Helga, my sweet

You all are familiar with Helga and her story of triumph against the odds, her lovability and quirky personality, her stint living in our bathroom, her charming attempts to become a house chicken and her inability to keep a secret. It is with a heavy and broken heart that I come to tell you, Helga is no more.

My precious, sweet, charming little weirdo was killed by a hawk Tuesday afternoon, in broad daylight, while she ate in the yard. I am bereft. She cheated death so often I am sure she cherished her time as borrowed but still I mourn.

Helga was a chicken like no other. Rescued with Momma, the two of them were the last of my aunt’s formerly large flock. The only two to survive a malicious dog attack, my aunt could not stand to leave them as fodder so she brought them to join my flock. Helga was barely grown but obviously possessing of a massive dose of personality. She loved people. If you were in the yard you must obviously have come to see her. She would follow you around clucking and talking, if you bent down to pet her she would hold her wings out and chortle. If you stood still long enough without paying attention to her she would try to leap into your arms.

After her reintroduction to the flock she would come to the back door and peck on the glass for attention. She’d stand on the porch railing to eat from the wild-bird feeder and she loved to lay eggs in the middle of my oregano pot. She was as unique and charming of a chicken as you could ever hope to encounter. Adorable and quirky with a large red comb and waddle and beautiful red blond feathers trimmed in black. She grew into a magnificent bird despite her scarred head which she wore without discomfit.

She loved treats, raisins, oats, biscuits but especially French fries. When grandma would send her twice weekly bag of chicken treats Helga would grab as many French fries as she could and would then charge about the yard maniacally, swallowing them whole, while trying to escape her sisters snatching beaks.

She was lovely and charming and I miss her terribly. It is horrible to walk to the coop in the mornings and not see her silly little head bobbing to greet me. I am so distressed to think she died scared and in pain. It breaks my heart because she was such a sweet creature without malice. Chickens can be peckish and grouchy and can be especially hateful with each other but Helga never was. She had a Rastafarian countenance that allowed her to roll with the punches never seeming to take a slight to heart. She never even held her almost-scalping against Momma, instead cuddling right back up to her as soon as she rejoined the flock.

I will miss her so very very much. I know people think it is silly to be so attached to a chicken. Thousands of them die every day in horrible slaughter house factory conditions but this is yet another reason I scorn and deride our modern day food system. It is so easy to walk into a restaurant and order that chicken sandwich and never make the connection that it was once a living breathing thing with feelings and emotions. People will tell you that chickens are stupid and dirty but this is what they tell themselves to make it ok to leave these animals in a world of pain and cruelty.

I tell you, they are not. They are neither stupid nor dirty, if properly cared for, they are not without feeling but are instead clever little charmers. I am not saying you cannot eat them, you are a creature of free will and can make your choices. Most humans eat animals it is the way of our world. What I am saying is that you have a responsibility to the animals you consume to ensure them a healthy and cruelty free life. If you believe you have no responsibility to the animals then I say to you: YOU HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY TO YOURSELF. Your body is comprised of the things you eat, if you consume fear and pain and suffering these things will manifest in your life.

I know everyone will not raise the food they eat and some people like us will only raise chickens as pets with benefits, we do not eat our flock I do not eat chickens at all, but everyone can say no to the corporate farming greed that has so poisoned us today. Even a small step will help. You do not have to eschew fast food forever but think before you order. Choose it less. Choose somewhere local that locally sources their free range meat. Say no to the fast food even one time a week when you would have said yes.

Fred and I are not perfect. We still occasionally eat fast food. What I am suggesting is that we can all be more mindful. I loved Helga, she was a beautiful piece of God’s creation so how can I then deny that all the animals churned through our corporate food sources have the same value she had? They do. Ignoring them or pretending they do not exist does not lessen their suffering.

Dear Helga, I love you. I hope your short little charming life will be a lesson in humanity that never leaves me and I hope through this blog you may live on to teach others that kindness and forgiveness are quality to which we should all aspire. I hope heaven has a big farm and you have all the treats your little heart could desire.

Peace, love and sadness,

Autumn

As the Homestead Turns

I have been sorely reprimanded by Fred for my irresponsible blogging but I will plead my absentee updates on an unbelievably hectic schedule including vacations, harvesting, canning, driving school and back to school preparations. Disclaimer applied. I have some wonderful news and a funny story to tell. So sit back and grab some ice tea.

Remember Autumn-chicken’s untimely demise from my last entry? Well as should be expected things are not always as they seem in the world of homesteading. I should know this by now. Bare with me as I will pick up the tale where I left off: I had gone to the DNR to obtain the trap. It was a smallish contraption and, although sturdy, it did not inspire a lot of coyote catching optimism. It would probably have held a neighborhood cat, maybe a small terrier, maybe (and that is a big maybe) a small to medium-ish raccoon.

On the first night of our epic homestead battle Fred and I diligently baited the trap with a can of kipper snacks. We had previously been warned about the wiles of the coyote (we both grew up watching cartoons) and we thought ahead to wire the snack to the trap to avoid our nemesis using some Acme tool to alleviate us of our bait. Fred positioned the trap outside our fence but close to the coop and the creek. We figured our culprit was coming down the deer path to the river and would be intercepted by the enticing aroma of fish snacks rotting in the heat, barf.

Fred brought home my shells and I positioned myself inside the yard within visual range of the trap location and the coop. I had my back to the house and figured I would sit very still and “drop me” a coyote as soon as he poked his head over the fence. Fred has some trepidation as to me a) accidentally shooting a neighbors dog, b) my inability to kill anything remotely pathetic or sad-looking and c) the very real possibility that in my murderous wildlife rage I might accidentally shoot Fred! Tee hee. I assured him that while my marksmanship probably would not win any awards, I was perfectly capable of shooting the broad side of a barn or a coyote within a relatively close distance and of discerning the distance between said coyote and my beloved hubby.

I put the chickens up a little early and waited. I sat until full dark, nothing. I sighed, checked the coop door and headed in for another sleepless night of worry. I put the gun close to the door.

After I packed Fred off to work the next morning I headed out to check the trap. Now let me say, Fred had asked me (forcefully) to wait until he got home to check the trap. I think it was probably a combination of the fact that he placed the trap in a densely thicketed area of our property, the inaccessibility of that corner and either the fact that he thought I might bludgeon the villain to death with my broom or the fact that he thought my years of animal rescue would get the better of me and I would let the killer go free. I told him I would think about it, which clearly meant as soon as he was out of the driveway and the sun was up I headed out. Before I went to check the traps I did a morning head count of the girls, still five. No one had disappeared in the night but no one had miraculously returned either.

