PREDATOR

We lost two chickens last night.  We. lost. two. chickens. last. night.

It is sobering to me to see these words in print; I strongly felt that we had not done our job. The Man disagreed with me. We free range our hens, and found early on that they would all march back into the coop at dusk. Perhaps we had become complacent about this arrangement.

This time (it's been 2 years now), we heard some squawking out there at dusk. I ran to the window to check; we frequently will see hawks soaring above our yard and the chickens will squawk when they detect her. I scanned the sky and scanned the yard and seeing nothing, determined it was the chickens themselves. We introduced the chooks to the older hens a few weeks ago and they still squabble a bit and are still going through the stage of determining the pecking order, so the "arguing" amongst them wasn't unusual.

I returned to my spot in the kitchen where I had been having a conversation with The Man. Interestingly, it was about gun control and restraints. For people, not animals.

The sky hadn't yet darkened completely but was very close to it. It's not been unusual this year for us to go out and lock everything/electrify the fence surrounding the chicken yard at 8:30 p.m. when it's completely dark, whereas in the beginning, we religiously were out there before sunset, trying to shoo them in ourselves, worried that they wouldn't get in on time to escape the ravages of evening predators on the prowl.

Chickens began screeching again and time stood still, as we both jumped into our yard boots, grabbed jackets on the run and ran out the door. I was the first one out and upon reaching the fenced in yard around the run, saw him. A large red fox was in the yard and very likely could have been in the coop as well.  He was running around the perimeter trying to get out. I was screaming for The Man to come as I didn't know how to handle a fox. When he reached the run, the fox finally jumped over our electric fence (which was bad news in and of itself) and headed toward the road at the east (front) end of the yard. We headed into the coop to count the chickens, filled with doom. I was expecting to see a blood bath.

There were none dead in the coop and no blood or feathers, thankfully. However, there were plenty of hens missing. We had no idea where they might have been able to retreat in our forested perimeter, but armed only with our flashlights and a bucket of corn, we began our search.

An hour later, we had rounded up almost all of them, some of which had been up in trees, some cowering by fences, one I even found perched on the bench on our front porch!

And two, sadly, we found decapitated. As upsetting as this was, we had to continue our search, as three remained missing:  two young reds, and Oprah, one of my prized Silver Laced Wyandottes.

We split up to cover the entire yard more quickly; I was on the north side of the coop when I heard her screeching. It was Oprah and she was somewhere near the garden. We both ran to the site, sweeping our flashlights to find her. A fox was on her and due to our hot pursuit, he ran away from her toward the north of our property along the fenceline separating us from our closest neighbor. I scooped up Oprah and ran with her to the coop; she was alive and I couldn't see any blood, but she had a huge amount of feathers missing from her back; she was completely bald in one spot. I placed her carefully into a nest box so she could rest and returned to the yard where The Man was shouting for me to come with the flashlight. He had found the fox running up and down the fence and was going to try to shoot him. I wanted to shoot him myself. He had already killed two of our hens and now had injured, possibly fatally, Oprah. I was seeing red. The Man ran to get his gun while I kept the light on the predator. His eyes were staring at me -the light was reflecting off them and the effect was eerie. He turned his head and began to trot east along the fenceline toward the house. Not finding a way out, he retreated back in the direction he had come, and The Man took a shot. It appeared he may have grazed him as the fox jumped upon contact but then ran and disappeared into brush.  We didn't expect him back that night.

We spent another hour searching; I had blisters forming on the backs of my heels from wearing rubber boots with no socks; I had scratches on my hands from the barbs of weeds in the woods and briefly wondered about poisoned ivy, but realized it was too late to try to avoid it. We searched the entire acre up and down and over and over. I stepped over the rickety fence and headed down the embankment at the back of the property toward the golf course; (we are situated above the 9th hole). It was strange walking on that property at night. I had walked on that hole only once 6 or 7 years prior, golfing. I walked up and down the perimeter of the 9th hole shining my light into the trees to see if the two young reds which were still missing had roosted there, to no avail.  I had been determined to find them, and not to come back until I had done so, but it was clearly going to be impossible, and the thought finally occurred to me that they could have been carried off. Fox aren't known to hunt in groups, but we had seen the first one escaping in one direction, and the second had come from a complete opposite end of the property; it was very possible that several could have been involved and that one or more could have already taken the two young reds. We gave up for the night.

Oprah recovering inside the day after the attack.

