That's Some April Fool's Joke

Why is it, no matter what the topic, Mother Nature always wins? The gals of the Stanley Coop did not appear impressed this morning. Come to think of it, neither was I...

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"Now where do we go?"

And then they started chanting, "5 degrees, 5 degrees..."

They're under the coop now plotting their revenge. Oh, and Nolan's wearing shorts today.

There's A New Sheriff In Town And His Name Is Liz

There was a time in this little backward kingdom that chickens roamed free. Free from repression, prison bars, shackles...and golden retrievers. The warmer seasons were spent foraging in the lush green grass and hanging out on the porch. Winter came and the poultry retired to the coop, enjoying slightly mushy apples in the comfort of their cozy little home. The season was long and cold with a fair bit of snow, but eventually spring came, the snow melted and the hens were free to roam again in their little backward kingdom. Yet something was different. There was a horrible beast about. A muddy, red four-legged creature who sometimes answered to 'Rosie' but more likely to 'ball' or 'bickie'. She ruled the roost with an iron paw and the chickens were not happy. One by one, over a few weeks, they disappeared. Until there were none.

That was when I named myself Sheriff and took back the kingdom. First, we got our hands on some electric netting, not so much to keep birds in, as to keep dogs out. Deputy Paul and I set it up yesterday.

Note it also keeps juvenile delinquents where you can see them

Then, while my deputy was in town with the court reporter (Ri went to the movie with her friend Julie), I whitewashed the coop, in preparation of the new arrivals.

A fresh coat of whitewash and she's just about ready

And today after work, Deputy Paul picked up our four new charges at the Co-op. They'll spend the first day or so inside the coop getting used to their new surroundings. Tomorrow we're going to clip their wings so they can't fly over (you really can find instructions for anything on the internet...with video to boot) and into the waiting paws of the outlaw, Rosie Wagshertail.

Betcha can't wait to hear their names! Poor girls.

Cooped Up

The snow's all but disappeared so the ladies of the NHLPA decided to venture out today. A girl can only be 'cooped up' for so long. Ya. That wasn't funny. Anyhoo, we're back below zero and it looks like it's gonna stay that way for awhile which is just fine by me. If it's gonna be winter, it might as well be south of zero with a chance of snow than grey and dingy with a chance of rain.

Bobbie Oar cleaning up after the chickadees

Crosby Joins The WHA

We've been enjoying rather balmy weather for this time of year - up to about ten degrees when we awoke Tuesday morning. By Tuesday evening, it was feeling more like November as the wind picked up and the cold air nipped as it barrelled through.

Nolan and I arrived home to find Paul crouched in the open door of Lord Stanley's Coop, plugging in the thermostatically-controlled waterer (seriously) so the chickens wouldn't hurt their poor wee beaks when they took a drink. Ice cubes are one thing; frozen solid is quite another. Once it was set, he closed up the man-door in the Coop and headed in. Moments later, one of the feathered creatures hopped up the ramp and indulged in a little dinner. I looked in the window and she was the only bird inside. Odd. Piggy's usually the last of the girls to head in and there was no sign of the three winged members of the NHLPA. "Crap," I thought. "The union's walking out again 'cause I haven't lived up to my end of the contract. Damn birds want their knitted scarves. Crap."

Darkness had set in by this time, so we all grabbed flashlights and split up - Ri and Paul heading into the woods to the north and the boys and I traipsing through the brush to the west. "Phanny? Bobbie?" we called out. "Crosby? Come on chickie chicks." They were nowhere to be found. After wandering about for a good while, shining light up into the whispering trees in search of a possible roosting spot, we reluctantly called it a night and went inside to thaw. Piggy would have to spend the night in the Coop alone. The Poultry Association would have to survive the night in the woods.

Wednesday morning, I opened my shutters and looked out on the Stanley Coop. There was Phanny frantically searching for a way inside. Cameron dashed out to open up their door and Phanny scurried up into the nestbox. A short while later, a warm white egg lay in the wood shavings. Phanny was no longer in a flap but the whereabouts of Bobbie and Crosby was still unknown.

At some point during the day, Bobbie Oar rejoined the membership. There's still no sign of Crosby. She always thought we were bush league anyway. You could tell. Paul figures she negotiated a better contract with the WHA (Wayward Hens Alliance). That's the story we're going with, anyway. The alternative isn't as nice.
 