I prepared to face the enemy. Donning my armor, which consisted of long sleeves, long pants, a hat, boots, gloves a machete and a shotgun, I headed into battle. Not only was I concerned about the rabid little monster rapidly growing in my imagination attacking me with dripping gums but I did not want to come home covered in ticks either. I looped the machete in my pants, to cut through the undergrowth, and I loaded the shotgun. It was barely light so it was around 7:00am and I had to go all the way up to the railroad bed, within sight of the hard road, to cross around behind the fence. I think I may have startled more than one morning commuter with my militia-chic look. I crossed the creek bed and clamored up the hill side, by the time I had neared the trap my imagination had worked me into such a frenzy I am surprised I did not manage to Barney Fife my own foot.

I pushed toward the trap, slightly sick to my stomach with my heart pounding in my ears. Could I really shoot it? What if it was a coon and not a coyote? I was definitely mad enough to shoot a coyote, but not only was I not sure I could off a fuzzy raccoon, according to the DNR legally I could not shoot a raccoon. I would have to transport it to a public land or take to private property with permission of the land owner. Who was going to let me release a coon on their property? Get real. Nobody wants one of those little garbage mauling machines in their back yards! I do not care how cute they are with their little hand and bandit masks. I knew a raccoon would mean a trip to Kananwha State Forest dressed like Rambo's homeless ex girlfriend.

As you can imagine I did a lot of sighing to myself as I trekked across the creek bed. I finally fought my way through to the trap only to find the it sprung and lighter by exactly the contents of one kipper snack can. Cue more heavy sighing. Now what? I thought as I stared at the licked-clean-and-still-tightly-wired-to-the-trap can. I mashed my way through the brush back to the house where I peeled off my costume and promptly banished Louie to the back yard with serious admonishments about how he was to dog-up and protect the flock. Eye roll. He spent the entire day throwing his body weight against the sliding glass door and barking himself hoarse to get back inside. I took a small amount of comfort in the level of commotion he created figuring, although it would win me no neighborhood popularity contests, it would, hopefully, scare off any impending doom in the form of four (or two) legged beasties.

I spent a lot of that third day of the ordeal considering my other trapping/hunting options. Obviously, something had come to eat the bait and that something was big enough that when they sprung the trap it would not close all the way. They could eat the stinky buffet and back their fat self out to freedom. I wondered if I and the shotgun should spend the night in the chicken coop? Should I buy a bigger trap? The DNR only had one size available. Should we bait the trap again? I tell you, the most frustrating aspect of the whole thing was just not knowing what we were up against. It is hard to fight an invisible enemy. How does one set a trap for an unknown foe?

Fred came home from work and we decided to bait the trap again and press our luck. He tried new, and even more disgusting, bait in the form of a kipper snacks and peanut butter combo which he stirred together and smeared on the actual trap itself, hoping to lure our nemesis deeply enough into the bowels of the trap to alleviate them of their freedom. We repeated the previous nights shenanigans which included putting all the girls (and Elvis) to bed early and me sitting with the shot gun until I had become anemic from acting as a mosquito buffet and it was too dark to see. Still no evil villain with glowing read eyes and slobbering jowls approached. I went to bed that third night and slept a dreamless sleep. I was too exhausted to even toss and turn.

The next morning found Louie once again banished to the yard and me gearing up to check the trap. Again, everyone was accounted for except poor little Autumn-chicken. This being the fourth day of her absence, my belief in her untimely demise had been solidified. The trap was once again empty. We were not winning this battle. I left Louie out in the chicken yard anyway and continued my day's chores with frequent trips to check on the flock.

Fred came home late that afternoon and went outside to do a few chores. I was standing in the kitchen when I heard him yell for me. Oh great, I thought, here we go again. I grabbed for the gun and went running out the door. He stood just off the porch with some stale bread, surrounded by chickens and said to me,

"How many chickens do you see?"

I looked down around his legs and counted five chickens. Five, that is how many there were that morning when I let them out.

"Five, what is your point?" I said my heart thundering loudly from the sudden adrenaline and my feet filthy from running through poop.

"Um, honey," he patiently chastised, "there are FOUR black chickens and ONE red one!"

My mouth fell open as I counted again. Then I panicked. Where was Helga?! She was no where to be seen. I ran into the yard barefoot and for the second time that week began screaming for a chicken at the top of my lungs. False alarm. Apparently, Helga had been off on some kind of chicken adventure around the building and, as soon as she heard my panic, began tearing towards me with the same breakneck insanity I was exhibiting. Relieved, I looked back at Fred and recounted. Sure enough, Autumn-chicken was back. There were once again six chickens in my yard four black and two red.

We stopped what we were doing and lifted up prayers of thanksgiving for the miraculous return of our bird. We put all the ladies (and Elvis ) to bed and then we began to try and puzzle out Autumn-chicken's great adventure. Where had she gone? How did she get home? She appeared unscathed but had she been abducted by aliens? I started calling everyone who I had alarmed/annoyed with the original Amber Alert. Everyone had a theory on Autumn-chicken's absence.

My dad insisted she had been chicken-napped and returned. I could not really picture it but when I questioned him as to why someone would merely kidnap her for a couple of days and then bring her back unharmed he informed me that their guilt, coupled with the fact that she was not a great layer, compelled them to return her to the yard.

I poked about a million holes in his theory but he stuck to his guns. In fact he repeated this obvious rationale to me so often I began to give it some credence. Maybe there was some pervert sneaking around molesting chickens? I mean really, not even a week before on the news some freak high on "bath-salts" kidnapped his neighbors goat and murdered it while dressed in women's underwear. So maybe dad was not too far off. Maybe some drug addicted redneck stole my chicken for some nefarious reason and then, struck by their latent Baptist guilt, felt the overwhelming alter-call of returning her unharmed? Maybe. I mean I spend all day on a homestead, mostly by myself, after a while I can start to believe anything.

Mom put forth a slightly more believable theory. She suggested that Autumn-chicken in fact had a boyfriend and had hopped the fence and gone off on a lover's weekend. This would seem far fetched except several days before her disappearance I had spotted a handsome Bandy rooster strutting his way across our local Dairy Queen parking lot. (These things happen in West Virginia) But how did she get back, I wanted to know. And how did she get over the fence with clipped wings anyway? And how did she get back in the fence even if she managed to get home of her own accord? It still just did not fit.

In contrast to both these theories I still had to point to the fact that Autumn-chicken was indeed one of the most timid, if not the most timid of the whole flock. Someone could coax Helga out of the yard, I could buy that, but I do not think Autumn-chicken would let anyone other than myself or maybe Fred close enough to grab her. My dad, sticking to his abduction theory, said it was simple: someone offered her a doughnut. Maybe he was right. Those stupid biddies would do anything for sugar coated fried dough. I could only throw my hands up. Heaven knows I did not have any better theories.

