Eggs for Hatching

Yesterday I found this clutch of ten eggs out in the brush. The three blue ones are from my Americauna hen or one of her pullet offspring. For a week or more Princess has been acting very broody--staying on the nest long after she has laid an egg, and all the other features of broodiness. I've made a few half-hearted attempts to break the broodiness. Last night, as I have for several nights, I removed her from the nest when it was time to roost. I have been blocking nest entrance overnight. Then I thought of those eggs out in the brush, put them in a basket, and took them to he coop. I laid them all out in the nest, then placed Princess on the eggs. Immediately she looked pleased. The eggs were laid in a larger circle than she could cover, so she looked them over, then, with her beak, ootched one of them on under her warm body. She picked another and moved it, until she had them all in place. Then she eased down over them with a most content motherly look in her eyes. She is happy, and within three weeks or so, we will again be playing "baby chicks."

Would You Eat Black Chicken Meat?

How about that? The Black Sumatra--Cemani--chicken is a rare bird, on the endangered poultry list. The chicken has black feathers, black skin, and has black meat and bones. Although somewhat rare, they are sold in meat markets in several Pacific Rim countries. One or two hatcheries in the United States have them available. Supposedly, they taste just like ordinary chicken, but some believe they have extraordinary health benefits. The rooster is a graceful-looking bird with long flowing tail. For most of us, this will remain in the chicken trivia category. [I learned that the previous image, that of a "dressed" chicken, prepared for the market, was considered "gross" by some. As a result, an image of the live bird has been substituted.]

Gender Identity Problems

First, as you have read, there was Celie, the crowing hen. Celie no longer crows because, as again you have read, she hid out on me one night and the community 'coon had chicken for his midnight meal. The accompanying image, taken back in June, is of Joe as a young cockerel. He is now a sexually mature and active young rooster. But. Lately, after watching the pullets and hens on the nests where they lay their eggs, he has gotten it in his head to attempt the same. We sometimes hear the hens singing in cacophonous complaint because they want to lay an egg, but Joe is on their nest. Why can't my chickens be content with their gender? Maybe if I knew the answer to that question, I would know the answer to a lot of other questions. But I am clueless.

Obituary: The Rest of the Story

I awakened In the middle of the night last night, and for some reason, reached both arms out wide and stretched. My right hand caught a glass of water on the night stand and dumped it on my pillow and mattress. After dealing with the problem, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so at 2:45 I got out of bed and began writing. Around 4:30 I heard, just outside my window--chicken coop location–the sound of something being knocked around. I was writing intensely, paused briefly, and continued writing. From time to time I heard momentary, but unusual sounds from the same area. A little after 5:00, I began to hear what sounded almost like chicken chirps. I knew they were locked up securely, so I kept writing. About 5:30 I got a complete thought down in writing, so, having heard chickens and other sounds, decided I should check to see what was going on. When I opened a curtain and looked out into the lighted backyard, I saw a large raccoon carefully examining, it seemed, every square foot of the yard. Instantly, I knew what he had eaten for his midnight meal on the previous night.

Obituary

Yesterday I buried Celie, the favorite of a daughter and granddaughter–and if I believed in favorites, she might have been mine. I wait until all the chickens have gone to roost before I lock them against predators. Celie was always the last to roost, and she always roosted close to the gate. If she was on the roost when I arrived to shut them in, she would hop down and come over to the gate. A brief time of personal communion. A couple of nights ago, it was well after dark when I went to secure them for the night. I didn’t notice Celie in her usual place, but remembered she sometimes took up a different position. Dark as it was, I assumed all were on the nest, so I locked them in. Next morning when I went to release them, Celie met me at the back door. I didn’t think there was a way she could have gotten out, and examination proved that to be so. She had roosted somewhere outside. And was safe and sound. I felt good. Maybe the varied predators are gone and I can let all of them roost in the trees, wisteria, and honeysuckle vines. By evening I had forgotten Celie’s night out. Again it was late. It was dark. Again I assumed Celie was in, although I didn’t notice her. The next morning, yesterday, she had been disemboweled on one porch, and all the white meat had been consumed on another bloody porch. There was no joy in Mudville when mighty Casey struck out; there was no joy in our home when Celie–Chicken Little–was struck down. She had been the most sprightly, the most curious, friendliest yet most like a wild fowl. The smallest–chicken little. Quirky. At the top of the pecking order, but did not flaunt it like Sally does. For months when we were without a rooster, she crowed like a rooster. She was a Silver-laced Sebright bantam, one of the few true bantam breeds. She arrived here from the Ideal Hatchery when she was two days old. Somewhere I have pictures of her on top of my head. Now she is gone, and life moves on, but I felt like writing this memorial obituary in honor of the joys she brought into our family–and not a few diminutive eggs.