It was so sad to go inside not knowing of their whereabouts. The Man bagged up the decapitated hens. I didn't ask him what he did with them beyond that.

He put up a trap for the night, in the hopes of catching a fox.

In the morning, thankfully, the two young red hens had returned to the door of the coop and were waiting there. We were never so relieved. We had lost two friends, but we had done everything we could to save them all.

Our methods will change, as the fox family undoubtedly see our property as a source of food now and return again and again.

We won't be letting the hens out in the yard for a while. It's getting colder anyway, and they have plenty of room in their run and coop, with all the food and water they need. I took them a nice big tray of warm oatmeal this morning which they thoroughly enjoyed. However, Oprah was clearly traumatized more than we had suspected. She was hiding behind a hay bale, but came out when she heard my voice, limping and with her head bowed. I gave her water and oatmeal which she ate and drank slowly. It appears her left wing is broken, and I'm not sure if she has any internal damage. I decided to keep her in the house so that the others wouldn't pick on her, and she is currently residing in a large cardboard box in the kitchen with plenty of cotton rags around her to rest on and her own water and food. I'm not sure how this will turn out.

Oh Brother Winter, Where Art Thou?

What a mild winter this has been! Our cold-hardy girls have been out wandering the yard in January, February and now March, and egg production never waned, averaging 9 eggs per day for 13 hens, (and that primarily because Beatrice & Eugenie, the banty silkies, had gone a bit "broody").  I absolutely loved walking out to their coop this past weekend, with my LL Bean 'barn' coat unbuttoned and no gloves, to gather the eggs and give them a little Eggo Waffle treat. On March 9!  Let me say that again - my coat unbuttoned. No gloves.  No hat.  No scarf.  Not yet the middle of March. Ahh....the simple pleasures of life, pleasant weather during months when we are used to extreme cold, a warm egg in the hand (worth two in the bush?)  Other treats this past week were a head of iceberg lettuce, apples which had over-ripened indoors, and applesauce. You should have seen them with the applesauce, they cleaned the dish until it was bare. Now that the weather is warming though, we're looking at our yard differently....areas which have become bare need to be re-seeded, and we can't do that with the chickens having full range. So! We've purchased some new fencing, and the plan is to give them a wide spot at the back, southwest corner of the lot, with full access to the compost pile. I will miss seeing them wandering up by the house, but it's for the good of the lawn to move them around a bit and quarantine them when necessary. More to come and pictures too.

2012 - Mild Winter

After worrying a bit this summer of how well our Girls would take to the snow drifts and frigid temps we have been known for in past years, I sit here writing this on January 1, 2012 with a high temperature today of 52 F!  January!  Temps in the fifties!  Needless to say, so far they are handling "Winter" just fine (though we do have a high wind warning, and snow may arrive by Tuesday). There was a day last week which was frigid for about 10-12 hrs.  It was 11 degrees and those Girls were NOT about to leave their cozy shack (and people call chickens stupid). Today though, they pranced about, playing with each other, running up and down over hill and dale. I took the time to snap a couple of shots.

Curious Gal

 "Oprah"

Our Silver Laced Wyandottes are good layers,

and the most daring & inquisitive of the flock too.

Oprah is so named for her bold nature and intelligence, and

that little bit of "bling".  I like to think she has

 chicken "life classes" in the hen house.

Fleet Feet

Unidentified black sex link hen running down the hill.

Chicken Scratching

Inside the "run" which is the fenced in area attached to the coop, we throw a little "cracked corn" or chicken scratch, (purchased from either Country Max or Tractor Supply stores) onto the ground which the chickens will then scratch around in the straw to get to, thereby stirring up the straw so that it doesn't get too matted. Unfortunately for us, though, our yard being one long hill, eventually most of the straw does end up in a pile in front of the coop and we have to rake it back into place every so often. The corn is a treat, not their main diet; they have been eating a special feed for a while meant for growing chickens, and of course they spend quite a bit of time outside free ranging.

Fun in the Run

Welcome! It's good to see you!

Feel free to make yourself at home...

(I'm a bit embarassed! Forgot to sweep!)

Belly up, ladies!

.

Have you met Princess Catherine?

She's not as social as the others 

(you know how stuffy royals can be)

.

Beatrice! Slow down and give a proper hello!

(Sigh. You just can't stop her when she's got her eye 

on some juicy couture).