Things settled down and we got back into our normal routine. Louie was thrilled to be back in the house and I was thrilled not to have to listen to his constant yelping. That next evening Fred went out to put everyone to bed. He came back in and said,

"Don't get upset, but Autumn-chicken is gone again."

WHAT!? I sprung up out of bed in my night gown and headed into the yard. Where had that chicken gone? Ok, at this point we figured it was pretty obvious she had to be in the yard somewhere. Was she getting into something and getting stuck? Fred and I began to meticulously comb through the yard, inch by inch, we looked like psychotic jammie ninjas, I was starting to believe one of the Candid Camera theories that had been lobbed at me. Maybe my brother and Ashton Kutcher really were hiding somewhere with captive Autumn-chicken, filming us looking for our lost bird.

Finally, as we were about to surrender her to alien abduction once again, Fred noticed a small tear in the chicken wire surrounding the new goose coop addition. When he got down to examine it more closely he realized there were two beady black eyes staring back at him making the unmistakable chortling sound of a broody chicken!

Autumn-chicken had not only managed to go broody and pry her way under the goose coop but she had dug out a lovely chicken shaped trench filled with TWENTY-ONE spoiled eggs. No, I am NOT kidding. Here we thought our flock had been so traumatized by a predator that they had stopped laying when the fact of the matter was they were conspiring against us with Autumn-chicken to hide the eggs, make us look like simpleton greenhorns and give us full fledged anxiety attacks. Really, at that moment I could have put her in the pot. She is seriously lucky I do not eat meat.

All rage and joking aside, I am thrilled to have her home. Although I did suffer some minor embarrassment at the DNR when I returned the trap, overall everyone that works there was helpful and kind and generally just happy that my flock was intact. As am I. They did caution me that there are predators living in our immediate vicinity and just because we had a happy ending this time did not necessarily ensure all our future stories would end so joyously.

This was confirmed for me last night as I stood at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of water and staring at a hawk who had apparently made a failed poaching attempt from my yard. I dropped my glass and ran scream (once again) out the back yard. Flailing my arms like a lunatic I jumped up and down and basically had a conniption-fit (as my mother used to call them) until I was sure my yard was predator free and all of my girls (and Elvis) were present. I know this is the life of a homesteader and yes I understand the importance of predators in our ecosystem but my yard is NOT McDonald's drive through and I will do everything in my power to keep my flock intact.

Much love and thanks for reading!

~Autumn

Bad things come in threes...

Well we have had our first real homestead tragedy and unfortunately it may be far from over.

Allow me to back up momentarily, it has been a busy spring. We had a difficult time getting our garden in the ground due to the local monsoon season but fortunately we were able to get everything planted and the work has yet to slow down. It looks like we only lost the carrots and peppers to the rains but I can live with that. I admit I was looking forward to a crop of multicolored bell peppers but I guess those are a luxury we can do without.

We have had a blessedly humongous crop of almost everything which means constant harvesting, tending and preserving. I finally broke down and invested in a pressure canner, other than costing a kidney, it seems like a genuinely legitimate expense. I mean, who does not want to eat a twenty dollar jar of green beans right (eye roll)? I canned my first eight quarts of beans this morning. I started at 4:30am and finished around 10:30am. All that work made for a long morning but getting started early meant I could use the stove without it being blisteringly hot in the kitchen.

The bees are fine, if generally neglected. We are now the proud owners of a couple of geese and we had some turtles foisted upon us over the Fourth of July holiday. That pretty much catches you readers up on everything in brief. I am sure I will touch on all those subjects in depth in the future but as the title of this post implies this entry is about the bad.

~

Yesterday was hot, and by hot I mean the blistering, muggy nineties. I spent the day running around getting stuff caught up in town and basically beating my head off the side of bureaucratic brick wall. I came home tired, cranky and basically glad these days I spend minimal amounts of time immersed in the arm pit that is humanity. I made a quick dinner for everyone, ignored the dishes teetering dangerously towards the floor and headed to the back yard to spend sometime with my feathered family.

My mom loves to send a hodgepodge of left overs to my house, sometimes they are for Fred, sometimes they are for Sarah, sometimes they are for Louie but generally they are for the chickens. She loves the chickens and their giddy frenzy over anything edible amuses her to no end. Last night's treat was a mix of stale cookies and rice cakes, sounds gross right? To a flock of chickens it is like ambrosia. They were thrilled. Everyone came to get a bite. Much clucking and fussing and jostling for position was followed by lots of chortling and cooing as they enjoyed their evening treat.

That was about 6:30pm. I had been sitting outside for quite a while but the bugs had started to bite and Sarah needed a ride to church. I sighed and pushed myself off the steps of backyard heaven and headed in to grab my keys. I dropped Sarah at church and headed home to park it on the couch with Fred for a few. I did not sit for long. We always put the geese and chickens to bed around 8:00pm. It is still daylight but they can spend a little time in yard of the coop settling down and getting ready to roost.

Having the geese has thrown a little bit of a wrench into the normal bedtime routine but we are working on it. A mutual fear makes for and uncomfortable goose-chicken bedtime alliance I have found that putting the geese in their coop first lets the chickens relax a little and stick to their normal bedtime routine. The geese, Elvis and Priscilla, thought last night would be the night to try my patience, by the time I finally got them both in the coop and tucked in I was a little flustered. I stepped into the chicken coop with their oat and did a head count, Autumn-chicken was missing.

I did not panic. After all with all the goose drama I realized she may have just gone to hide under one of our pine trees. I locked up all her sisters with their bedtime snack and fresh water and set out to hunt her down. Apparently I was not the only hunter last evening.

I looked every where. I called, I shook the oats canister. Nothing. Finally I went in and recruited Fred for the cause. We were both still sure that she was hiding somewhere. Although Autumn-chicken was usually the second into bed and never tried to stay out past snack time, we should have known. There was no sign of her anywhere.

Fred suggested she may have gotten over the fence. It was highly unlikely considering her wings are clipped and she and Miranda-chicken are the least adventurous of my girls but we expanded our search to the rest of the neighborhood and recruited Sarah to the cause. We scoured the yard the trees, and the neighborhood we even opened the goose coop to make sure she had not inadvertently gone in the wrong door. No little black chicken. I was starting to panic.

Fred asked the neighbors, no one had seen her. Fred went to the river and back up the creek circling the outside of the fence line. Nothing. Meanwhile I stood in the yard shaking the canister and calling for her to come home. Nothing. I tried to fight down my rising panic with reason, after all there was no chicken carcass, no bloody mess of feathers, no sign of a struggle just a vanishing and an uneasiness in the chicken yard. I listened for the sounds of chickens roosting for the night, nothing.

