The Yolks on Us

After I let the chickens out every morning, I change their water and check for eggs. I've gotta say - I had a good laugh this morning...

Not eggs-actly sure who laid that little one

As a matter of fact, it cracked me up. Thinking back, I'm pretty sure the chocolate eggs from the Easter bunny were bigger. And I'm not eggs-aggerating. Ah well, I'm sure it'll still be egg-cellent.

Now I'm going to go listen to some Billy Ray Cyrus. Eggy Breaky Heart.

That's going too far, isn't it?

I'm sorry.

 That's all, yolks.
 

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.

Greetings

A couple weeks ago, I was in the grocery store perusing the greeting card section, searching for a nice card to send Ri's hosts in Québec (a story I have neglected to fill y'all in on, but will; I promise). I found a couple of cards with cute pictures of golden retriever puppies for her new French friends. And then, because I have a thing for greeting cards, I continued looking. Of the thousands that I picked up, one made me laugh. Out loud. Alone. Well, unless you count the woman a few sections down who probably thought I was a nut. I read a few more 'cause that's what I do and then came back to the one that made me laugh. I read it again and guess what. I laughed again. Out loud. Alone. In the grocery store aisle. Well, except for the woman, a few sections down. I left the grocery store, smiling, with two copies of the card.

The other day I was back in the same grocery store. I made a point of steering my cart down the greeting card aisle...and I left, grinning, with another three cards. Because, really, you never know when you'll need to send out a thank you card. Would you like a chicken?

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.

Spring Is Sprunging

But, shhh, let's not say that too loudly for fear of jinxing it.

At work on Monday, I saw, resting in a tree, the first robin of the season. I was on the phone at the time and was so excited that I interrupted the caller (it was just a coworker, so he doesn't really count anyway) and let him in on the sighting. My toes tapped a little happy dance under my desk. We've been hearing the Canada geese this week and saw a large vee of them today. And, thanks to thawing ice, I spotted a colourful mallard swimming happily in open water too. (I could tell by the big smile on his face.)

Warm enough today for sweaters and no mitts

It's March break in these parts, so I'm taking today and tomorrow off and hanging out at home with the chilluns. Ri's off at a friend's place overnight and Paul's at work so it's just the boys and me. And Rosie, of course. The temperatures are becoming more spring-like as we're treated to above zero as much as below, now. You can smell the changing season in the air. Actually, that would be mud. The snow disappeared from over the septic tank a couple weeks ago and the grass is slowly emerging from beneath its winter blanket. (In other words, the grass is riz.) The chickens eagerly stumbled out of the Stanley Coop today to take a look around. They stuck pretty close to home for a good while as there's still lots of snow around but, eventually, they got brave and ventured further. Chicken poop on the porch is proof of that.

"Hey, guys; keep an eye out for that big furry thing while I look for bugs."

Tomorrow we have a load of logs coming. We're going in on it with Paul's brother and sister and, when all is said and done, there'll be three well-stocked houses with a season's worth of firewood. The chainsaws are tuned up, the splitter's ready to go and the hope is that the job'll be done before the blackflies show up. Damn things can drive a sane person mad. And Paul completely around the bend. 

So here's to spring my friends. And to St. Paddy. Hope you had a cold green beer tonight.

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?

Busy As Bees

Dorito and I have a little tradition. Well, it's all of two years old, but you've got to start somewhere. Towards the end of September, there's a really great antique show in Aberfoyle, out near Guelph. It's a bit of a trip but, gosh darn it, I love it. We went yesterday. Ended up not getting anything (well, maybe one thing which I can't talk about because it might be for someone's birthday that could be coming up in October). Dorito, as usual, took lots of pictures, which you can check out here. 

This morning, the boys and I headed into Peterpatch for their second class of this season's swimming lessons. Nolan's in Sunfish and Cammy's in level 3. They're both doing awesome and shouldn't have any problems getting through these levels. All that swimming during the summer paid off. (Ooh, I can hear the coyotes as I type.) And you know what's almost as fun as half-an-hour in the pool? Why, hanging out in the lockers beforehand, of course.

Here's Johnny

I was in need of some caffeine by the time we got home, so I put the coffee on. Once the pot was made, and my cup full, I went outside and cleaned out Lord Stanley's Coop. All the wood shavings and, therefore, chicken poop, were shoveled into the dumpcart and taken to the back garden where Paul was cleaning up for the winter. With help from Nolan, my little farmer boy, the ladies will be hunkering down tonight with fresh bedding and an oh-so clean coop.

The Stanley Coop all polished up.

Hey Chicks!

Paul went into town Tuesday and picked up 40 little, furry, yellow, day-old chicks at the Co-op. We're late getting them this year but there's still lots of time to grow them out before the snow flies. (If the snow did start to fly before they were ready, well, that would just be cruel...to us as much as them.) They're all set up in the brooder in the garage and Paul has raccoon-proofed as much as he can. Once they feather out, in about three weeks, they'll move out back where they can feast on all those tasty bugs and such. And, come October, we'll restock our freezer with Sunday dinners. Life is good.

