Death Of A Delicate Flower

I knew it would happen. I just didn't imagine it would happen in THIS way. I made a true effort to rise this morning after Hope had her second feeding. It was 6:30am, and since my quiet time as of late has been out the window in the evenings, the early morning is clearly my only option. I showered. Had my morning coffee with some yummy coffee cake, and read all about Solomon during the peak of his days. Jack and Grace awoke, and we prepared breakfast. After that, I decided to get a jump on the chicken duty while the two littlest girls were still asleep.

With one foot out the back door, I knew there was trouble. Our rooster Silkie, Duke, was out. He was alone. And far from the coop. At a quick far off glance, I saw that the entire coop door was half open. NOT GOOD. With an "Oh, No.", I left Duke and headed toward the coop. It was empty. Not a single chicken. But enough feathers and tufts of feathers, to leave a tall story of what must of happened there last night.

Thankfully, I found alive chickens around the back of the barn. Hiding and clearly upset. At the looks of the coop, I thought for sure I had lost at least a few chickens. The girls were with Ernie, our alpha rooster. And he was not about to follow me into the coop at that time. So I went back out to see Duke, and see if I could coax him into going back to the coop.

Duke, was also very upset. It brought tears to my eyes, as I began to scan the scene, and realized that Daisy, our sweet Silkie girl was gone. Her feathers where everywhere, and made an obvious trail. Something had clearly gotten her. And then I heard him. For the FIRST time. Clear as day. A long sad, crow from Duke. He hasn't crowed until now. He crowed for a good while. Like a sad love song. Daisy was his lady. Since they both couldn't fly or roost, they would snuggle together at night in the corner. He was her rooster. She was his only concern. And now his life long partner was gone.

After questioning the kids, my heart sunk. Despite making the coop more predator proof than Fort Knox, I hadn't factored in human error. The chickens had gotten out of the coop yesterday, and for whatever fears, the children had purposely decided not to tell me. To my own fault, I hadn't checked in on the chickens that evening because I had been at the church. And, when Hope was finally settled at 10:30pm after a very fussy night, peeking in on the chickens was the last thing I wanted to do. Which means that the chickens probably returned to roost for the night, but they were all sitting ducks for something to waltz in and pick a dinner.

There is good news, and that is, that upon further inspection, Daisy is all we lost. We are very, VERY lucky. But we've learned more than one lesson at the expense of the sweetest chicken in the flock. The only chicken who was to be our pet.

Good bye little white Daisy...Why is it that the prettiest flowers are always the quickest to fade?

Free Ranging The Chooks

I was trying to stay away from another chicken post, but after I wasted a blog day and didn't post, I figured what's the harm in using a wasted day and posting a few more chicken pictures in its non-existent place? The girls and roo are getting really plump and fancy. Lately, I've taken my chances since we are not even close to building a chicken tractor, and I've let them soak up the shade and sun ungaurded. It is clear that chickens were never meant to be cooped up, as they all pile up at the door clucking in jubilee and hysterics when they know they are going to get outside time. The barnyard looks much more lively and festive with colorful chickens scratching it up.

Most of the girls have names including: Sandy, Alice, Penny, Ms. Delaware, Ginger, Leopard Head or Fuzzy, Zebra, and Scooter. The Silkies still don't have a name that sticks, but I'm quite fond of naming the female "Daisy" and the rooster "Duke". Our barn cat has a new favorite place to lay out: on top of the screened in ceiling of the chicken coop. She's also unfortunately discovered a new extreme sport, and has been caught on one occasion hunting down giant chickens. Our faithful dog, Hatch, has also been quick to get involved in the X Games scaring the absolute tar out of cats who chase down beloved chickens. The whole crew had us rolling in the dirt in laughter this week.

The silkie chickens are looking more and more each day like their distant cousin Elvis. "Duke" The Rooster is growing his wattles and comb, and starting to play more the part of a man, keeping a strong eye out for anything that resembles a hawk in flight (big birds, helicopters and airplanes). So far, "Duke" is a mute.