I finally pulled a lawn chair to the middle of the yard, far enough from the coop so the girls would not feed off my anxiety but close enough to see the door and the outside gate and wait and pray for a chicken's return. Nothing, as the sun went down my anxiety and panic gave way to grief and my grief to resolve. Autumn-chicken, my quiet little unassuming opposite was gone. Worse than the certainty she would not return was the heartbreak of not knowing her fate.

Had she really escaped over the fence? Not likely. Had someone come into our yard and lured her away with a treat? Again, unlikely. Fred and Louie and I were only a few mere feet away inside the house. Had a hawk swooped in and lifted her from my yard? Probably not, being a BJG she was large for a hen and would have required and eagle size raptor to lift her away with no trace. No, the more likely culprit is either a fox or a coyote.

Both have been seen in our area. The scariest part of this is that they will probably be back. Both foxes and coyotes are know to treat chicken coops like drive through grocery stores. So what do we do? I was so upset but I did not have a moment to mourn Autumn-chickens loss. I have to protect the rest of my flock. I shot off a quick and emotional email to the DNR and I am happy to report that they called me promptly at 8:00am this morning.

The really helpful women of the DNR loaned me a trap and gave me a brief on the law, and how I can and cannot legally dispose of the culprit(s) (if they can be apprehended), they also confirmed what I suspected: the total lack of evidence pointed to either a fox or coyote. Fred is stopping on his way home to buy me a box of shell and tonight may find me camping in the yard. I do not know what else to do.

Last night I held out hope that Autumn-chicken might magically appear this morning, but as daylight broke there was still no sign of her. I have made about one-hundred trips into the yard today to do a head count and make sure everyone is safe and maybe catch a glimpse of her, no such luck. I have resigned myself to the fact she is gone. I morn her sweet little unassuming self and I resolve to protect the rest of my girls (and Elvis).

The worst part is just not knowing what happened to her and worrying about the unknown homestead-boogyman lurking in the shadows. I am sure she is dead. I hope she died quickly with little pain. I know this is part of the homesteading experience and on a larger scale part of the circle of life. To everything there is season. But just for the record this season sucks. Bad things come in threes and the other two pale in comparison to our loss.

RIP Autumn-chicken you will be missed and I will do everything in my power to protect your sisters from whatever took you.

Much love, thank you for reading, pray for us,

~Autumn

Unseemly Chicken Behavior

For most of December our girls have been relegated to their coop. With snow often knee deep on the ground, letting them out of their spacious coop and run seemed a less than prudent decision. After the first few snow squalls I would find them huddled under the porch in a muddy heap with wet feathers and dirty feet. Fred and I talked about it and decided that keeping them warm and dry was probably better than fulfilling their desire to be out foraging in the snow, so for most of the month, as it snowed mercilessly here, the girls spent their days in the coop.

I made it up to them by frequent trips out for visits and petting and lots and lots of treats and warm water. Due to the frigid temperatures their water bowls were frequently iced over so I would repeatedly throughout the day replace their bowls with others filled with warm tap water. This seemed to work out fine and they got rather spoiled. As the snow began to melt and the temperatures began to rise they would stand and the open coop door and fuss at me to bring them their breakfast. Instead of hopping out the door as soon as it was ajar (as had been their normal routine) they seemed perfectly content to be waited on hand and foot. It seemed too much of a chore to sully their dainty toes in the melting snow.

I really thought this was odd. Normally they love to be out and if you wait thirty minutes past daylight to open their pen you can hear them fussing all the way in our bedroom for freedom. So as they changed their routine to fussing for full service I really was puzzled. This went on for about three days past the thaw until they saw me exit the house with left over birthday cake one morning. Apparently birthday cake has a cross-species significance and can trump even the most stoic resolve at stubbornness in man and beast alike.

I had opened the coop to retrieve their bowls and gone back in the house to prepare their breakfast. When I stepped on the porch they were all still in the coop fussing at the open door until they realized what I had in my hands. Then the shoving and jostling commenced. Squawking and pushing and basically rolling over each other out the door they came tearing and fussing at me like kamikazes on a mission. Forgotten were their cold feet and genteel sensibilities, all was lost in pursuit of cake!

They could be my biological children so great was their motivation to obtain dessert for breakfast. The snow had melted and refrozen in patches, the yard was a minefield of little ice rinks. Chickens tumbled and spun and slid their way to the porch on their bellies. I threw the cake into the yard and watched them decimate it with the abandon of lifelong Weight Watchers members at a holiday buffet. They cooed at me with icing smeared beaks and danced their delight with the little foot stomping chicken jigs.

It was as if the spell of their confinement had been broken with a magical bite of cake. Like Alice they relished their newfound freedom by exploring through the yard as if it were a magical wonderland. I thought we would slide back into our normal routine with ease. I should have known better. At dark I went out to close up the coop only to discover Mama was the only one in bed. It was full dark but the moon was mostly full so I had neglected to take a flash light out with me. I started back for the house, straining my eyes in the dark and whispering for my girls. As I neared the porch I heard chattering and cooing coming from under the steps. I stooped down and peered into the dark, as the clouds parted and the moon gave off a little light I was greeted by five pair of shiny chicken eyes gazing questioningly at my own.

I sighed. Great, now I figured I was going to spend the next hour chasing black hens around in the dark of night trying to get everyone into the coop. I seriously gave consideration to leaving them under the porch steps but the shepherd in me could not stand to leave my girls open to harm from the elements or from predators. I went back in the house and decided to try the easiest option first. I forsook a light fearing that it would only cause more confusion. I grabbed a can of corn from the cabinet opened it and headed back outside.

I shook the can and reached my hand under the steps so they could smell what I had. I was rewarded with much feather ruffling excitement and foot stomping. I started for the coop calling softly to them as I went. I glanced back over the moonlit snow and saw in my wake four little round black bodies trailing behind me and one slightly smaller red head fussily bringing up the rear. Well, that was easy enough. I stepped into the coop followed by all five chickens and poured a small mound of corn onto the floor. Mama heard all the ruckus and came downstairs to investigate. As all six chickens enjoyed their bedtime snack I slipped from the coop and made back for the house.

Fred and I talked about it and decided since they had been out of their routine for a few days that maybe the darkness just surprised them and when they realized it was full dark it was too late and they were stuck under the porch instead of in the coop. They tend to stay near the house during the days for fear of missing a treat from the kitchen. Plus huddling near the side of the house offers them some shelter from the brutal winds that have accompanied our ferocious December weather. Fred and I decided it was probably a fluke and would just wait and see.