Ah, I see you've run into Oprah & Whoopie!

They are always collaborating 

on something.

Don't let the door hit you in the vent!

Time for bed girls!

The girls are coming into the coop at 7:30 p.m., the light is on a timer and will go off at 8:30, so I think we need to move that up an hour now, since they're ready to settle down. It will come back on again at 5:30 a.m. to wake them up and make sure that they have enough hours of light in their day to continue laying. You can see the nest boxes below and behind the roost; an old tree branch leans up against the wall for them to climb up to the roost and nest boxes. Princess Catherine went to "bed" a lot earlier than the others today; we're hoping she isn't ill.

When Bambi Met the Hens

Link to Mad Chicken Lady!

Check out the link above, I just started following her yesterday and feel a bit of a kinship where the chickens are concerned at least.

Chef's Compliments!

My friend Jane's husband is a chef at the local yacht club; I sent a dozen eggs home with her a couple weekends ago, and happened to catch him on the phone the other night. "Hey, your eggs are fantastic!"  (oh really? tell me more) "Yeah, I mean it. They hold up well when I poach them, the whites don't get all stringy, (whatever that means), "they have color, they have taste, they're rich.....all the things you expect from an egg but don't get anymore." (Chest swells)   "So you must be doing something right!"  (Well, I don't mean to brag...)  "I'm sure it's a lot of work too!"  (Yeah, especially the part where I run outside and throw food scraps into my yard.)
Just thought I'd share that tidbit with you. If you think of having chickens for egg production, you too will be raking in the praises. Be sure to reward your hens with special treats for all their hard work!

Scaredy Chicks

Spent the day with my mom today, and cooked up half a dozen of our eggs for her and my sister, which they raved over (you can call my family the Polite Ones, because no one ever says a bad word about anyone, but I could tell they liked their scrambled eggs, nonetheless).  The color of the yolks is so bright, almost an orange tint as opposed to the usual weak, butter yellow color of commercially raised eggs. And a very rich taste. (According to my nephew, this is because the fat content in the yolks of brown eggs is higher; he especially likes them for making ice cream and for baking.)

When I got home, I had purchased some farm-fresh veggies at a local stand, including a dozen ears of corn, so I took a couple of ears we had been saving for a week out to the girls. They were enjoying them and I was cleaning out one of the waterers, when all of a sudden there was a huge rucous behind me, with about half of the hens seeming to rush forward, (Foul, fowl! Off sides!) half running, half jumping/flying in the way that only rock-heavy birds with weak wings have. They were all making a racket; some had run under nearby bushes, one went underneath the side porch, and yet another hid underneath a third bush to my left. Cackling was going on all around me, yet I couldn’t pick out yet where all of them were located. I had a sense that some terrorizing hawk could have swept down behind me and taken off with one of them, and I didn’t feel comfortable until all were accounted for. Except they weren’t coming out of hiding. I called my usual call (Chickeeeees! Here chick-chick!) More cackling in hiding. I started roaming the yard to look for them and try to get a count. I found the Silkies Eugenie & Beatrice, thanks to their stark white feathers which stand out in the shadows, and the youngest chicks Princess Catherine, Oprah, and Whoopie, all under one bush near the old fire pit. I found Pansy & Violet under the magnolia tree.  Rose was under the porch and would not come out, no matter how much I sweet-talked her. Where was Grace? Where were all the black hens? Slowly a couple of the black hens peeked heads out from under bushes. One was hiding in the herb garden. Still, I didn’t feel comfortable. Even came out with some cucumber skins I had peeled a little earlier, no budge. Joe came out and joined the search. We were getting concerned; this wasn’t like them at all. “Why don’t you try the corn scratch?”  (This never fails to get them to RUN across the yard).  I handed the bucket to Joe and he began the customary Shaking of the Corn Bucket. They didn’t budge. They cackled on and on for a good 10 minutes before they would venture out to get the corn.  A chicken that won’t come for corn has been severely traumatized. By what, I’m still not sure. It could have been a large bird I guess, swooping into the yard. Luckily, all the girls were eventually accounted for, and my “short-attention span theatre” hens have forgotten all about it. Tomorrow they will wake up and think it was all a bad dream. 

