Feathering out

The girls are starting to get their real feathers.



















I had to move them from the brooder box to an old galvanized horse waterer (which makes a marvelous brooder by the way).



















We're still finishing closing in the coop, so I'm grateful for the tall sides of the waterer, because they're definitely launching themselves into the air.

Sadly, Mr. Peepers didn't make it. But the remaining 16 seem quite healthy.
To get them used to me picking them up, I've been periodically scooping one out and having it sit with me. Typically they just fall asleep in my hand, which is just a little bit too adorable. Yesterday, though, I had a hungry one that pecked at my freckles and strands of hair. So I scooped up a small ant and offered it to the chick. Peck! And it's gone. As were the next three ants I caught for it.
Good chick.

I've also found a local source for organic chick starter: the co-op in Arnott reportedly has organic feed. I'll be making the trip soon, judging by the way that they're going through the feed. Nice to know that I can feed the birds quality meals. I'll have to check and see if they have rabbit food, too.
What was that? Did you see it?
That, friends, was my next harebrained scheme (pardon the pun), making its first e-appearance.

Sotto Voce

8:30 a.m.
The chicks are here and settled.
At 6:00 this morning I got up, turned on the heat lamp in their brooder, filled their waterers. Then I emptied and refilled their waterers with vitamin-enhanced water to help them recover from the shock of their trip, put a handful of food on a paper towel in the brooder box, and started water to boil for coffee. Then Dogg and I got in the truck and drove to the back door of the post office. As directed, I went right past all the "authorized personel only" signs and buzzed the doorbell. There, right inside the door, was a small peeping box. A young postman hovered solicitously over the package. Together we opened it and inspected the birds -- all alive!
I tucked the box under my sweater to protect them from the light drizzle and Dogg and I brought them home.

As I pulled each one from the box, I dipped its beak briefly into the water and waited until I saw that it was drinking. Counting, dipping... 17 chicks. One extra in case they didn't all make it.

And, in fact, one of them was looking kind of dodgy. At first they all seemed the same, but it didn't take long at all to see that one wasn't nearly as animated as the rest. While most of the chicks were busily drinking, eating, pooping and skittering about the brooder... this little chick was weaving and bobbing, with eyes nearly closed. Tired? Cold? Sick?

I secured the doors and went inside to consult the books. The nursery's instruction sheet suggested warm water (98F.) with sugar (1-2 T. per quart). So I refilled one of the waterers and dipped again. This time the chick stayed at the waterer and drank her fill. She even ate some food, then went back under the brooder lamp. She looks much better now, and I have hope for her.

On the other extreme is "Ralph." I know I said I wasn't going to name them, but this one exhibits such obvious leadership abilities that I couldn't help it. Ralph, the citizen advocate of chickens. She even stands a bit taller than the rest of the birds. It's not that she's bigger, she just stands more erectly. All along I've secretly allowed myself the possibility that one might have to be a pet. It makes the utilitarian aspect of this a lot more manageable for me.
I don't know if Ralph will be the one but, if she is, this is how it will start.

Lesson number 1

The first snafu.
And the first lesson.
Lesson One: Always read the invoices from the hatchery very carefully.

As you might have noticed, I've been eagerly anticipating the arrival of our chicks. I've been kind of a pain about it, actually. I tell completely strangers that I've ordered chickens and that they're coming this week. I've started to notice the glazing over in my friends' eyes when I start talking about the chicks, again. I've been trying to settle down about it, really, but with very limited success.

I've spent every weekend since I ordered them readying the pen. Yesterday I finished building the brooder box, I filled it with soft pine shavings to the depth of four inches, and I arranged the feeders and waterers (which I'd carefully sanitized). I swept the floor, swiped out cobwebs, made a final list of needed goods, and read thru the chapters in my books for the general care of our new neighbors.

What I should have been doing was re-reading my invoice.

This morning, thinking that it would be devastating if I'd misread the ship date, I double checked the final invoice from the hatchery and yes, I was right, they were shipping today.
Then I scrolled down and realized that what they were intending to ship were 16 Gold Duckwinged Phoenix.

















Now I'm sure that the duckwinged phoenix are very nice birds. But they're a high maintenance bird that's ordered primarily for showing. They're something that chicken fanciers get.
I want a meat and egg bird. A friendly, low-maintenance, working bird.
Additionally, they were sending a "straight run" which meant hens and roosters. Roosters aren't a good idea in my neighborhood.

So, oh no!, they've just sent me sixteen birds that I don't want. What's going to happen to them? I can't really return them. They'd never survive the trip. I can't break their little necks and throw them out. That's too much to ask, really. There didn't seem to be any good solution.

So I double checked my initial invoice which correctly listed Golden Laced Wyandottes, and also noted that I'd specifically said that I didn't want any replacement chickens.

Then I rushed to the phone and after spending a very long time on hold, they informed me that they were very sorry, and that they'd managed to stop the shipment (whew!) and, sorry again, they don't have any Golden Laced Wyandottes to ship today. And they won't have any to ship until July 6th. July 6th!!! That's nearly three weeks from now!