I will note here that with the bitter cold and the harsh winds we have put a 125watt heat bulb in their coop. The coop is not greatly insulated and, although many sources say providing them heat is unnecessary, I know I do not like to be cold and I do not figure my hens enjoy it either. Happy hens are healthy hens and healthy hens are good layers. One bulb is not going to make that big of a difference on our electric bill and I would rather spend a little more on electric than another gigantic vet bill for frostbitten hen toes. Fred and I both wondered if the extra light from the bulb may have thrown off the hen’s sense of bed time or if they were avoiding heading to the coop because the light spooked them. Anyway I chalked it up to a fluke & turned my mind to other things.

The next night darkness found me making dinner so Fred went out to shut the girls in. He came back in the house shortly and told me that everyone was in the coop except for one of the BJGs in the darkness he could not tell them apart and he had come back to get a flash light to search for her. I panicked a little and left the skillets hot on the stove as I struggled into my boots and coat. Fred shouted for me to wait, he said what good would it do for me to stumble around in the dark but I was already half out the door, my imagination running rampant with visions of slaughtered chickens plaguing my heels.

I crouched in the darkness near the pine trees and began softly calling. As I neared the smaller of the two pines I hear the unmistakable chatter of a scared chicken. I reached out in the darkness and felt her soft bulky body half under the tree. I picked her up and tucked her under my arm and made for the coop. In the light from the heat bulb she appeared uninjured. I put her in with her sisters, disturbing everyone, much chicken fussing ensued.

We thought it strange that just one would be left out and Fred said when he went to the coop to shut them in the others were fussy and upset, like they were trying to let him know something just was not right. We once again decided that they just were not back into their routine so we left them to sleep and went back in the house.

The next morning Fred went out to let them out of the coop, a little later than normal, and noted that one of the BJGs had a chuck of feathers missing out of her back. It was not down to the skin and she acted fine but there is just a baldish patch with nothing but downy under-feathers showing. We assume that this was probably due to a pecking order dispute or some other nest-box competition but it was just another weird bit to add to the odd winter chicken behavior. They are all eating normally and fussing, laying and playing. No one is exhibiting any visible signs of illness so we are not exactly sure what is causing these issues.

Yesterday morning found another of the BJGs missing a matching hunk of feathers in a similar location to her sister. And last night found me back outside playing the Pied Piper of chickendom a second time. Once again all four of the girls were huddled under the porch with only Mama and Stacy-chicken in the coop. For some reason they will not follow Fred back to the coop and instead run around the yard willy-nilly forcing him to chase them hither, tither and yon. It is easier if I go out and call to them. They will follow me back to the coop and go to bed just like that is the way we have always done it.

Fred and I joke that they are spoiled and need to be tucked in but we are both concerned about this sudden inability to get to the coop by themselves at night. Darkness leaves them open for predator attack and having them out of the coop and away from the safety and shelter it provides even for just a few minutes past dark can be dangerous. The things that “go bump in the night” are a real threat to a silly little biddy.

We are open for any suggestions or ideas from anyone out there raising chickens. Our big issue is the girls not wanting to roost at night. The other side issue is the missing feathers on our two BJGs. I really suspect that this is due to a pecking order dispute and not any type of disease. But as far as the roosting issue goes we are at a loss. If it is due to their routine upset from the snow you would think eventually they would get back into the flow. I considered that it might be the light from the heat lamp so I have unplugged it until after dark but this still did not seem to motivate them to the roost. I do not know what else it could be. Any help would be appreciated.

Thanks for reading & much love,

Autumn

Blog it out, Bebe

I know the blog has been neglected for almost a month now. It is not that I do not have things to write about, although there is a definite slowing of the homestead activity level during the winter months, it is more like I have this nagging sense of writer’s block mixed with a hopeless wheel-spinning sensation that bogs me down in a blogging quagmire. I go about my normal routines and think of interesting (at least to me) blog topics throughout the day but when I sit down at the computer to write them out I find one-hundred-and-one other more interesting things to do (like update my facebook status with banal quips every five minutes). This entry is not focused on one specific thing, instead it is more my attempt to break through the wall of apathy the shorter days and colder temperatures always bring with them into my life.

Last year, about this same time, I was debating the merits of a new artificial Christmas tree. The one we have from before Fred and I got married has seen better days and is definitely starting to show its age. It is pre-lit but it is also pre-realistic-looking-needles. It more resembles a shredded, green colored, trash bag attached to metal pipe cleaners than it does an actual evergreen. It is also beginning to rust and loose some of those plastic needles. I find myself loading it down with more and more decorations every year to camouflage its burgeoning baldness. I am sorry to say last year the prohibitive factor in not purchasing a new tree was cost and not our care for the environment. This year we probably could have afforded a new tree (Kmart marked them down more than half off before thanksgiving) but our push towards a green lifestyle left my conscience in a dilemma.

In theory we would love to have a real tree, the fresh smell of pine, the family memories of traipsing into the woods to pick just the right tree, chopping it down with our own ax and dragging it home to decorate and love, making a festive day of the whole event with spiced cider and homemade cookies. Taking it to a tree recycling center after the holidays, leaving with the warm glow of knowing it would find its way to the bottom of a local lake to become a habitat for wildlife. Sounds great! The reality in our house would find Sarah with her eyes swollen shut and the cats using it as a brand new liter box. Not exactly the Norman Rockwell Christmas scene I envision.

So that leaves us with a problem: when this tree is finally kaput, do we go treeless, do we make everyone ill or do we buy another big fake tree that will eventually find its way into a landfill? We actually have three fake trees. We have our big tree that is approaching a decade in age and we have two smaller trees that have been given to us by different people. Now while I know that in reality all of these trees are artificial and will eventually find their way to the dump I do not feel entirely bad seeing as how two of them would already be at the landfill if they were not here in our house. (So yes, save your snide comments, I rescue cats, dogs, chickens and artificial trees.)

It would be nice if there were a “green” artificial tree alternative. Like one made from recycled tires or cardboard, or tofu, or something. I feel bad buying one more thing that I know will get thrown away and that serves no practical purpose. Maybe someone could make a tree out of those plastic grocery bags? I figure I can get a least a few more years out of our artificial tree as is but I know it is not going to “live” forever and I am looking ahead to replacement possibilities. It is hard to walk through Kmart or Lowes and look at the shiny, new, realistic-looking trees with their shapely needles and perfect colors. I feel like the kids in the Charlie Brown Christmas show gazing longingly at the aluminum trees.

~

On a homestead note: We have chicken issues. Do not be alarmed everyone is healthy but we have two big issues right now one being how to heat the coop and the other issue is how to keep them supplied with fresh water.

When we built the coop Fred left the top open and closed in with chicken wire to keep it cool in the summer and allow the air to circulate to keep the conditions sanitary and the smell to a minimum. He rigged a system to allow for removable insulation to be slid in the top of the coop when the temperature dropped to prevent a draft and to conserve heat. We put a thick layer of shavings and straw on the floor of the coop and in the nest boxes. I think this does a pretty decent job of insulating the girls but they will no longer roost on the perches at night.