Two-Day Take

I'm told we can expect our hens to lay an egg a day (or every other day); so far we're getting anywhere from 4-7  from our 13 hens, so they're not all laying yet. This is our "two-day take" -- as you can see, my standard size chickens are laying more eggs than my two banties, as we have retrieved only one banty egg (the light colored one above). I've read that this is typical of banties, they tend to go "broody" which means they only want to sit and lay on an egg once they have one, and are not as productive. So if egg production is your "thing," you don't want to go with banty hens. But I wanted to keep the white silkies just because they were fun to look at and hold, and don't really care that they aren't the best layers. They're like the "high maintenance" girls in the chicken world -- fancy feathers, bling, turning the heads of every cock around, and not really into work. That's my Eugenie & Beatrice.

Top Ten “Treats” for my Girls – because yes, 

even free range chickens deserve a little sumpin’ special every now and then!

The girls race to get the leftover artichoke from last night's supper.

10.   Bread slices – this one is not a frequent treat, because we don’t tend to eat much bread ourselves.

 9.   Squash – this year I planted summer squash just for them. It’s a fast and easy treat, just pick the squash, cut it in half, and let them go at it!

  8.  Apples – I share mine after I’ve eaten half; too hard to resist letting them in on it.

  7.  Kashi Go Lean Crunch cereal (those bits at the bottom of the bag that won’t hold up to milk would go to waste otherwise)

  6.  Peaches – I sliced some overripe peaches in half and removed the pit, then threw the halves out in the yard where they promptly rolled down the hill (we have no level ground) with the chickens chasing them all the way. 

  5. Corn scratch – they love this stuff. We keep it in a red bucket and all we have to do is go outside and shake the bucket and they come running at the sound.

  4. Corn on the cob – Doesn’t even have to be cooked. They will eat every kernel, they don’t waste a bit!             

  3. Watermelon– I admit sharing my watermelon doesn’t come easily to me, but once I saw how much they liked it, I couldn’t justify eating it all myself!         

  2.  Pasta – I wish I had videotaped them eating my leftover linguine. They went wild over it.

And the number 1 treat:  Toasted Eggo waffles (whole grain, of course!)  I toast a couple and then tear them into pieces – they barely hit the ground when I toss them to the girls. In fact, while I was tearing one up, Pansy jumped up and grabbed a bite out of my hand. (So of course I then had to get them all to jump for their Eggo, which they do!)

What Chickens Want

In 2000, Mel Gibson played a lovable jerk of a guy in What Women Want, who serendipitously is given the “gift” of being able to hear women’s thoughts, and thereby understand how women think.  I thought of this movie today when I was watching our hens; imagine being able to understand what’s going on in those tiny heads!  The way they appear to haphazardly run around from one thing to the next, you might suspect they have no thought processes at all. On the other hand, there are those moments when they do something so comical it’s hard not to assign some humanistic quality to their actions.  For instance, about the time when they reached the laying stage, we realized they were instinctively looking at us as the roosters among them – when we approach, they go into a squat position, shake their booties and spread their wings out a little, getting into ‘position.’  Since we don’t have a rooster any longer, we thought what the heck, give ‘em a little pat on the rear end a few times, try to assimilate what it is they’re expecting, and see what happens. The first time we tried this, our little red hen stood back up to her fullest height once our pat-down subsided, and fluffed out her feathers with a bit of a shake and shiver. I wanted to offer her a cigarette. All the other hens gathered around her, making questioning sounds as she strutted her stuff (“How was it? Did it hurt? Was it good?”) It was so comical to watch.

But seriously, what do chickens want?  I don’t know about city chickens who can’t leave their small coops, but our chickens clearly enjoy free ranging. They call us and stand by the door of the run, and when I open it, they literally run out, with a bit of flapping of wings and jumping and even a half second of flying for some. Their greatest joy seems to be in grazing in the yard and accompanying gardens, and giving themselves dust baths wherever they can find a patch of dirt. They joyfully run after moths (catching them on the run I might add) and if they’re feeling bored, will chase the occasional robin who dares to walk among them.

They want social hierarchy, and they achieve it by being aggressive, pecking at any bird who is in their way. Hence the term, “pecking order.”  Unfortunately, our three youngest chicks, being several months younger than the rest, have never been able to assimilate themselves into the larger group of hens. They are told in no uncertain terms to keep away, and usually get the very last of a treat, if anything. I go out of my way to find them huddled under the magnolia, one of their favorite hideouts, and bring them their own treat.