Pullet Eggs

The younger generation recently has begun to lay a few eggs. Brownie, pictured above, laid her first today: bantam eggs are small, pullet eggs are always small, Brownie’s egg was baby-sized, pale tan, and elongated with a pointed, almost ice-cream cone shape. Her papa could be any of two or three roos. From one of these she got her iridescent black/green color. From her white, fluffy Cochin mother, Princess, she got her downright short legs (of course, Lincoln, commenting on leg length, noted that they need only to be long enough to reach the ground). Our gorgeous young rooster, Joe, her stepbrother, reminds me of Ted Baxter–handsome, colorful, good voice, but a little slow in “getting it.” When kitchen scraps are thrown to the chickens, someone else will steal his chosen tidbit before he can pick it up. But it makes no difference to little Brownie whether he has picked it up or not. Her low-down legs are so fast that–several times a day--she will grab food right out of Joe’s beak as she races by. There are plenty of sharp little ladies around who can make a fool out of a big, good-looking male before he has any idea what has happened, leaving him with a Joe, the rooster, blank look on his face. “Hey, what happened?”

Foghorn Leghorn, the Original

Everyone knows Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam, and Foghorn Leghorn. They think. Now, meet the real foghorn of a chicken. The Ayam Bekisar is a male hybrid between Green Junglefowl (Gallus varius) roosters and domestic bankivoid game hens. Ayam Bekisars were used as the original Foghorn Leghorn by boat cultures who used the vociferous hybrids to literally stay in vocal distance from one another when separated by the frequent tropical squalls that one experiences in these seas. To this day one finds Bekisars in Java and Komodo contentedly perched in their bamboo cages hoisted above the fishing boats crowing or rather roaring their terribly long songs And now you know the rest of the story.

Questionable Blog

When I was first introduced to the world of blogging, I saw it as a promising place for a writer to public his ideas and interests, so with hardly a thought I jumped right in. Jumped in over my head. If I had given it even a little thought, I would have checked the depth of the water before diving in. I would have found that, more important than the depth, I needed to take note of the swiftness of the stream. I found that the blogosphere has a rapidly flowing current. On the other hand, I am slow. I move, write, think, and live in the slow lane. But blogging looked so full of possibilities that, without thinking, I jumped in and started ten or twelve blogs. I have a lot I want to say. Almost immediately I realized that, with such a load, I could not keep my head above water, could not catch my breath, so I eliminated all but about seven. I probably will be forced to change that in some future. Only thoughtless ignorance could have led me to call one of these blogs, “The Daily Chicken,” or “The Weekly Banty Chicken.” As it has worked out, “The Occasional Chicken,” or “The Whenever Bantam,” would be more accurate. Although I am hesitant to, I may eliminate this blog. But not until I post another handful of pictures or stories when I find time. _______________ Meanwhile, the photo at the top is Sally, an Americauna pullet. I ordered a few Americauna chicks last summer, not because they are a good-looking chicken, but because they and the Aricauna are the only breeds of chickens in the world that lay anything other than white or tan-brown eggs; their eggs are blue, blue-green, or green. One of my small joys is gathering Sally’s light blue-green eggs, and, when we have company, showing them a small pretty they have never seen before, and likely will never seen again. If you keep chickens, you might be want to order a few Americaunas from your favorite hatchery.

Owls, Hawks, and Grass

I said it couldn't happen to me. Rules are made for people, not people for rules. When the Happy Hen House Chicken Forum told me I couldn't, I responded, "I will," and fell just short of telling them that I knew better than they. As I posted recently, I know some rules must be obeyed, both for personal survival and well-being, and for social survival and well-being. I try to obey those sorts of rules. I have found, however, that if you understand the purpose of the rules, and the larger setting in which they are applied, you can serve yourself and society better by ignoring the rules, on the basis of more fundamental principles from which the rules are derived. I was told that my chickens would have to be shut up against predators, have clean, fresh water available always, be fed the proper commercial chicken feeds at least twice daily (available always the more common rule), and I forget what all else. I was told that I could either have chickens or grass, chickens or flowers, chickens or garden. If I kept chickens, they would destroy everything green, leaving everything scratched up and turned brown–looking like a chicken yard. Not me, I said to myself. I know better. Well, my chickens have thrived without commercial feed, and without fresh, clean water (a small pool of moss-covered water has served well. But. . . . Notice the grass in the photo. None remains. Well, less than five square feet. I believed I had such a large yard that there would always be places for them to scratch, and for the grass to grow. I have learned better. Notice the golden-penciled brown chicken; an owl got her one night as she roosted on top of a fence, safely covered–I thought–deep in the honeysuckle vines. When I blog, don’t take it for granted that I know what I am talking about. Sometimes I may not. It would be wise to check me out.