Although installing the insulation did lower the roof of the coop they still have plenty of head room and should be able to roost as normal. However, every night when we go out to check on them we find them bedded down in a cluster on the straw. I do not know if they perceive the ceiling to be lower than what it is or if they are doing this to stay warm. Even with all the added bedding and the insulation in the roof the walls are still very thin and un-insulated. Most everything I have read assures me that chickens can survive frigid temperatures without a heat source but I feel mean and they look cold.

Last night, with the temperatures dipping into the teens and the wind chill lowering it further, we ran an extension cord and an incandescent light bulb out to the coop. We had a twelve dollar heat lamp bulb but it was broken sometime during the summer. I figured a regular bulb would at least take the chill out of their coop although I worry that too much light might interrupt their sleep pattern. When I went out this morning to tend them the bulb was burnt out, I assume the cold temperatures were too much for it. So we are back to the original coop warming predicament. I will gladly take any suggestions. So feel free to comment. If we put the heat lamp bulb out there and it breaks we certainly cannot afford to replace it every night.

The issue with keeping them supplied with water is a whole different problem. As it is I am going out several times a day to supply them with warm tap water. All of their normal waterers are completely frozen and the temperatures are not getting up high enough, or sustaining enough warmth, to thaw them out. I have seen waterers at the feed store for horses that have a heating element and will keep the water thawed and drinkable. My big issues with those are they are large (for horse), expensive, and I do not want to go out and find one of my girls electrocuted because she decided to take a warm bath instead of drink it.

~

So there is a little update on some of the things going on here. Mostly I am bogged down trying to get Christmas presents finished and decorations up before I wake up and realize it is January.

Much love,
Thank you for reading,

Autumn

The Great Egg-scape Part II

Ok, so remember that whole analysis of why Helga was the only one who could escape from the confines of our back yard? You know the others were too fat, or too small, or too old, etc. Nonsense. Toss it out. Sigh.

A couple of weeks ago, after successfully pruning Helga’s wings with very little incident, I thought we had effectively arrested the problem of the chicken escapees with minimal chicken drama. Helga did not seem in the least upset with being re-confined to the yard nor did anyone else appear to be exhibiting signs of wanderlust for the great green grass beyond the fence.

After all, our back yard is nothing to sneeze at, it is roughly a third of our property if not a little more. It is more than enough space for six chickens and there are several trees to get under and lots of shady places to scratch for snacks. Not to mention the “magical” back door opens several times a day and chickens are treated to everything from left over spaghetti (which they love) to raisins and oats (a little more common but equally desired). There is really no reason for a chicken to step outside the confines of the fence except out of sheer nosiness. Let me tell you: a cat's alleged curiosity has got nothing on a chicken's. Those are some of God’s nosiest creatures. There is a reason gossipy old women are referred to as biddies!

So several days after pruning Helga’s wings I was sitting here on the couch working on gathering some homesteading information when I heard some intense chicken squawking and it sounded astonishingly close. Allow me to pause for a second and address that the location of the couch is not close to the back door, instead I was sitting relatively near the front door and it distinctly sounded as if a chicken was attempting to sell me a magazine subscription. At first I ignored it, sound does strange things in the hollow and sometimes people talking several houses away sound as if they are on our front step. Then the ranting became incessantly louder. I thought maybe someone was stuck in a tree so I stepped on the back porch to investigate.

I called “stinky chickens” “stinky chickens” this is what they respond to in the way that a house cat will come to “here kitty kitty” Helga came tearing around the corner of the house at break neck speed, wings stretched out to the side she toddled as fast as her fat little legs would carry her. If you have never seen a chicken run you are missing a real treat, it is hysterical, they wobble back and forth and their fat thighs narrow down onto spindly little ankles and feet that look as if they will give way at any moment. You can see where the cartoonists got the idea of a spinning circle to represent a running animal, their legs appear to spin precariously through the air as they rush to their destination.

Helga was shortly followed by three of the Black Jersey Giants and Momma lethargically bringing up the rear (Momma is in a molt, a topic for a later blog). I called some more and examined the BJGs to see who was missing. Gina-chicken was notably absent from the group so I called specifically for her by name. I gave everyone some oats (so they would cease chattering and pecking my toes) and listened. I could hear a distant ruckus that sounded distinctly like a chicken stuck somewhere. I left the back porch and began walking around the house towards the sound. As I rounded the corner I saw Gina-chicken standing outside the chain link diligently jamming her little chicken head in between the links and fussing as loudly as possible. Good grief. Some days I feel like Charlie Brown perpetually having the football yanked out from under me.

I went back in the house and out the front door, the shortest route to the escapee. As she saw me exit the front door she started up at ruckus that had me in fear of the ASPCA being called at any moment. She was beating her wings on the ground and making enough noise for a dozen chickens instead of one solitary soul. Clearly, she was extremely put out that she had been over the fence for quite some time and no one was heeding her demand of immediate reentry. In fact her fair weather sisters had eagerly abandoned her to her fate as soon as the opportunity to procure some snacks became available.

I am still at a total loss as to how they manage to “fly” out but cannot seem to work out the mechanics of “flying” back in. I walked up to her and gently lifted her under my arm, pinning her wings at her side and allowing me to briefly examine her for injury without being flogged half to death. Flogging does not really hurt (at least not from a chicken that size) but it does present the opportunity for the bird to injure itself and it is really annoying and hard to work around. I checked her over she seemed fine except for being riotously angry.

I considered walking around the yard to the gate or taking her back through the house but in the end the easiest solution seemed to be to just put her back over the fence. I held her wings at her sides and her body out in front and leaned as far over the fence into the yard as possible. (Note: I am still wearing pajamas at this point, all I need are rollers in my hair and I am sure my neighbors will begin taking their morning coffee on the porch to watch the show.) I am not the tallest person in the world so even leaning in as far as I could left Gina-chicken roughly a foot to foot and a half off the ground. Oh well, at that point it was either drop her in or fall in on top of her.

I let her go and she angrily fluttered to the ground, she turned and tried to peck my finger, I assume in protest of her man handling and I thought to myself, “Go ahead sister, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Wait till this evening.” I figured Fred and I would need to clip everyone’s wings as soon as he got home from work. Helga is the tamest of the bunch and pruning her wings was no treat. I was not in the least looking forward to chasing down and trimming the BJGs.