Awwww...good thing they don't stay this cute.

The Henhouse

There was a surprise waiting on the front porch when I got home today. Enos is something of a woodworker and Paul had asked him awhile back to make a little something for the chicken coop.

There's a fair likeness, don't you think? As an old coworker of mine used to say, who has more fun than people?

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!

Nah, I'm not really hoping for snow, just yet. But, I was thinking that if I sing winter songs then maybe I can fool my body into believing that it's not 40 degrees outside. Holy crap, it's stifling out there. We've been in the midst of a heatwave for several days now and, I for one, am ready to move on. Yes, I know. We whined last summer that it was cold. And rainy. And we whined two years ago that it was cool. And rainy. I get it. However, this is nuts. According to the forecast, one more day of this hot, humid, sticky weather and we cool down...for a few days. Then I'll sing more seasonal songs.

Cammy's enjoying his lacrosse camp. This year he knows a few people in it and he's more confident. He's talking about playing house league next year. (Mental note for mum: don't forget to sign him up.) Yesterday, I wandered over to the Mem. Centre to watch the end of day scrimmage before home-time and found brother Enos taking in the play. Cammy was pretty proud that someone other than his ole Ma had come by to see him. Enos even got a wave. Guess I can't complain too much, though. I do get a nice little hug every morning before he heads out into the bowl.

Chickens are doing great. In the few days that we've had them, the four ladies have given us a dozen and a half eggs. One of the Rhode Island Reds has held out a time or two, but makes up for it the following day with a whopper. They spend some of their time under the front porch where it's shady and sandy. I can just imagine the dust baths going on there. Wonder if they make sand castles to pass the time? Each day they explore a little further from their coop, enjoying a veritable smorgasbord of tasty bugs. Gives new meaning to the 100 mile diet, really. The two leghorns, Phanny & Bobbie-Oar, head in each evening on their own accord and take up their defensive positions on the roost while Crosby & player-to-be-named-later have to be coaxed inside. So far, we're winning.

* sings *

"...when it snows, ain't it thrilling; though your nose gets a chilling; we'll frolic and play, the Eskimo way; walking in a winter wonderland..."
    

Chicken à la leonard

Paul went in to work late this morning as it was processing day for the chickens. He was up at his usual 4:30 and, sadly for me, I followed around 5:30. My hope is that I'm not up at this ungodly hour again until the next chicken processing day...a year from now. A girl's gotta get her sleep.

Anyhoo, I threw on a pair of shorts and a tshirt, my stylish red Lindsay dinner jacket and crocs and found my way through the darkness to help Paul gather the darlings up and crate them. My job's easy - I open and close the lids and make sure that they don't get out. Paul does the real work - getting at them (the tractors are only about three feet high), scooping them up, hanging on to them as panic sets in (for the chickens, not Paul) and placing them in the crates. It didn't take long and all were tucked safely into the bed of the truck. Paul drove up the fenceline as I walked ahead making sure that the truck would make it between the enchanted forest and the fence. Once back on the driveway, we went in the house, washed up and then Paul took them to the processor in Omemee.

Tonight Paul and the kids picked them up, delivered some to the neighbours and we squeezed the rest into our freezer. I see a lovely chicken dinner in our immediate future.

It was too dark for a picture of the feathered darlings
so I took this just before the sun came up. Beautiful.
Hopefully I won't see it again real soon.

The Ladies

The ladies are just about four weeks old, fully feathered and living outside. They've got their grass, some tasty bugs, and the sunshine - except for when it rains. They're not the sharpest knives in the drawer and chicken feet have to be among the ugliest feet going. Ugh. But these creatures have their place and I like to think that they're just a little happy where they are for the short time that they're here.

The Local Peep Show

Forty-two day old chicks took up residence in the brooder in our garage today. They're awfully cute and the kids are in love. In a couple of months they won't be so cute but they will be awfully tasty. The chickens, that is.

This year we're going with all females. The White Rock Cross, and males in particular, have been bred to grow fast. Our thought is that females won't grow quite as quickly and hopefully we can cut out any heart and leg problems. In the end, we'll keep them a couple of weeks longer than normal to give them more time to grow but they should be less stressed. The timing is just about right, too. We're down to just three from last year's batch and, come September, we'll put another twenty in the freezer and deliver the rest to neighbours who've placed orders. Kind of neat to be on the other side of local food!

Peep Peep Peep

Henny Penny

Look at this honey of a chicken coop! Built on a wagon, it would be easy to move and two or three laying hens would be awfully comfy cozy in there. Oh, can't you just smell the eggs frying?

(Dorito - how was that for short and sweet?)

~Liz


Picture from this site.