They want places to sit, or roost, that are comfortable (2x4s work well) and the latest cool spot for them to perch is on top of the wheelbarrow leaning against the shed, but the hammock clearly holds a fascination for many of them, having found them perched on one end or the other, and sometimes walking across it.

They want to dig, and usually trek out to the farthest corner of our lot to the compost pile, sort of a mosh pit of chickens in late afternoon. They find lots of worms and spiders and other bugs to eat and this makes them happy.   

As Orren Fox, a teenaged chicken owner and blogger (Happy Chickens)puts it, “Happy chickens lay healthy eggs,” and that appears to be true!  Give a chicken what she wants, and she will reward you. 

One of our "Funky" Eggs

Ducks Gotta Go

The two ducks that we raised along with the chicks, were cute at first and we just loved them. But when they became a few months old, they started picking on the hens -- the meat ones. Those hens, I am told, were bred to gain weight 2 or 3 times faster than the other chickens, and they have, weighing out now at 9 lbs. The other chickens are half that weight, if that. Well, a 9 lb chicken is, in my opinion, the couch potato of the poultry world. Even their legs are fat! They have trouble getting up and moving about, but manage to get the feeder. So, these slow, ungainly chickens, caught the eye of the ducks, who became fond of pulling their feathers. At first it was just one or two here and there and we thought they were bored, which is when the building of the hen house began in earnest. By the time they were installed in their new digs and had been there for a week, it was obvious the pecking and pulling wasn't going to stop. I was getting pretty darn mad about it, but I noticed that the hens (two of the five) weren't complaining much, so I thought, maybe this is something that happens with the "pecking order" and I'll have to ignore it. Until today.


Today, I went out to change the water at around noon time, and spread some new straw. As I was putting the waterer down, I turned and saw, to my utter dismay, that the poor hen not only had her back almost entirely feather-free, but her back had an open wound and I could see her innards! I quickly grabbed her and ran to the house, calling for Joe. Long story short, we cleaned and dressed the wound, and moved her back into a new box in the basement, along with a friend who they had just begun to pull the feathers from. There are three more of these hens outside and tomorrow we will be watching, and any more feather pulling and those are coming inside also. We have no choice.  The ducks will most likely be going to a kind lady on a farm south of here. I had no idea that ducks would do this, nor did I think they were capable. I've never witnessed the other chickens pecking at these white hens (Cornish Rocks) so I don't think it was them; although they could have contributed toward the end. I'm sure once it was an open wound, it would be very hard for them to keep away from it.

Word to the wise:  carefully watch your poultry for "fowl" play, and don't think that this feather-pulling behavior can't or won't turn into something serious.

Chicken Olympics

I never thought that chickens played games, until one day in the not too distant past, I went down to share some leftover lettuce leaves with "the girls" (and boys). This started a cacophony of chirping and screeching, punctuated by some early quacking sounds from the ducks, who ate most of the leaves before the chickens could get at them. But one of the "teenagers" as I like to think of them at this stage, grabbed a bit of red leaf lettuce and started running around with it in his beak, trying to find a quiet place where he could be alone. But since they all live in one big box, and the only items in the box are the waterer, feeder, and a couple of broken limbs for perches, there aren't a lot of hiding places, and all his running around accomplished was to attract the attention of every other chicken. All of the sudden, it was like a game of "You're It" and they were chasing this guy over hill and dale (or, perch and feeder), and when they realized that he actually had something he was keeping from them, they started to work together, coming at him from several directions at once, forcing him into a beak-to-beak confrontation, whereby the competitor would snatch the lettuce from him and then the chase would begin again in earnest. This went on for a good 15 minutes at least. Watching them, one could imagine they were playing solely for the sake of the game, because not once did any of them just stop in a corner of the box, and attempt to swallow or break up the lettuce for consumption.
  It finally got a little confusing for them when the leaf broke in half and all of the sudden two of them were running around with the goods, which caused total mayhem, as they would run after one, then the other, depending on who was closest to them at the time. At one point I witnessed the lettuce-carrier run UNDER one of the meat-birds (yes, we have some of those too). He ducked and ran right between her legs! The meat birds are heavy and slow moving, and this one had a look of total shock on her face. I SO wish I had my camera on me at the time to videotape the nonsense, because this is one of those reasons I think chicken keepers enjoy these birds: pure entertainment value.

