feed bin full of laying mash was tucked tidily beneath. For someone with zero decorating or fashion sense I was quite pleased with myself. A good thick layer of wood shavings on the concrete floor. And the piece de resistance was the chicken door...cut into the side wall of the shed, about 18 inches up, snazzy ladders on either side lovingly crafted by my sister-in-law. It has a hatch that clips open and shut, and even a little shingled flap to keep out the weather. The outdoor pen to which this leads is a reclaimed dog run frame courtesy of neighbours down the road who just wanted rid of it. We cut it to a 8 x 12 x 6 foot size, freshened the wire and top against predators, added another roost, a water trough and a tarp for shade. Oh, and yes, there are human accesses to each area. I couldn’t fit through a chicken door even in my salad days. So, the birds had good food, water, shelter, and a nice new home. Eggs would come by the time the girls reached 21 weeks old according to the experts.

Thus our education began. Notice I said “our”.

First step was teaching them how to get out into the yard. It made sense to trail a little mash up the ladder rungs. They just stood alongside and pecked it off. So I gathered one girl up and put her on the little landing just inside the hatch. I got cussed out and flapped at for my efforts , but she calmed down enough to think it over, and then fell out the other side into the pen. Let’s call it a partial success. As chickens can fly, I figured I would just shove them out the door; they could soften their landing in feathery parachutes and then just figure out how to get back in on their own. It took a few tries but we all grew into it. They practically tap-dance up and down their ladders now, the little show-offs. Each morning when I open their hatch they shove one another out of the way in a race to be first into the yard. And like any other young-ins, they lead me a merry chase to get them to go to bed at bedtime. When they do get settled in, they are all lined up and fluffed out, 6 feathery dirndle skirts in a row on their roost, drowsy-eyed and singing one another to sleep. It’s pretty adorable.

I try to spend a little quality time with them each day, sitting on a block in the chicken run with treats, so they readily hand-feed and get used to being handled. I can keep an eye on the health of beaks and claws and general well-being. There have been times when there’s a bird on my shoulder, another on my knee and a third on my foot. I have yet to be pooped on, but that too will come in time. Not that I am in any rush. They love rotten bananas, strawberry tops, and cheese curds. They are nuts for radish greens and lettuce. Potato peels are ignored and cucumber kicked aside. Most chickens will eat a variety of kitchen scraps but we seem to have 6 little Kardashian divas on our hands...picky girls demanding quality. I am merely a vending machine in crocs...as I approach they see me coming and get all coo-ey and sweet. Unless they see me on a water run but otherwise empty handed. Nobody here will fess up to teaching them that kind language. Divas they may be, but they ain’t ladies. I serve, they lay.

And now we come to our biggest point of contention. 

Those are damned nice laying boxes. Clean, soft, cosy, basic black. Add a string of pearls and you could wear them anywhere. At the correct height. Softly bedded. A little snack in the corner of each one, because, you know, delivering potential offspring is exhausting work. Or so I’m told by my own Mother Hen. Anywho....at 20 weeks we had our first egg and I managed to find it while it was still warm from the oven, tucked neatly into a low corner of the coop. I ran with it into the house, proudly showing it off like a first grader with a finger painting. My Beloved and I celebrated with a three-way selfie; us and the pretty little peachy-brown perfect orb of poultry protein. We had been warned not to eat the first few eggs if they were at all soft, misshapen, or in any way unusual. This one was Oscar-worthy and it sat in pride of place on the kitchen island for days while we sighed in admiration and patted ourselves on the back. We’d have displayed it on the fridge door if we could have figured out how. 

For a few days, I gently lifted the growing girls into the 4 nesting boxes, praising and petting them, making sure they saw the ceramic examples. To absolutely no avail. We found eggs everywhere; in the corners, on the frames, behind the feed bin, next to the water dispenser, even one in the yard. The boxes remain undisturbed by volunteers except the odd scrounging chipmunk  cleaning up maternity snacks. A few eggs have been bomb-dropped from the height of the roost and decoratively splattered onto the floor. Chickens clean these up themselves thankfully. We told ourselves they were still young and learning. In one particularly popular corner, I stuck a cardboard box filled with shavings, out of curiosity. Sure enough, a couple of little gems glistened there the next morning. Aha! So logically I took one of the fancy boxes from it’s ledge and stuck it in the same corner, leaving the cardboard box on top out of the way. Yay!

This morning, entering carefully as always in order to avoid stepping on or in anything untoward, I peeked around the door to behold the following: one hen perched in the cardboard box, having just delivered her duty, whilst a second girl perched directly on top of the first was doing her best to comply. We had layered layers. Sure enough, egg number 2 dropped into the butt feathers of the bottom girl and rolled gently off into the bedding next to egg # 1. The hens smiled. There may even have been a winged high-five, I’m not sure.

I surrender.

We are averaging 6 eggs per day every day now, with only the odd misfire. Serving a frittata to my Mum, (who is here to visit for the first time as we could keep things pandemically safe enough to do so), from eggs laid the very same morning was a stupidly proud moment for me. I no longer care where the birds deposit their booty, as long as I don’t have to step in it. There’s a For Rent sign on each of the four custom nesting boxes.Perhaps there’s an introverted mallard out in the wetlands looking for a new home. I’ll just continue to be the vending machine with the poopy shoes. I know my place.