"Daisy" is our most delicate flower. She's always the last to get anywhere, more than shy and skittish. This, of course has me worried, as it is clear she would be the first to be nabbed by any lurking danger. Especially when she can barely see through her growing coif of feathers, But she is gorgeous. (If you can say that about a chicken.)

The Chicken Coop de Ville

It would have to be a blazing 100+ degrees on the week that we are to complete the chicken coop and let the girls experience life outside of a TV box. Sheesh. The good news is that the coop is 95% done, and allowed for us to place the "Spice Chicks" safely out in their new Coop de Ville last Sunday. They still don't have a roost, but are using our ladder and some chairs as makeshift roosts. The entrance to the coop is the equivalent of trying to enter solitary confinement at Alcatraz - sporting multiple locks and doors. If anything gets to my girls, it deserves a free meal for brilliance.

The girls are now over six weeks old and, after three days in their new pad, are beginning to feel very much at home. They are enjoying their dirt dust baths in the coop corners and (probably the most entertaining) establishing their pecking order. Chickens have personalities. I never would have believed it myself, but they do. And they are much friendlier than I ever anticipated. Take a seat in a coop chair, and it won't be long before you have visitors landing in your lap and settling in for attention. The only one we really have to keep an eye on is our large Delaware girl (Ms. Delaware, pictured bottom right) who has an uncontrollable fetish for teeth. She can't resist a strong peck at the mouth which has bloodied the mouths of Grace, Jack and myself on a number of occasions. It hurts!


Faith no longer stands back to observe the chickens. Oh no....she's seen her siblings pick them up, and now she bravely does it herself, lifting chickens a few inches off the ground and then releasing them.

The chickens always put a smile on my face when I see them all lined up at the screen door waiting for visitors or for Mama to give them the O.K. to free range a bit around the coop. The satisfaction is setting in that we haven't had a single loss, everyone is gaining weight and feathering out lovely, and the coop is for the most part done. I've also found great pride in our dog Hatch who is doing very well with the chickens, often standing guard a good distance away. His presence alone, makes me more confident that a hawk won't be dropping in for take out when we are around.


We are still working on names, but to date we have Ms. Delaware, Ginger, Zebra, Sandy, and Spice Chick...a wide variety, clearly. We still don't have names for the Silkies who are going "poof" with their white billowy feathers. They are looking terrifically hysterical! Jack often says "Pish-Posh!" to things, so we've thought about naming one "Pish" and one "Posh". Any suggestions for two white puffballs are welcomed.

And now I promise, to spare you all from more chicken posts and move on to...ooooo...hold on.....going through a contraction...other more...pressing...matters.

Souping Up The Chicken Coop

I'm running to catch up on a number of blog posts for this week. This post is all coop baby. Tom Builder is a born natural at many, MANY things, but there is one thing I can always count on...phenomenal construction skills. I realize just how much I think like a girl when it comes to moments like this. And how limited I am spatially.

Tom Builder listened carefully to my list of needed upgrades to convert one of our barn stalls into a predator proof chicken coop, and then headed down to the stall with pen and paper. Thirty minutes later, he was back making final calculations on the amount of lumber needed. It would have taken me a week of obsessing to arrive at that same junction, with many errors close on my tail. And the small ideas I provide Mr. Incredible turn into bigger, much more substantial ideas. More than once this week, you could hear me saying, "I'm getting that? Cool!! I was thinking it would be like this...".

So last weekend, we worked on the coop, and we worked on the coop some more. There was a lot of coopin' going on. For good reason. There is a lot of poopin' going on in the TV box, and my nose can hardly stand it anymore. The girls are over 5 weeks old, and starting to out grow their welcome in the house. In the name of Knucker Hatch spirit, we tried to involve the whole family as much as possible in the building experience.

Jack was all about the guy stuff: measuring, making cuts, handing tools to Dad as needed. If Dad was at the coop, he had to be down there too. Grace was our cheerleader, always giving out a "That looks great!", or "Perfect fit, Dad!". When not handing out complements, she could be found hammering nails into spare wood pieces. Faith, was always quick to alert the family when a stray nail or tool dropped, with her new "Uh, Oh."