I checked on the girls several times throughout the afternoon and I had practically convinced myself that obviously Gina-chicken was the only one who could get over the fence so maybe we would only need to clip her and Helga and everyone else would be fine. Then Fred’s mom came to visit. Fred’s mom grew up in Illinois where her parents and grandparents raised most all of their food, including chickens for both meat and eggs. She was our main detractor in our chicken endeavors stating that chickens were mean, filthy and stupid. She and her younger sister had always been left in charge of the chickens and to this day she wants absolutely nothing to do with them.

I told her about how Helga and now Gina-chicken were getting outside of the chain link. I shared with her that I was afraid one of them would panic and get hit by a car or worse that one of the roving neighborhood dogs would sneak up on one of my girls while they were waiting to get back in and maul them. She agreed that those things were possible and then she shared with me a charming story about how several of their leghorns had broken their necks attempting to get out of the fence and falling short only to land with their heads stuck on the top of the fencing. She said they would come home from school to find dead and half dead chickens swinging by their necks on the gallows of their own design.

That did it. Everyone was getting pruned the second Fred got home from work. I was NOT coming home to find one of my birds swinging on the fence line. Poor Fred, I did not even give him an extra second to stop, he sat his lunch box down and I handed him the sheers and hustled him out into the yard. Now here is the second part of our dilemma. The BJGs do not particularly like Fred. In fact, they tend to flee from him at amazing speeds. I told him they can smell the chicken on his breath. I honestly do not know why they do not like him other than he just is not around them enough for them to get comfortable with him. Whatever the issue, it was like they could sense something was up the second we stepped outside. They headed for the big pine and hunkered down.

It was a comedy of epic proportions as we tried to flush the BJGs from hiding all the while Helga was underfoot like the annoying pup from the Bugs Bunny cartoons “Where ya goin’ hey, hey, what ch doing? Can I go? Hey, hey, what cha doing?” and Mamma stood on the sidelines watching the excitement. We had decided we did not need to clip Mamma, as old as she is and being in molt I was afraid the additional stress of clipping her wings might make her croak. It is funny how they can sense that something is amiss. Only the BJGs hid as their inner radar alerted them that they were the ones about to get the business.

I told Fred just to wait I would go in and get some raisins. I stepped back out on the porch and shook the box. Of course, like me, their bellies overrode their common sense and they came barreling out of the pine onto the porch. Fred snuck up behind them and while they were eating he grabbed Autumn-chicken. Of course the other three quickly made for the pine tree and Autumn-chicken began to fuss & carry-on like it was the end of the world. Fred flipped her upside down and instead of relaxing she kind of stiffened in a really good imitation of rigormortis. I struggled to stretch her wings and trim the feathers, she jerked a few times and began to drool.

Now, let me tell you, I have NEVER seen a chicken drool. I did not even know they could drool. It was pitiful. In the few second it took me to clip her feather she had drool a great big slimy puddle on the porch. Fred eased her back to her feet and she was so shook up she just stood there for a few minutes. She would not even take a raisin offered right in front of her beak. She finally staggered away, made it off the porch, shook herself and ran full tilt for the pine screeching at the top of her lungs.

We realized that we were not going to immediately catch any more chickens so we waited about thirty minutes before once again trying to bait them back up on the porch. We thought we had a pretty good system. Once they were on the porch they were cornered so it was only a matter of snatching up one and doing the pruning. Ha, anyone who tells you chickens are stupid is probably a moron. They are not going to solve the NY Times crossword anytime soon but they are not brainless and they do remember things.

I coaxed them back on the porch and they were moving around so furiously we could not determine who was who, and who had already been trimmed. As Fred made a move to grab one they panicked so badly they began running into the railing of the porch and knocking over my potted plants. They were so distraught that two of them managed a feat I would not believe if I had not seen it with my own eyes. They squeezed between the porch railings and hopped a good three and a half to four feet to the ground. Their body width is easily twice that of the space between the slats. It was like watch a train wreck and being unable to look away as wings were wrenched backwards and sheer terror propelled them through the bars.

I thought surely we had some injured chickens on our hands, but no, other than being terrorized they seemed fine. We managed to capture and trim one more before we finally gave up and decided to grab the other two after they had gone to roost that night. Somewhere in the midst of this mayhem I came up with the bright idea of painting the toenails of the ones we had trimmed so that they would be easily discernible in the dark. We painstakingly applied pink polish to the middle toe of the left foot of both the clipped BJGs and left them alone until dark.

Once the sun had set and the girls had gone to roost we snuck out with our Coleman lantern and our kitchen scissors and determined to get the job done. They were on to us, The whole thing about chickens being comatose and docile after dark? BUNK! They had huddled as far away from the coop door as possible, piled on top of each other against the far wall, blocking the small door and outside of arms reach of the nest box. And did I mention? There was not a painted toenail in sight.

We sighed, set the lantern down and began the arduous task of climbing around the coop in the dark and wrestling unwilling chickens into submission. It was a nightmare they were terrorized and for our trouble we were pecked, flogged and drooled on. Feathers flew everywhere and it is amazing that everyone escaped without injury. Needless to say none of us are looking forward to the next time pruning is necessary. Also probably needless to say, we did not see eggs for several days and when we finally did see eggs again they were hidden all over the yard like a vindictive and deranged Easter Bunny had escaped the institution and gone on an egg hiding spree.

There is a steep learning curve in the chicken raising business and so far I feel consistently on the bottom of the bell. Oh well, they are not dead yet so we must be doing something right. Stay tuned.

Much love,

Autumn

The Great Egg-scape

Helga, [hel-guh], noun -A wildly expensive chicken with a mind and a personality all her own!

Friday before last, while I was out with my mom and Sarah, Fred cut down three small trees from the curve of our driveway. These three had been choked by poison ivy and were in imminent danger of toppling during the next storm on to our West Virginia lawn ornament (a Caprice that has not run in almost a decade), or of blocking the driveway. Since neither of us has any desire to use the chainsaw in the next big gale Fred took the preventative measure of storing up a little early firewood.

Louie our dog loves to be where ever the people are. He is a great off-leash dog because he does not want Fred or me out of his sight. He does not wander off chasing scent trails(we are pretty sure he cannot smell), he does not (normally) run off with other dogs and generally he does not chase things unless they are in our yard. It is safe to work outside doing chores or whatever and assume that Louie will stay in close proximity.

While Fred was cutting down the trees, he looked around and realized that he missed Louie. He thought maybe the sound of the chainsaw had scared him so he took a moment to look around. What he saw was Louie at the fence line of the back yard, near the beehives, watching Helga manically tearing up and down the fence line. You remember Helga, right? Bionic, wonder-chicken? The chicken with the bazillion dollar emergency vet bill, the reason we ate brown beans for a week? I thought so. She is hard to forget, with a personality all her own and a quickly compiling biography to rival a VH1 behind the music special, this chicken is really something.