I was crushed.

Before my brain could fully register all of this, the lady from the hatchery asked me if I'd be interested in any Silver Laced or White Wyandottes. How quickly could I get the Silver Laced, I asked. They could ship them today.
Deal!
So, probably on Wednesday, I'll get a box of Silver Laced Wyandottes.
















Isn't she pretty?

Sweet little Wyandottes. Sweet meaty little Wyandottes.
( I have to keep reminding myself, we're going to eat these animals when their laying skills drop off.)








The plan is back on!

Also, I'd promised to note the books that I'm using as references.
These three are excellent reading. The most technically helpful is the Gail Damerow classic from Storey Publishing

















Useful, fun to read, but not really necessary are both "The Joy of Keeping Chickens" by Jennifer Megyesi and "Living with Chickens" by Jay Rossier.






























These books are available wherever fine books are sold.

Today I'll go to the Fleet Farm and the farm co-op. I need to get the chick starter feed, some grit, some fly strips, some vitamin solution for their water, and some paper towels for them to walk on for the first day or two. The shavings would be too much for their tender new legs.

I'm also happy to report that I've found a source for locally grown organic feed for the chicks once they start transitioning to adult food. (!!!)

More about that later.

It's back to the coop for me!
b.

Prep time

So the city of Waupaca has done a wonderful thing, and they've decided that, as far as they're concerned, we can all have as many chickens as we want here, as long as we don't bug our neighbors. This saves me the trouble of having to get on my soapbox and decrying an elected government that interferes with our natural right to raise our own food, blah, blah, blah.

I went straight home from the city planning meeting and ordered 16 Gold Laced Wyandottes.

This's a picture of what they'll look like when they're grown.

Lovely, aren't they?





Here is what the chicks are supposed to look like.




















I'm smitten.
I have to keep reminding myself that these are dual purpose birds. I.e., they're meant for both eggs and for meat. We'll be eating them someday, if nothing else gets them first.

The chicks aren't actually here yet. They're due a week from tomorrow, from Cackle Hatchery in Missouri. They'll arrive via U.S. mail at the post office and I'll pick them up there.

To keep peace in the neighborhood, we're only getting hens. No crowing roosters.

I've been busy fitting out the garden shed as the new chicken coop. All my old projects, stored in the south end of the shed, have been given away to make room for my new project, poultry farming.
It seems a little pretentious to call it farming. It's just a handful of birds on my city lot. But it's still raising our own food, and living off our land. And it does make me feel more connected to this plot somehow.
Living in the city has always been a little uncomfortable to me. Like I was just camping out here, until I could actually settle someplace else. Now, with the chickens coming, this feels more like home. It's funny isn't it?

Anyway, the shed preparations involve fencing off the southern half of our garden shed and creating a chicken door to the outside yard, which we'll fence off. And because of the increasing number of birds of prey living in our neighborhood, I'll be putting fencing over the top of the outside pen.
We've got a barred owl, a red-tailed hawk and a pair of bald eagles that regularly fly over our yard. We actually got strafed by the owl last summer. Apparently the top of B.'s head looks a lot like a bunny from an owl's point of view. I haven't ever seen a skunk or weasel in the yard, but I have seen a fox once, and a trio of raccoons -- just once. Luckily the shed is easily secured, and I hope we won't have any problems. The floor is concrete, and we can lock the door to the shed. As long as we close the chickens in at night, and shut their door to the yard, I think we'll be as safe as we could possibly be.

Our dog, Dogg,



















is an Australian Shepherd mix so, unlike my childhood dog, the Springer Spaniel, she won't be genetically programmed to kill the birds (long, comically sad story involving my family's attempt at raising chickens there. You can probably guess how it ends.). She may want to corral them, if she ever gets close to them. I've been told that I'm to show her that the chickens are mine, and she should stick to her own toys. She's of the "What's yours is mine" camp, though, so we'll keep an eye on her just the same.

The books I've read say that I shouldn't name the chickens, because then when the day comes, and the roasted bird is on the table, I won't sit there with tears in my eyes, picking over my salad in lieu of digging in. But I'm so bad at naming even my pets, that I doubt that it'll be a problem. My first dog's name was Puppy. And now, forty years later, my dog's name is -- as I mentioned -- Dogg.
Dinner won't be interrupted.

I think we're ready. I've got the brooding lamp and heat bulb, the feeders, waterers, pine shavings and brooder box. I've got to pick up some feed (and I'm so pleased that Fleet Farm has unmedicated chick feed -- Yaaay for Fleet Farm!), and some vitamin solution to dissolve in their water to help them recover from the trip.
We'll have a little time to finish up the pen and get straw, and to build roosts and, finally, nesting boxes.

And I've decided to journal the first two years of the experience here. The whole thing, from chick to souffle to roast to compost.
My first real blog.
Stay tuned. Later I'll list the books and other resources that I'm using. And I'll post pictures when the chicks get here.
b.