And Then There Were Eight

The Chicken Hill gal's coop and chicken court yard.

I'm actually writing this a little prematurely.  By eight, I'm referring to the hens that will remain at Chicken Hill, here in Monkton, VT.  My lovely ladies are dwindling down.  And I am starting to get numb to chicken losses.  This is hard for me as I'm very sweet on my gals.  When I started raising my flock, almost three years ago I made an oath to give the best life possible to the fluffy little chicks that I gathered from the feed store, a local neighbor and a elementary school hatch out program. 

Chris the would-be
rooster.

 In the beginning there were fifteen lovely ladies, uh-um, one was a boy.  I had a rule from the get go, no boys!  I'm not a morning person.  I didn't want the neighbors to hate me for raising chickens and from what I read you didn't need them and they could be a bit of a nuisance to the ladies with all their demands. I had no purpose for fertilized eggs.  I had also heard my fair share of rooster attack horror stories. 

When our little Americauna started his first attempts at crowing, I frowned.  When he started in with some pretty aggressive behavior, tearing the comb of a fellow coop-mate, I was angry.  Out came the hatchet and after drinking a beer, rather quickly to muster up the courage to do the deed, I offed that chicken's head.  Not really my idea of a good time---but I was trying my best farmer act.  I also didn't want to ask my husband to do something I wasn't prepared to do.   Afer all, the chickens were my idea.  Our first bird was buried deep because I didn't want to attract predators and it was just a teen, not really big enough to eat, all bone and feathers.

Even though I wielded a hatchet for the would be rooster, I'm really a softy.  I can't stand the sight of blood and killing things just doesn't come natural to me.  I know, I make a terrible farmer.  (And I eat meat).  But when my first hen showed signs of illness...I reached for the phone, madly dialing.  What?  No one sees chickens?  What was I to do?  These are my pets.  I stubbornly called around until I found an exoctic vet that would see my ladies.  Out he came with his assistant.  I set up a table in the chicken court yard and donning some fancy specs he examined my girls for mites, eggbinding and for over all health.  A stool sample was rushed off to a lab and sure enough, as I had already determined, my girls had worms. 


Nesting boxes with Big Girl Bottom left.


Per the vet's advice my husband and I bought a scale so we could weigh each chicken.  Weights were recorded, medicine prescribled for each chicken's body weight and my husband and I medicated 14 birds with a syringe specifically loaded for each hen.  At this point I hadn't had a chance to name all my ladies so a few birds were dotted with magic marker and referred to as one dot, no dot and so on.  When I drove to the vet's office to pick up the medication the prescription was for Pecker.  Not Baby or Good Red or One Dot, they had to choose my chicken named Pecker to fill the prescription under.  So I sheepishly paid for the medication while the glossy white bag containing all the syringes and worming medication read:  Pecker Boyer. 

The Chicken Hill ladies as I fondly call my hens, marched through their first summer popping out eggs like pop corn, leaving me an abundance of eggs to trade and gift to folks all the while feeding us beautiful golden-yolked eggs.  Every time I dug a hole chickens jumped in to feast on whatever I unearthed.  I would use the utmost care as I aimed shovel to sod not wanting to hit any precious chicken toes.  I gardened, they helped.  Or so they thought. 

Fall blew into the hill making things a beautiful bronze and rust color and chickens joyfully marched about catching slow moving frogs and worms while kicking up leaf debris.  And then a few white crystals started to fall from the sky.


 

Biggie Fry and me!

One of my flock, Speckled Head Red started to look a little worse for the wear.  Winter sunk her claws in deeper and ol' Speckled Head developed a cough.  She was swept into the house, segregated to the downstairs bathroom...she didn't look like she was going to make it.  I madly dialed.  This time I would have to drive in a snow storm over an hour and a half away to get her looked at.  So with my windshield wipers trying to brush away the icy crust speedily building onto my windshield I boxed my hen and drove.  I sang songs trying to sooth her, or me.  We arrived at the vet's office and Speckled  Head was prescribed medicine for a respiratory problem.  For two weeks, twice daily, we went through the painstaking routine of trying to get a needleless syringe perfectly aimed down the chicken's throat being careful not to fill her wind pipe with liquid.  A second chicken fell to the same illness and  as medicated her we aimed the medicine down the wrong area.  A great gurgling sound was heard for the following twenty-four hours.  Rob and I looked at each other, thinking we were villains aiding in this poor chicken's demise.  We were medicating two chickens and it was a pain.  But both chickens recovered and returned to their coop, one with a new name-Gurgly Girl.  Never turning back to say thank-you, back into the flock they walked, hopping onto their roost like they'd never visited the human's house.  Ungrateful, little.....



Speckled Head Red
just before she passed.

 Spring returned with her show of wonderous bulbs and the bright colors that blind us after the drab blahs of late winter.  Speckled Hed Red ambled about but her comb grew faded and a little deflated.  I watched realizing at some point I needed to let nature run its course.  I needed to let Speckled Head live out her remaining days without poking and prodding her.  Gradually Summer started to melt even the most hardy of Vermonters and Speckled Head succumbed to the inevitable.  Arriving home from a job interview my husband delivered me the news. 

Raising chickens has provided me with so much joy and sadness.  I've experienced the crueler side to nature, like the skunk that wandered in and started munching on one of my girls.  I came home to a chicken alive, in shock, wandering around with a massive hole chewed out of her.   How I cried as I realized my negligence, I'd left the gate closed to the chicken courtyard but the skunk must've been nimble enough to crawl under the fence.  All my flock was scattered about...some clinging to fences.  Others were terrified and stood on my doorstep pecking at my door.  Two I didn't find until the next morning, taking cover under some large hosta, not makng a peep as I searched through the night trying to gather up my girls.



Reese, the only bird that I lost due to a predator.

 Most will call me the crazy chicken lady.  And yes it is true that I sing to my chickens, albeit pretty poorly.  But they don't know the difference.  They just know that the human that gives them food and water makes some noises for them.  And dutifully as I sing they climb up to roost.  It's a comfortable routine.

Maybe living things should come with a tag, like the ones that hang on the neck of clothing.  Enjoy each day, repeat. Give the best that you can.  Handle with love and care.  Know when to let go. 

Tomorrow, I dread going out to the coop, where Gurgly Girl has squeezed herself under a nesting box, not having the strength to hop up to roost like the others.  I debated about putting her up to roost.  But I wanted to honor her wishes.  I will miss her little noises that sound like a car trying to turn over.  And I wonder if the ground will be soft enough to bury her.