Anyway, Fred thought her behavior was peculiar enough to warrant attention so he laid the chainsaw down and started for the back yard. As he got closer he realized she was on the outside of the fence. Yes, Helga raced up and down the fence line in a red-hot panic as Stacy and Miranda mirrored her maneuvers from inside the yard. She had somehow managed to maneuver herself outside the fence line and could not figure out how to get back in and she was desperate to get back in. Our back yard (where the chickens live) has several pine trees and lots of nooks and things for the chickens to get under (which they love) our front and side yards, by comparison, are relatively barren with little cover and more importantly without her sisters who were all still obediently within the confines of the fence.

Fred picked her up and carried her through the gate without further incident. When I got home he related the story to me and we debated the possible methods of escape used by Helga the wonder hen. Fred seemed to think she had flown over the fence but was not sure. If she had flown over the fence then why did she not just fly back in? Chickens, while not the smartest of God’s creatures, can operate under learned behaviors and once they have done something are usually likely to do it again.

You see, of all the chickens Helga is probably the only one capable of “flying” anywhere. Allow me to pause for a moment and define flying for a chicken, it is a kamikaze run at something, full tilt, wildly flapping wings with a little prayer and a jump. It may get them an extra foot off the ground for approximately a nanosecond before they land with an unceremonious thud roughly in the same vicinity in which they started. The four BJGs are way too large to “fly” anywhere and Mama is much too small to get any real height, so Helga is really the only bird in our flock of a big enough stature and light enough weight to get her butt up off the ground with any significance.

We discussed it and figured it was a fluke. Helga loves people and, much like Louie, always wants to be where we are. Just to be safe, we walked the fence line and checked for holes, we checked the gate and along the ground to make sure nothing had been tunneled through. Everything seemed fine. We chalked it up to an overzealous bid for attention on Helga’s part. We figured in her desperation to get to Fred she had excitedly jumped at the fence only to magically find herself on the other side. Once through the looking glass she had no clue how to return to her own world and without a cake marked “EAT ME” or a bottle marked “DRINK ME” she merely chose to plummet herself wildly along the fence line until Fred rescued her. We check on her several times that evening and throughout the next day. She seemed normal and content within the confines of the yard so Fred and I shrugged and chalked her escape up to a freak accident, a fluke. HA!

Sunday found us arriving home from church to a crisp fall afternoon, a beautiful sunny sky and a chicken escapee once again running the fence line and squawking wildly for reentry. When we got home from church I stepped into the backyard to gather the eggs. As I walked towards the coop I was followed by five of my six hens. Helga was missing. I called for her and could hear her squawking like a maniac. I looked and called and her shrieks became increasingly incessant. As I rounded the corner of the house I could see her. This time she ran the fence line that boarders our front yard. Howling at me and probably convincing all of my neighbors I have a chicken torturing operation in my back yard.

I yelled for Fred and told him where she was. I did not want to leave the back yard for fear she would panic if she lost sight of me and bolt for the road. Or worse, if I tried to go get her all the others would follow and then I would have chicken anarchy on my hand. I really do not have any desire to log on to facebook someday and find myself the subject of the latest viral video, chasing chickens all around the yard like a lunatic. I talked to her and tried to keep her attention as Fred walked around the house from the other direction and picked her up. There was no real fear of her bolting, all she wanted at that point was to get back in the yard.

As Fred carried her back into the safety of the fence we discussed the fact that she was obviously flying out either after something or someone and we needed to put an immediate stop to it before one of the others began trying it or before she got hit by a car or became an expensive snack of one of the local dogs. I told him we needed to clip her wings. Now in theory this sounded great. I mean how many times have you heard the term “clipped wings” in some cliché fashion? I figured how hard could it be? Fred pointed out that neither of us had any wing clipping experience nor did we even know how to go about trimming said wings or which feathers to cut. I pondered this and left Fred to babysit the chickens while I went back in the house to do a little research.

Well what else can you possibly do when you do not have the answers or the expertise? That is right; I Googled and Google took me straight to a do-it-yourself YouTube video, yay for the internet. In three minutes flat I was practically a chicken wing pruning expert. Just to be sure my skills were perfectly honed I watched the video a second time, transferred it to my phone, grabbed the kitchen scissors and went outside. I made Fred watch the video twice to make sure we were on the same page and then I asked, “cut or hold?” Fred responded with a blank stare and I said, “Do you want to hold her upside down or do you want to trim her wings?” He decided he would hold. Lucky for us Helga likes to be picked up and held so we did not have to chase her all around the yard.

As Fred began to flip her upside down she began to flap her wings and screech in protest but as she rotated one hundred and eighty degrees she became suddenly, magically still and quiet. I do not have any idea why and I do not know if it applies to all chickens but something about flipping her over immediately stunned/calmed her. I stretched her wing out and Fred and I had a momentary debate as I almost cut the wrong feathers. Once we had agreed on the proper feathers to trim I unglamorously hacked away at them with my kitchen shears. Let me tell you, kitchen scissors are NOT for feather pruning nor are feather cuticles at all easy to cut through. However, after several minutes of sawing Helga was pruned and her feet returned to terra firma.

She seemed no worse for the wear and so we went about our business. There were no more escapes through Sunday afternoon and as I let them out Monday morning she seemed quite fine and not at all discontent with her new shorter feather do. I fed them and watered them and was a little concerned that Helga might be standoffish with me after having been manhandled the day before, but like a loyal dumb dog she ran up and let me pet her and begged for treats and followed me around the yard as I completed my chores. She seemed perfectly content and normal until later that morning when I went to the back porch to offer them some treats.

I called for the chickens and they came running from all over the yard as usual. Helga was in the middle of the pack. As they bounded up the stairs I saw Helga aim for midway up the side of the staircase, as she jumped and spread her wings she promptly clotheslined herself on the middle step. Oops. Apparently wing-pruning is not without drawbacks. I watched as she tried three more times, knocking herself back each time. I put aside some treats and waited to see if she would figure it out. Eventually she walked back around to the bottom step and, with wounded pride, climbed the steps slowly, one at a time. I hand fed her some raisins for her humiliation and she quickly recovered from her embarrassment.

The other unexpected side effect is that she can also no longer make it to the porch railing to eat from the bird feeder. While I will miss seeing this during my morning coffee break, it is a small price to pay to keep her in the fence and not have to worry that she will become dog food or road kill. She can still hop up on my lap when I sit outside although her balance is somewhat lacking. This chicken body modification has not seemed to tarnish her pride or ego in the least. She still tries to get in the house at every turn and expects special treatment when humans are in the yard. She also has become quite the jealous green eyed monster. If she catches you petting anyone else they are surely in for a sneaky head pecking, this includes the dog (and Fred).

Much love,
Thank you for reading,

Autumn