Princess

Princess is a Cochin (also called, especially in England, Pekins), a breed that, along with the Brahma was first imported (though not originally from0) from Shanghai. In the 19th and Early 20th centuries, both breeds were often called "Shanghai" chickens. In my mind, the "tall Shanghai rooster" in "Sweet Betsy from Pike," was a Brahma (originally, Brahmaputra). Brahmas are tall, and they stand tall, while Cochins are short and squat--legs almost not seen. The Brahma struts; the Cochin waddles--at least Princess does. As I have written earlier, I deeply regretted losing my three Brahmas, but they were all loud-crowing --and majestic--roosters and had to go. Princess (who lays brown eggs) is our slow one, but when she gets there, nobody bothers her. She is quietly, not aggressively, the head of the pecking order. Sally (the Americauna layer of green eggs) is the aggressive one, always running others away from the feed, but she leaves the little Princess alone. When I toss out bits of kitchen scraps, the others all make a run to see who can get it first, and if they can't, they often take it away from whichever one got it first. Meanwhile, Princess just ambles up and takes her position, waiting for me to throw something her way. She doesn't get involved in the races and chases. Patiently she waits, knowing that I will send some her way. I didn't like her at first, not her color, not her down-to-earth size and shape, not her feathery feet and legs. We got her a year ago yesterday, and across the months she has grown on me. I've had that experience with several people across the years. I could name several that I did not like at all when we first met. They were not my kind of people. I did not like their attitudes, their voice, even sometimes their looks, and sometimes it was like the old limerick: I do not like thee Dr. Fell The reason why I cannot tell But this I know and know quite well I do not like thee Dr. Fell Some of these became, and remain, among my best friends. Sometimes I am a bit hasty in my estimation of people; sometimes I am plain judgmental. Often I am wrong. With people and with chickens. Roark, withhold judgment until you have good ground for making a valid judgment.

Sleeping Outdoors

http://s97.photobucket.com/albums/l212/oldwriter/?action=view&current=Elevenp-1.jpg If I didn't get these chooks into the coop early, they always roosted high in the bushes. I liked this idyllic scene and let them all roost "in the wild" for a couple of weeks--until an owl began taking out one or two a night. That took the romance out of their free, wild, and adventurous life. I was disappointed, but didn't want to lose any more of my banties, so, ever since, I have been keeping them in the chicken coop at night. I think the chickens also were disappointed, and only grudgingly took to the artificial roosts I had fixed for them inside the coop. If I was at all late shutting them in, I had to look in the trees, bushes, and vines to find them. I wanted my chickens to live with as few constraints and restraints as possible because that is how I like to live. Across the years, I have been burned several times because I chose to "color outside the lines," or think "outside the cliched box” and acted on those thoughts. Certain boundaries and regulations are unavoidable if we are to maintain a healthy and stable human society. I know this. I want to be a good citizen. But, like the recalcitrant chickens, I judge some of the rules of social correctness to be inappropriate. I still try to avoid all possible constraints I can. Like the chickens and the owl, I haven’t always gotten away with it. All the same, I’ve managed to become a septuagenarian survivor, and a productive, if not respectable, citizen.

