Rockstar

Every evening, I go out to lock the birds up for the night. As we have had coyote and fox sightings in the area this year, I figure the best way to keep our free-ranging chickens as safe as possible is to put them up in the coop early in the evening and not let them out until late morning. That way, during the prime hunting times of dusk and dawn, the chickens won't be available for the taking.

Sometimes, when I walk out to the coop after supper, the chickens see me heading that way, and crowd around me like an entourage. I ignore the fact that they really aren't running alongside me just for food and pretend instead that I am some one very important. They all adore me and are more than willing to fly in front of that bullet if need be.

Other times, the chickens are out of sight. they may be taking refuge in the shade of the deck or bathing in the dust behind the trailer, and don't realize it is feeding (and bed) time. The benefit of not having my entourage is that I can walk without the fear of feathered trip-hazards. Once I am at the coop, I ring the Funny-Farm-Chicken-Dinner-Bell. We keep the scratch in a 20 gallon metal trash can right outside the coop. When I bang the lid on the top of the trash can, it makes a lovely clanging sound. All it take is a clang or two, and the chickens come running from all over the farm. A scoop of scratch through into the run, and the chickens file inside. Then I lock the doors and head back to the house.

There are always a few chickens that don't make it into the big coop at night. Our gray rooster, Slick, knows better than to get into an enclosed space with the big, ruddy alpha-roo. Most nights, Pecker and a black hen or two decide to stick by Slick and roost in the stable. One black hen is currently sitting on a clutch of eggs, so I don't expect her to show. The one chicken I never expect to see is Rockstar.

Rockstar is my one of my favorite chickens. If it weren't for the fact that Isadora has (undeservedly) won my heart with her bouncy, white Afro and screechy brashness, Rockstar would take the cake. Like polar opposites, these two are. You always know when Isadora is near- her voice is like nails on a chalkboard; Rockstar might well be mute for all I know. Isadora boldly roams all over the farm like a queen; Rockstar is a little homebody, never wandering more than 50 feet away from the stable, always sticking close to the house.

And because of that, Rockstar is the last hen I would expect to get nabbed by a predator.

A few nights ago, I had locked the birds up and collected eggs from the big coop. All but Rockstar and the sitting black hen had come that night. And so I walked over to the stable to check the other nesting box for eggs and make sure the black hen and Rockstar were alright. The black hen was settled onto her nest in the stable, but oddly, Rockstar was missing.  She wasn't up in the rafters yet. I didn't see her in the stable pen. I called her name, and went to check under the deck. No Rockstar. I went searching all over, looking in the bushes and around the trailer, and in all the hiding spots I could think of. Not finding her, I circled out into the pastures where I expected to find a clump of feathers, proof of her demise. But there was nothing.

Trudging back to the house as dusk settled in that night, I felt hopeless. "Hang it all," I thought to myself. "If this is how it's going to be, let's just off the rest of them and be done with it." Sometimes it seems we can only take so much heartbreak.

The next morning, I went to the stable to get some fresh water for the sitting hen. Lo and behold, there was Rockstar, looking at me through the stable pen's gate, waiting patiently to be let out. And all was right with the world.

Kitchen Failure

I didn't think it was possible to ruin homemade pizza, but I managed to do it the other day. I had been busy all week with Stuff, and I hadn't been feeding my family very well. Granted, the day I bought the rotisserie chicken from the grocery store wasn't bad. We actually had vegetables and a good protein, though the pearled couscous I accidentally bought was not a hit.

So when I thought about making pizza two days later, I was rather proud of myself. Chris and the girls love my pizza. Joe? He will just have to deal with it. In between the phone calls and my mind being elsewhere, I whipped up some dough and left it to rise. Two hours later, when I rolled out the dough and started topping the pizzas, I realized I didn't have as much pizza cheese as I thought I had. No matter. A bit of cheddar will do. No black olives were in the pantry, though. How is it that on the days I'm not wanting them, there are five cans of olives instead of beans or corn, but today there are none?

A half hour later, and the pizzas came out of the oven. I sat down to eat, mentally patting myself on the back. And then I took a bite.

Who knew a little missing salt and olive oil could totally ruin a meal?

Daisy, the (not-so-brilliant) Escape Dog

When Finley went outside this morning, she discovered Daisy hanging out on the front porch. She must not have been out of her yard too long. Chris had been out that way just a few minutes before.

She had gotten away from us twice a few weeks ago, spending a good 15 minutes or more running all over God's green earth before we got her back into 'captivity'. 

This time, I guess she didn't feel like really running away. I got the leash, went out onto the porch, and she walked right up to me and let me put it on. We walked around for a minute before I led her back to her yard. 

"Where'd you get out, Daisy?" I asked her. I knew she had been spending a lot of time under the tree in the back corner, so we trotted back that way. As soon as I ducked my head under the branches of the tree, she nosed the spot in the fence she had squeezed through.

"Thank you, Daisy," I praised her and gave her a good scratch. Then I let her off the leash, and placed a little piece of wood and cinder block that happened to be nearby over the hole. 

What a good dog.

A Hike at Henry Horton State Park

We all have been getting too much screen time lately, so this morning I decided it was time we went for a little hike. The kids had gone to Junior Ranger Camp at the park last month, and were excited to tell me the history of the area they had learned. As soon as we got out of the van, Joe ran ahead, pointing out the different remains of Wilhoite Mill and an old cabin.

The trail started off along the river, then turned along an adjoining creek. My pictures, taken with my lousy little iPhone camera, don't do the place justice.

"Look! A pig nose!" - Z

And to think this is only four miles from our house.

Report For the End of June

It's the end of June, and things are slowing down. That is, if you consider a drop from 120 mph to 117 a significant slow-down.

Finley was at camp all last week, and it was a bit more peaceful around here with only a third of the normal sibling conflicts.

There is a coyote in the area, snatching some of our chickens. Sometimes I don't mind when a predator gets one of our chickens, especially if it is a chicken that doesn't understand the concept of personal space. But one of the birds the coyote got was the mama hen that was raising four chicks. Hot dogs and liver have failed to entice the beast into our live trap. I am working on a plan to raise the height of the chicken yard fence in an attempt to keep the birds somewhere safe.

I noticed one of our favorite chickens had a freakishly massive lump at the base of her neck, and when it didn't go away after 2 days, decided she must have an impacted crop. The food (or a foreign object) gets jammed on the way to the stomach, and it just keeps building up until the chicken starts to die. Thankfully, my brother had dealt with this before, and a day with her locked up with only olive-oil-soaked bread to eat took care of the problem.

I managed to throw some plants I bought on discount from the Co-op into the garden yesterday. I've had them for the past week, but the unplanted part of the garden had grown some major weeds. As I was pulling up the big ones before tilling the rest under, I thought to myself, "I'm not a real gardener. I just play one in real life." I am wondering if it is too late to start some winter squash. If there was anything I missed this last winter, it was having some on hand to make soup whenever I wanted.

Japanese beetles and the big, green June bugs are out, now. Half of the leaves on my cherry trees have been turned into lace, so yesterday, (thanks to my mom) I got them sprayed with neem oil. Those big green beetles aren't as destructive as the Japanese beetles, and it is always fun to watch the chickens try to chase them down. I just don't appreciate when they fly willy-nilly right into my face.

While bush-hogging last week, I noticed a turkey sitting on some eggs in the tall grass. In past years, I accidently mow to close to her nest, and within a few days, I go back to find she has been routed out by a predator and her eggs eaten. I am hoping I left enough cover for her this time. I think I'll wander down and see if she's still there before I tackle the next job on my never-ending list...