Chicken Sex(ing)

Well, turns out my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend purchased unsexed chicks (not separated by gender); so, not only do we have far too many chickens for our requirements, I found out that he did not purchase all hens. And it became very apparent within the first few weeks that we have more than a few roosters. We cannot have roosters unless we want to start a neighborhood war the likes of the Hatfields and McCoys. So honey-do is going to try to get rid of the roosters to some farmers he knows (keep your fingers crossed, please).

If you purchase your chicks at a farm store the way he/we did, you most likely will get unsexed chicks. You may not even get the breed you think you're getting. It's safer to order them online from an established company such as Murray McMurray Hatchery or mypetchicken.com; you can order the breeds you want and the sex you want. There's an interesting little video on Youtube of "Dirty Jobs'" host Mike Rowe learning about chicken sexing. Chicken sexers work at hatcheries with huge tubs of chicks in front of them all day; they pick the chicks up one at a time, squirt all the poop out of them, and look inside their vent to determine the sex. I'll leave the rest for you to discover when you watch the video. Just make sure you log onto Youtube first--- don't put the words "chick" and "sex" into your Google toolbar and expect to get only websites about chicken sexing and hatcheries.
 
Since getting rid of the roosters in our bunch will deplete our little farm, we ordered some new chicks (HENS only) online, and this time I was able to pick out the breeds I am interested in: Silver Laced Wyandottes, Rhode Island Reds, and Buff Chanticler. Go ahead, google them, you know you want to!
 Oh, and I was just kidding about the ex-boyfriend. I think I'll keep him around for a while. He is, after all, the father of our chickens. :)

Gotta Vent?

So, one of the first things I learned from the smattering of magazines I went out and purchased on chickens (yes, they publish magazines on raising chicks -- more than one! amazing) is that baby chickens can be a bit fussy to maintain. The premise isn't difficult: feed them a couple times a day (we do first thing in the morning and again after work) and that includes a special mix for baby chicks you can purchase at any farm/feed store like Agway, Tractor Supply, or locally here, Country Max. It also includes plenty of fresh water, and for both of these I purchased specially made feeders designed to keep the chicks from soiling the water and the food -- because they will walk over, on, around, above, under, any which way they can. In this way they are very entertaining and comical to watch. I've spent hours already watching these little gals/guys. But one of the things you have to watch out for is that their "vent" doesn't get clogged up with poop. You basically pick them up and inspect their behinds; the little hole there which spews all that lovely chicken manure (good for your garden) is called a "vent" and if you can't see it because it's crusted up, you have to try to get that cleaned off pronto, or they will get very sick and die. Well, this happened with one of ours and since I had already read about it, I sprang into action. I brought it upstairs and wet a paper towel and just kept moistening and moistening and moistening again....it wouldn't soften. I started picking at it a little and moistening, and picking at it, and moistening, and finally that worked, but it left my poor little chicky with a pink, swollen vent that was visibly throbbing. When I placed him back in the box with the others, they ran around pecking at it like it was some kind of worm on his butt. I felt horrible. Thankfully, they lost interest and he lived to tell about it. So yes, I saved a chicken's life. (No applause necessary; a gift card to Country Max would be nice though.)

They were just there one day, in my basement. Well, not exactly. My boyfriend (if you can call him that, we're far too old for such names, but to just say "partner" isn't very clear, and I run the risk of this "chick" blog  masquerading as something it isn't). As I was saying, my 50-something year old live-in partner for life (is that better?) decided to surprise me with a box full of baby chicks and two ducklings a few weeks ago. He sent me to the basement under the guise of getting dinner (what else? chicken) from the freezer. And of course I stumbled upon the live ones at my feet, in their own little avian tanning booth. And fell in love with the little fuzzballs immediately, allergies aside. They were so soft! And cute! And dinosaur-like!  (Really -- examine their legs and beaks closely sometime; you'll feel as if you're looking at something ancient).
It's not as if I had never seen chickens before.....my grandmother grew up on a farm, and created her own hobby farm as an adult, which we would visit annually. Here we came into close contact with all the barnyard animals; if we weren't 'friends' with them by the time we left, we at least had a healthy respect for them.
The chickens held some kind of fascination for me the older I got. I was drawn to, and collected for some time, anything with roosters or chickens on them. It was as close as I would get for years. I had imagined that some day, I would retire to a small farm like my grandmother had done, and have a few hens and a rooster, and a garden.
But 18 chickens??!!  And two ducks??  What was he thinking???  And upon getting them, we had no idea of the sex of these little warm fuzzies.
To be continued....