Black dog

I've taken quite a lot of ribbing for being unable to name my dog anything better than Dog (aka Dogg). And I've been, honestly, a little embarrassed about my lack of creativity.

But it's not really that I'm uncreative. I'm just not the kind of person who thinks I have any business in naming a pet. "Here's my dog and I like Billie Holiday so I'm going to call my dog Billie. "

I'm not an animal rights extremist. In our world, Dog's "my" dog and I take responsibility for her. But do I think that I really own her? No, obviously not. She lives with us, and she lives with us because I let her, but I don't feel like I own her.

So ... I just wait for the right name to reveal itself, and we go with that.

When we got her, the shelter was calling her "Mariah." We thought that was wildly inappropriate and never ever called her that. We ended up referring to it as her slave name.

I tried calling her various things, "Sister" was one, a name that I loved, but it didn't feel right. Neither did Genius, or Fluffy (although she still gets called that sometimes). And there were other names that I don't remember anymore, but none of them felt as comfortable as "Dog." So Dog it was and is.

Ernest Hemingway, I was recently reminded, famously had a dog that he called "Black Dog."

I'm just a little more concise.

Cooties

So, there's buzz about germs. Antibiotic resistent infections, swine flu, so on and so on and so on...

One of my chicken books quotes a sign found on an old farmer's wall outside the coop: "Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Filth is next to death."

So I keep a tub of fresh, mild bleach solution outside the coop and dip my hands in it both on my way into and out of the coop. I keep a pair of clogs outside the coop door to slip into on my way in, so that I don't track in any odd pathogens.
I sanitize all the feeders and waterers on a regular basis, and I shred a new bale of hay for their bedding as often as I think it's needed. (Pretty much anytime that I wouldn't feel comfortable walking into the coop with bare feet.)

Plus, we've never given the chicks antibiotics or anything stronger than vitamins (which we dispense only rarely). We did have them immunized by the breeder for Marek's disease when hatched, but I won't be doing that again. It's too stressful for the chicks. And I don't think it's necessary in our region.

Our chickens are absolutely healthy and clean and happy, without any extraordinary effort on our part, and I can't imagine what kind of filthy horrible existence that they'd have to be in to need regular doses of antibiotics in order to thrive.

Poor, poor factory farmed chickens.

Seriously

Chickens like bread.
They also like new straw.
And muskmelons.

Sun Worshipper

BFF

The Runty Chicken (currently known as Clucky*) has taken to flying up into my arms and then climbing onto my shoulder, where she perches quite happily and pecks at mosquitoes when they foolishly come too near.

*Clucky: If you've watched Saturday Night Live at all, you might remember a skit featuring a little cartoon chicken named Clucky.

Runty Chicken update

I doubt you'll be surprised to hear that The Runty Chicken has captured my heart.

It started last week when she began pecking my toes when I went into the coop for chores.
I've been pecked several times since, and it doesn't hurt. Maybe it would if they were trying to hurt me. But these seem more like curiousity pecks. "Hmmm, looks like fat stubby worms at the end of her feet. Are they good to eat? Let's find out..."
But back to my story about The Runty Chicken -- who, for a while, was being called (forgive me), "Peckerhead."
I think I've mentioned before that I've been scooping The Runty Chicken up and taking her outside with me on occasion. This weekend was so lovely, and I thought I'd just plop her into the south garden bed -- which is fenced with a three foot chicken wire -- and let her have her way with whatever has been eating holes in my kale. I figured that she wouldn't fly out because it would be such a great place to be that she wouldn't want to leave.

I didn't have any trouble catching her, she seemed happy to get out of the coop for a while (she was making happy chicken noises for whatever reason), and we spent a little quality time together walking around the yard, with me holding her. Then, thinking that this was going to be a big big treat for her, I put her in the garden and walked back to the shed to get my lawn chair and book. I figured I'd read and she could chase bugs. Back yard bliss.
Nope.
My first clue was that Dogg started barking her "You'd better check on the chickens!" bark. (More about this later.) By this time I'm in the house, having decided that a cold beer would definitely enhance the afternoon. I look out the window and see The Runty Chicken racing around in the bed. So I hurried out there expecting that perhaps a chipmunk or who-knows-what was in there with her. But no, it was just her, and she was scared. Because she is... you know... chicken.

As I got to the bed, The Runty Chicken came running over to me, trying to break through the fence. Seriously. So I scooped her up and calmed her down. And then I put her back in with all the delectable bugs and went back to get the lawn chair, again. This time I stayed outside and kept talking the whole time, figuring that if she could hear me, she'd be okay.
But no. Same thing. She raced around making the noises that a frightened chicken makes. (Doesn't seem like a good move, evolution-wise, right? My guess is that predators know what that sound means. And that's why chickens need humans to take care of them.)

I set my lawn chair up right next to the bed, and even stuck my fingers through the fence for her to peck at and just generally feel comforted by, but she bobbed around for a bit at the edge of the bed, and then flew up and out of the garden and landed on my shoulder. (!!!!!).
I wish you could have seen it.

So the upshot is that instead of acting like a chicken should and contentedly making her way through rows of fresh garden produce loaded with tasty flea and cucumber beetles, she lounged on my lap for a while, maybe an hour or more, craning a bit at bees when they flew by -- my own personal bug zapper. And then it was back to the coop.
Crazy (lovable) chicken.