Nifty Hen Layers Poultry Assoc. (NHLPA) in warmer days

An Open Letter To Bobbie Oar

October 26, 2010

Dearest Bobbie,

Bobbie, dear sweet Bobbie. Please, will you ever forgive me? I have misjudged you terribly and for this, I am deeply sorry. I was Paul was wrong. You and your feathered kin are not a bunch of low-down, good-fer-nuthin' birds despite what he said. Okay, okay. I said it too. You have to understand, though, dear sweet Bobbie; there had been no white eggs for a couple days and I thought you were sandbagging. Again. The contract that we negotiated mere days ago stated that you and the Poultry Association would continue to provide those beautiful protein-rich eggs that we have come to love. We've missed them, Bobbie, and I couldn't bare the notion of going without, anymore. I thought, "I'm gonna fix your little red wagon...or whatever you poultry-types use for transportation." Maybe I shouldn't have done it, Bobbie. I shouldn't have posted 'the sign' above your roost. I know that now.

It was kind of funny. No, of course, you're right. It wasn't. Wasn't funny at all. I'm not smiling. But, you'd reneged on our deal, Bobbie. You and the PA. Reneged. It wasn't right, Bobbie. Not right at all. I returned to the house, empty-handed and forlorn. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it. The stash.

Twenty three eggs of varying degrees of freshness, tucked away in a corner of the porch in a long-forgotten planter. What the hell were you thinking, Bobbie? You and the PA. It took me awhile to process the scene. They were...eggs. In a pot. Twenty three of them. I smiled. You had kept up your end of the bargain, after all. Dear, sweet Bobbie. 'The sign' will come down in the morning.

Sincerely,
Management

Negotiations Are On-Going

The chickens and I are in the midst of negotiations. Pretty sure it was last week's lettuce-offering that brought them back to the table. So to speak. By Tuesday, Bobbie Oar had been elected Union Steward by her sisters and, I'll admit, has done a masterful job bargaining on behalf of the PA. She's tough. But fair. We've agreed to thrice-weekly treats of apples, lettuce or whatever poultry-loving goodies we have around and I'm to allow dust baths in the front garden between the hours of 11am and 4pm EST, Tuesday through Saturday. When they dig chicken-belly-size holes, I am to avert my gaze and allow it. Or join in. The choice is mine. In exchange, Bobbie is now giving us an egg every day. And just to show that she really is bargaining in good faith, she's made a nest out of some stray leaves and corn broom bristles and lays the egg right next to the front door. Crosby and Piggy continue to deliver while Phanny is losing more feathers everyday. I am to provide a scarf. At least, I think that's what the contract says. Chicken scratch, you know.   

Bobbie and Crosby in time-out as they did not live up to the contract this day.

The Chicken Union is On Strike

Phanny and Bobbie Oar went on strike a couple weeks ago. Haven't seen a white egg in October. Crosby joined the strike for a few days but has since crossed the picket line and gone back to work. Piggy still lays mombo-sized eggs pretty much daily. Phanny, Bobbie and Crosby are named for hockey players while Piggy is not. (You may have figured that one out on your own.) Hockey players are members of the NHLPA (National Hockey League Players Association). Union. Now I'm not against unions; far from it, as a matter of fact. They have their place in society - like, oh, the creation of the middle class - but I would just like to point out that our little NHLPA (Nifty Hen Layers Poultry Association) has not so much as presented us with a demand. How do we negotiate? What are they striking for? Better bugs? Daily apples? More daylight? Ohhhhh. 

Members of the NHLPA and Piggy

Yesterday, Paul was in town and, after getting the flat tire fixed (oops) he went to Cdn. Tire and picked up a light for the Stanley Coop. After mounting it near the rafters, he set it on a timer so the ladies will have their 14 hours of daylight and maybe, just maybe, the PA will get back to work. I miss the checkerboard look in the egg cartons. And the neighbours miss the free eggs.

Ah, not so fast. This morning, the coop is littered with white feathers. The union is molting. Apparently, the union boss hadn't noticed that we've hit below the zero mark at night and winter's on its way. Maybe their next demand will be for a toque and long johns. I'll be sure to get pictures.   

Pillow stuffing?