Predator proofing was an essential, that has involved rivers of sweat in the sweltering heat, yards and yard of 12 gauge hardware cloth, an additional ceiling, and 1 million staples. The entire stall is being wired in, so that the girls can sleep at night without having to worry about the coons, foxes, dogs, rats and snakes. The only thing we are not wiring is the floor, which has me a little concerned about something deciding to go on a digging spree underneath the floor to get to the chickens. The chicken coop already has a name due to the amount of metal going in, and the caged in feeling it exudes: The Panic Room.

In addition to the ceiling, Tom Builder added an entirely new door to go behind the stall doors so that the girls could enjoy peace and safety with fresh air in the evenings. I have since lined both sides of the door with hardware fabric. We finish up the coop this weekend, and I can hardly wait. I'm excited for the chickens, and I'm happy to have a chicken dust free house again soon. After this, we will begin a new project devoted to chicken raising: The Chicken Tractor.

Uh Rooooo

Wouldn't ja' know, that one of our Silkie chickens, just might turn out to be a rooster. Remember my compromise with the children? Short version: We might have to cull chickens down the road, but we won't cull your Silkie pet chicken. We were supposed to get ONE female Silkie, but the company we ordered from, threw in an extra. (Often a red flag that you've received a free rooster.) However, Silkies are known for being very difficult to sex in the first place. The joke around Silkie circles is you'll know what you have when it either crows or lays an egg.

Two days ago, I noticed something. The combs on my two Silkies were different. Pre-adolescence is starting to set in, which usually reveals itself most noticeably in the combs. We are looking pretty good amongst most of the ladies, with one or two "Hmms". But the Silkie thing was obvious since I had two to compare with each other. I ran my suspicions by the chicken forum that I have been reading daily, and it is looking like we may have a "Roo-fus". A Silkie rooster. Sheesh.

That would be a bump in the road that I hadn't planned on at all.

I guess this is where I get on my knees and pray. Please let Roo-fus be a rooster that shys away from speaking in public. And for everyone's sake, Roo-fus needs to be as good with the children as he is with the ladies. No chicken attacks. Cause it would be really uncool if I had to be a mean deal breaker and cull a Silkie. We wouldn't even want to eat him cause of his black skin and his smaller size.

Guess we better start really loving on that guy to increase our chances of a roo that is more of a lush and less of a He-man. Because right now, he is the loudest in the bunch, and he attacks fingers. Oiy.

Pomp and Feather

This morning we all awoke to a wonderful message left by the post office on our machine. The baby chicks had arrived, and were ready for pick up! That was music to all of our ears. The sooner we could get the baby chicks home, the quicker they could receive their first meal. Two baggies of dry cereal and one bottle later, we hopped into the car to pick up our 10 clients who had flown in from New Jersey.

The baby chicks received as much fanfare from the children as from the post office crew. Everyone had to take a peek into the small white box that housed some very loud peeping chickies. I was thankful to witness that all chickies were alive and accounted for, but it wasn't until we got home and began inspecting closer that Grace announced, "Mom, we have twelve chicks, not ten." Despite my request for no extra chicks (in order avoid the "males for warmth" additions) we had two more chicks. But the news was good, as I realized that one of the extras was another Silkie, reserved for pet chicken status. Quite the bonus considering they cost three times as much as the other chickens.


After inspecting all bottoms for "pasting" and dipping each beak into the sugar water, the Knucker Hatch Twelve expolored a significantly bigger box. I made their first brooder out of an extended Sterilite bin from Walmart. For an hour we watched intently over the crew making sure all were drinking and eating properly, while taking in the musical chorus of peeping. It is a joyful sound. After one more hour, the children were allowed to hold the chicks.

Each visit with each client involved much inspection, nuzzling, and naming.


Below is Jack holding his personal favorite which he decided to name "Gosling". It makes no difference to him that goslings refer to baby ducks. This girl will be Gosling nonetheless. Nobody seems to be going for the grown ups idea of naming the chickens after food with chicken in them. (We still might get our way...how can you NOT name a baby chicken Fajita?)


As of this evening, everyone is doing lovely except our Black Australop who, I confess, was bopped on the head by Faith's hand while I was holding her. I'm not sure what came first, the bop to the noggin or her not feeling the best, but she just doesn't seem to be behaving as lively as the others, and we have a bit of pasting issues beginning, however, I am hopeful that another 24 hours and she'll be feeling better.

