Here There Be Dragons...er, Chickens, Which Are Really Better Anyway

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted a large brood of animals. Not like a "Confessions: Animal Hoarding" brood, mind you - I have a remarkably clear memory of visiting a family friend as a teenager, and though she was a delightful woman, her cats were her life, and the house was literally coated in cat hair. The kitchen, the beds, the freaking toilet paper. To add to the fun, the whole place smelled like rotting 9 Lives and cat pee, mixed with potpourri. I still itch just thinking about it, almost 30 years later. And now I'll bet you're feeling a little itchy yourselves! Sorry.

Anyway, when we arrived at The Farm, we brought our two cats, Little Bit (aka Crabby Bits), who is our tiger tabby, my fierce little girl, who bites to show love; and Milly (Thoroughly Modern Milly, or Millicent), a gorgeous black, white, and grey princess with the most beautiful topaz eyes, and a silky coat that she meticulously grooms. Both are rescues, each is crazy in her own unique way, and yes, we flew them cross-country. Ohana means family, and family means nobody gets left behind, after all. Shortly after moving in, two more cats just sort of showed up. Smoky (or Edward, depending on who you ask) is an elder gentleman, prone to digestive upsets and scrounging in the trash, but so eager for love and a soft bed that it's impossible to turn him away.

Gizmo was obviously dumped here; she was thin, matted, dirty, and terrified of her own shadow at first. She ran in one cold morning and never left. It took months of coaxing to get her to trust me, but eventually, time and treats won her over. She's now a plump, shiny, black sausage, content to spend her days napping in sunny spots or at my feet, meowing in the tiniest little voice when she feels underfed, which is whenever she's awake, generally. At that point, poor Mr. Rogers cut me off. I believe he sensed that my inner Crazy Cat Lady was trying to take over, so no more cats for us. I would need to expand my brood outdoors.

Chickens were the natural choice for me, as I have always adored them. Back in Sin City, long before I ever dreamed I'd ever end up on a real, live farm, I found My Pet Chicken, and I would spend an embarrassing amount of time there, poring over various chicken breeds and wishing mightily for my own little flock. I even had the perfect name for my first little clucker - Henrietta, based affectionately on a joke my husband and I shared. Namely, that I would make a SyFy Channel movie about chickens seeking vengeance for their KFC-ed brethren, called "Henrietta's Revenge!" Okay, I guess you had to be there. The point is, my chicken obsession ran deep. I had chicken curtains, little wooden chickens, cloth chickens, chicken mugs...you name it.

Anyway, fast forward to this spring. We had saved enough to buy a very nice, locally manufactured coop; although there are plenty of buildings on The Farm, I wanted something that was mine. Mr. Rogers astutely reminded me that we were in the middle of farm country, so I should probably start out ordering a few hardy, docile girls from the local feed store before I laid out serious cash for shipping and rare heritage breeds. I reluctantly agreed, thinking I would get 3 or 4 chicks.

Little did I know that chicken math begins as soon as you get to the store. Well, they had a special, right? So it didn't make sense to order FOUR chicks when I could get TEN, plus feed, a feeder, waterer, and a bale of shavings for a few dollars less than buying everything separately. It was all in the interests of economy, I said, which would have sounded very responsible and pragmatic, if I hadn't been clutching the flyer showing available chick breeds like it was a letter from Santa Claus, and making little squealing sounds every time I saw a breed I had researched before. Then I spent half an hour at the counter trying to decide how to split up the breeds within my ten chicks, quizzing everyone in the store who came near me about what they had. At last, I selected 4 Buff Orpingtons, 3 Barred Rocks, and 3 Easter Eggers. I think the feed store owner had to go lie down when I left.

I was too excited to take good pictures, so here are seven vaguely chick-shaped blobs. 

I spent the spring moping about my empty coop, setting up my brooder in the basement, and stalking The Chicken Chick on Facebook and her blog. I learned what to put in my chicken first aid kit, how to tell normal poop from sick-chicken-poop, the safest chick brooder to use, and more. FINALLY, the warm May day arrived that I was to pick up my babies! 

OMG SHE'S SO FLUFFY!

Unfortunately, I could only go home with seven, because the hatchery had not had good luck with Easter Eggers. They would come later. However, to say that I was thrilled with my 7 downy poultry infants would really be an injustice to my behavior. I was the uiltimate Mother Hen. I hand-fed them. I sang to them. I snuggled them in my shirt. I already knew one girl would be Henrietta, and a take-no-prisoners Barred Rock chick seemed to fit the bill. She naturally became the head hen. Three girls got names from "Chicken Run", a perennial favorite around here: Ginger (the sassy, clever one), Babs (the plump little goofball), & Edwina (while poor Edwina met her demise in the movie off-screen, I loved the name, and my son would roar with laughter every time I asked him, "Is Edwina on holiday?" in my best Babs voice), and the others got names that just seemed to suit: Agatha (the biggest chick, but very placid), Bess (the tiniest girl, who would snuggle all the time), and Poppy (so haughty..and naughty).

My adventures in chicken keeping were finally underway! Stay tuned for more later this week, as the Seven Grow Up and Three Come Home!

Henrietta, age 2 weeks. She never would let me snuggle her. Still won't, the little booger. Top left corner, Poppy. Agatha is next to Henrietta on the right, with Ginger on the left, and Bess's head appearing as a fluffy lump.