Many Chicken Changes

About four months ago, the doorbell rang. When I answered, the municipal animal control officer was at my door with the question: "Do you have a rooster?" I had five. One of the reasons I got my banties in the first place was so I could hear roosters crowing in my own back yard. Well, a neighbor, who from the time he moved in three years ago, for some reason, has never liked anything about me, called City Hall, claiming that a rooster of mine was keeping him awake all night (not exactly the truth, because, although they crowed a lot, there was none from dusk until about four in the morning. Which, I understand, could be disturbing, but that’s not the same as all night). So, five roos went to our local animal shelter. The same day, I discovered two hens brooding clutches of eggs. About twelve weeks ago, they hatched thirteen chicks, seven of which turned out to be roosters. One is the silver-head in the accompanying photo, taken two days ago. This morning, Silver Head, along with seven others, mostly roosters, went to bring the nourishment and the joy of fried chicken to a family I know. They are living on an inadequate income, and know how to slaughter, dress, and cook chicken. So, I am left with a total of eight bantams. I retained the best-looking young rooster. My reasoning went like this: This is twice the neighbor has called City Hall to complain about me (the first time, about my Native Plant Landscaping). I have no desire to deliberately offend or aggravate him. However, I do want to be able to see a rooster in the backyard, and hear him crow. While I don’t want to annoy the man across the street, neither will I let him rule my life. This time I have only one roo, not a chorus of five, so there should be much less crowing. What I hope is that the fellow will have grown tired of calling City Hall, and will tolerate Rooster Joe (Joseph, because of his coat of many colors [See the accompanying photo.]). If the AC officer comes calling on me again, Joe will have to provide my friends with another small meal of fried chicken. But until the officer shows up, I’m keeping and enjoying Joe. The AC officer is a real nice guy who understands, but must do his duty when a complaint comes in. I understand, and he understands. Please tell me if you think I have a social obligation to the neighborhood to establish a more socially acceptable lawn, and to drop the idea of keeping a rooster.

Mama Was a Colored Easter Egg

I wonder if these two chicks survive? They completely change appearance over the months, and I don't know which these two are. Are they two of the fifteen that were given away, or who were stolen by hawk and owl? Or are they two of the three that remain in my back yard. As of yesterday, I am down to three. Did have eight, but five turned out to be roosters, with only three pullets. Sexual abuse was so severe that something had to be done. Yesterday morning as I was deciding how to delete four of the roosters--all of whom I was much attached to--there came a good solid knocking at the front door. A man in a police uniform asked me if I had a rooster. I looked out at the pickup with a cage in back, and knew that my nine months of rooster joy was over. The fellow was quite congenial. We talked about farm life, swapped war stories, and discussed the nature of the city code. He helped me get them to a family in the country. He told me a neighbor had called in saying he could not sleep for roosters crowing all night. I understood. I knew the officer was only doing what city code required of him. I had known for some months that the wrong person was going to hear The Boss, Shanghai, Prince, Chanticleer, and Dunkle singing harmoniously--not "close harmony"--and I would lose one element of my retirement dream. One of several reasons for getting my chickens was to hear, every day, roosters crowing. Oh well, some of us like chocolate, some like vanilla, and some don't even like ice cream at all. Celie, Sally, and Princess. These three remain. Maybe they are pictured on this posting. Perhaps not. The fact is that their colors are richly varied. Celie is a white-penciled Sebright: white with each feather edged by a slender border of black. She looks like silver lace. Sally wears a coat of many colors, most of which I can't describe: fawn, gold, brown, cream, and on it goes. She is an Americauna and thus will soon begin laying pale green or blue eggs--Easter Eggs. Princess, the little white fluffy Cochin, the sexually abused one who has endured innumerable mountings daily by five different roosters, doesn't add much color. Maybe she is not one of those pictured above. The other two just might be. You never know.

Chanticleer

When I bought the two-day-old chicks last summer, This is what I had in mind: specifically, at least one banty rooster that looked just like Chanticleer, shown here with Anna--will look like when mature. Now, as a very young cockerel, he already is well on the way toward my ideal. The other thing I had in mind was that I was raising chickens merely for aesthetic reasons. I wanted to hear that music again, especially the crowing of roosters. Pure nostalgia. And just to enjoy watching them and being with them, as our youngest grandchild is doing in the picture. I am raising chickens just to enjoy, just for the out-and-out fun of it. Chanticleer is one of the smaller two of these little banties, and, you will not be surprised to learn, that he was the first to fly up and eat on my lap and from my hand. One day as I sat with the flock, cutting up an apple core to portion out to them, this little Ginger Red Old English Game Bantam rooster flew first onto my lap, then atop my head. My kind of fun. A few of us were gathered in Jean and Maxine’s home to eat dinner and visit. When during the course of conversation, I noted that only rarely did I attend ball games or watch television. Dallas Huston instantly asked, "If you don’t go to ball game or watch TV, what do you do for fun?" Now you know. One thing I do for fun is to sit in the back yard with a banty rooster on top of my head. Beats ball games or anything on the vidiot screen, at least for me. To each her own. At least three or four of these birds are cockerels. Now six-months-old, their voices have almost completed the adolescent "change of voice." Among these backyard voices, Chanticleer, the highest tenor, is the most frequent singer of the flock. I like them all; I favor this little fellow.