I am really thrilled with how much the children have taken to The Knucker Hatch Twelve. It should be a fascinating experience for all of us, and hopefully, a productive one.

Cluck, Cluck, Neigh

I should have been focused on the arrival of our baby chickens in two weeks. And I was to a degree. The makeshift Rubbermaid brooder still needs to be fully assembled, but I'm close. Nothing a pair of tinsnips and a few screws won't take care of. The feed, feeders, heat lamp and shavings are on standby. The only animal I should be losing sleep over right now are chickens. But I'm not. Prepare for a raging rant...

Instead, it's horses. I've mentioned before how we have given the horse boarders (who were boarding their horses with the previous owners residing here in March), the notice that we would not be boarding on the farm. All of them have heeded that notice and the last boarder left two weeks ago. We should have no animals left on the farm right? Nope. Two horses are still left. Five deadlines have been made and broken, by none other than the lousy owner herself.

Not anybody earns the name "lousy" from me. But this lady is down right LOUSY. Never returns a phone call. This week topped it all for me. Follow me carefully: The last boarder to leave (I'll call her Mrs. Sweet), actually was the one who fed Mrs. Lousy's horses for her. Mrs. Lousy has only shown up once in the last three months to see her own horses, and that was because of a deep wound one of her horses had incurred on the farm (lot of blood) and the vet had to work with the horse quite a bit. That's it. ONCE.

So...when Mrs. Sweet left, there was no one to feed the remaining horses. Mrs. Lousy, knew Mrs. Sweet had left. But Mrs. Lousy never came by to feed her own horses. For FOUR days. And for THREE days I called her six times letting her know that I was growing concerned that her horses were not being fed and there was no alfalfa hay available at all. Now, of course, I'm not going to watch horses starve on my own property, so I fed them with the remaining grain and pellets. But she didn't know that. Never once did she call back. Until today.

All of a sudden, she leaves a message on the machine that someone is coming over to look at the horses, and by the way, she was feeding the horses. A bald faced lie. But to be sure, I made sure to be down at the barn when she came by. We chatted for forty minutes after the man decided that he wasn't interested in a sixteen year old flat footed thoroughbred and a spitfire mean miniature stallion for his wife. After some warming up, I apologized for all of my repeated calls that she never answered regarding the welfare of her horses, and then lined up the bait and switch. "We must have been just missing each other. You must have been coming by in the afternoons." (I had been at the house almost constantly all week, but for the last four afternoons we had been on the property outside). "Yes...(her eyes dodged), in the afternoons sometimes and also at night I'd park on the street and walk down to the barn."

Two minutes later, as she walks down to the barn to "feed" the horses, she asks, "So how are we doing on our grain level?" And I watch as she checks the four garbage cans where the horse food is stored. She sifts around, "We still have some senior equine in there, and enough beet pulp..." For a person who has been feeding her horses for the last four days, she sure did a lot of checking, and asked some odd questions. I could tell you with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back how much of everything there was in those bins. My blood was boiling.

So here's the kicker. She moved her other horses off of our property to next door over a month ago, but she doesn't want to pay for the last two to go over there. So we are stuck with two horses, the owner neglects, and who rarely you can get a hold of, because she doesn't want to pay for boarding all of her horses somewhere. And we walk this fine line tight rope of what in the world do we do? We can't charge her boarding fees, because then we become a horse business and insurance must get involved. So she sits here for free. I am a finger dial away from calling a horse rescue place, but then their web site has a blip about how they are looking for more available stall space and has over twenty horses already listed. And I just don't know if we can call them truly abandoned yet.

How do you make someone take their animals off of your property when they weigh hundreds of pounds? It is the most frustrating situation I have ever been in with someone. And we're dealing with an unreachable bluthering idiot who is prone to lie badly. Tom Builder keeps telling me that he is two weeks ahead of me in frustration and anger. He still thinks the best solution is to park the remaining two horses in the parking lot of her town home. If I didn't have a heart, I'd do it.