It’s become something of a morning ritual around these parts. I used to kennel dogs, turn on my heel, and run out the door headlong into my day of rush and drama. No longer is that a possibility. These days there are a flock of Ladies that need me. Ever so briefly. My mornings are punctuated with a little of this.
The new ladies aren’t really ladies. They are girls. The B Squad. Beyonce, Belinda, and Britney. They are girls because they are smaller, younger and not yet producing eggs like the Ladies I am oh-so proud of. This diminished stature makes them the B Squad to the Ladies. For me, it makes for a little bit of a headache.
When we got our chicken surprise, I knew flock integration was not without it’s concerns. Chickens have a pecking order (Ha! No, really.) And can be quite nasty when imposing that on smaller counterparts. This is advanced chicken wrangling. For reference, I was formerly operating at novice level. Read more
Not the kind you eat. The kind that lives in your backyard, and complicates your life (further!).
Meet The Ladies Part Deux. Surprised? Yeah, me too. These girls were in a bad way. Read more
At 4 and a 1/2-ish months, we’ve settled into life with backyard chickens. You think it’s something like this.
Me and the Joanie Chicken. Early mornings, cooing and coddling at the Ladies, collecting imaginary eggs, and gently scooping them into their fresh air tractor. Tralalala. Urban Homestead pastoral.
Really it’s more like this. Read more
The Ladies are getting big. And they’ve had a rough week.
Let’s start with the size issue. That’s nice and straight forward.
Bigger. They get bigger. The Cherie Chicken, in all her copper-y feathered glory, still not full size, still without her proper adult head gear (combs and waddles haven’t grown in yet). Nonetheless getting to be quite a big chicken. Read more
No Chickens have been harmed in the making of this Urban Homestead. Much to Rocco’s chagrin, as I’ve mentioned. We’ve had many long talks on the topic. I’m guessing such conversations will continue for some time.
The Ladies are oblivious to the shadow of the clear and present danger they reside beneath. Danger not limited to the canine variety. Unfortunately, although I’ve named my girls and raised them from wee chickety-chicks, I don’t believe they are pets.
Go ahead. Call me a hard-hearted-harbinger. I’ll deal. I’ve given this a lot of thought over the past few months. I did not expect to feel this way. I did not intend to feel this way. I wanted to love my Chicken Girls like I love The Pack. Only, they would be The Flock. Equally dear, if not snuggling with us on the couch.
Then Suzie happened. Read more
Actually, week nine. I’m a little derelict in my documentation duties. But, who’s counting?! Because we have pullets! Erm, I think we do. The definition of pullet is a little vague. It’s a “female chicken under one year old”. When does that start? When they lay their first egg? Well, we ain’t there yet (unfortunately). Or when they are juvenile delinquents? In which case, we are in! Pullets, I declare!
Here’s our Cherie Chicken, 50% +/- grown up.
She requires two hands to hold now, as opposed to just one.
The Ladies moved outside this week. This event has been a long time coming. Longer than the six (almost seven!) weeks the girls have been with us. When our birds were still fertilized eggs, perhaps even before, we were planning their coop.
Our house came equipped with an ancient garden shed. Built when the house was built, that is in the fifties, not used for much other than outside riff raff and a population of rather large, but innocuous (so I’m told) spiders.
Garden shed reborn.
In which they become strikingly similar to real chickens and move out of my damn house!
That’s right girls are moving on up! And more importantly out! They’ve feathers of their own, no longer needing supplementary heat. They are ready for their very own digs.
See for yourself. Our girl Cherie at six weeks.
I like how she matches the hardwoods. Its Rhode Island Red Camouflage.