Chickens: Out with the Old

After cracking my eggs into a hot pan beside some leftover steak, I did something I haven’t done in some time: I tossed the shells in the trash instead of putting them aside to feed back to the chickens. We raised this latest batch of leghorns from day-old chicks to full-grown, egg laying machines for the past 3 years. There were times when they didn’t lay eggs at all, and there were times when we had so many eggs that we gave them away or sold them for next to nothing.

Sometimes they had to take turns laying.

The girls have been getting tired over the last few months, however. We continued to feed them well, but production was way down. Mr. Farmer kept looking at the coop and thinking about ways to improve the setup for the next run. So, when we found an ad on Craigslist looking for older chickens, we decided to retire them to a farm where they will run free.

We aren’t very sentimental about chickens. Still, these girls have served us extremely well over the years, and leghorns aren’t very meaty anyway, so retirement just seemed like a better fit than slaughter. So stay tuned (do people these days even know what that means anymore?) for updates on the new brood, the new brooder, and the new chicken coop… all scheduled for Spring 2013!

Chickens: Dirty Eggs

It has been a very wet summer, and the chickens have not been able to dust-bathe, the poor things. They are dirty and ragged-looking. Their snow white feathers are thin, grey, and bedraggled. No matter how often we clean the run and coop, and no matter how much straw and grass we give them, we just can't keep them dry. As a result, with nowhere clean and dry to lay, their eggs are dirty, too.

I love dirty eggs! Little Miss Farmer has the job of feeding the chickens and collecting the eggs daily. Most days she brings them in, washes them right away, and leaves them to dry next to the kitchen sink. Some days, however, she leaves them in the bowl, still dirty, until the next morning. Sometimes, on those mornings, I can't help but grab the two least dirty eggs, dust them off, and have a treat of the freshest fried eggs ever. Unless you have tasted an egg that was laid yesterday (or today!), you probably wouldn't understand. I have a feeling that some of you do.

Some of Yesterday's Eggs

Chickens: Lazarus

Starting off with any animal project is going to be a chance for learning. It is one of my favorite things about raising animals or growing plants or learning a new food preservation technique. The correct amount and timing of food and water needs to be determined. Heat and cold must be accounted for. And all animals must somehow be contained so as not to be a nuisance, or destructive. We struggle with that last one from time to time.

One of our first sets of young chickens would rush the door to the brooder (a dog crate, reinforced with chicken and rat wire, perched on a wooden stand) when Young Master Farmer came to feed and water the little darlings. Alternately, perhaps he failed to close the door properly. One way or another, a young chicken had escaped, and we were worried for its safety. Mr. Farmer and I had to go out, so we left Young Master Farmer in charge of locating the loose chicken and returning it to the safety of the brooder while we were away. When we returned, we heard how the chicken had been killed by some animal, was removed from the back shed where it had tried to hide, and deposited in the trash. It was a somber dinner, and we were sad.

After dinner, Mr. Farmer went to look in on the chickens and replenish their water. When he approached the cage, he was surprised to see a chicken on the ground eating spilled feed! He counted the chickens in the cage, since he had secured the door himself the last time, and they were all accounted for ... the loose chicken had returned to life! He came into the house and told us all the story of Lazarus: The Chicken That Had Risen From the Dead.

Naturally it did not take long before Young Master Farmer confessed to his little white lie. Young chickens are very fast, and even when he had cornered it in the shed, he still could not catch it. He had grown tired of the chase, so he thought up the story of the dead chicken, figuring it would be the natural end for a ground bird so close to the edge of the woods. Lazarus blew the story when he came out and started hanging out under the brooder. Kids!

I don't remember which chicken was "Lazarus",
but this Bantam hen sure is pretty, right?

Chickens: Pedro

As a rule, we do not name animals unless they live in the house with us. Pets get names, livestock does not. Our 19 chickens do not have names. Our 3 breeder pigs do, since they will be with us for quite a while, but they are an exception. We refer to most of the pigs by color (white, black & white, brown, rainbow), heritage (Mamas' "Tiffany Jr." , or Wilma's "Tiffany Jr." to differentiate between a couple piglets that look like their father), or purpose ("breeders" vs. "feeders"). Sure, we used to joke around, referring to our first three pigs as New Year's Eve, Super Bowl, and Fourth of July (followed shortly by Freezer and Dave's Pig, etc.), but naming animals is really only a recent change since our pig-partner's girlfriend came on the scene.

When we got our first set of day-old chicks, the children immediately wanted to name them. We tried to explain that some might not live, and that they were not pets, but they insisted. The two names that I remember from that first batch were Dirty Butt (there seems to be one of those in every batch of chickens) and Pedro.

The chicks were kept under cover to protect them from the elements and given a nice lamp to warm themselves under, but sadly, Pedro did not survive. The children were not to be deterred, however, so when we purchased our next set of chicks, they named another one Pedro.  Alas, poor Pedro did not survive. By the third set of starter chicks the children had learned their lesson, and they named none of the chicks that time.

It is common for day-old chicks not to survive. After all, they could have come with illness or injury already. They could be pecked to death by their cage-mates. They could be too stupid to stay under the light, or eat, or drink. So, when Mr. Farmer came in the house one chilly morning and announced that a young chick had died, the children, of course, asked, "Which one?" to which he replied, "Pedro, of course!"

All dead chickens are now called Pedro.

I'm Pretty Sure that One of These is Pedro...

Animals on the Loose!

Saturday evening we attended a party at a fellow farmer's home a significant distance from our own. Their spacious, multi-acre property is where we will be relocating many of our animals. Some of the chickens are already there. We had a lovely time eating, drinking, and socializing. We got to know the many in-laws and relations and children of this family. We walked the paths and discussed where the pens would be set up for the pigs and where the chicken coop would be constructed so the chickens could start laying in the same place all the time. Then, as the evening cooled and the sun started to come down, there was a call from the neighbor back home: The two piglets that were on layover from their old home to their new had escaped from the dog crates.

It isn't completely clear how they got out. The bottom latch on the crate was a bit worn, so it is possible that they simply pushed it open and slipped out the door below the top latch. Additionally, the bottom of the crate has larger openings than the sides. With minimal digging, they could have lifted the crate and escaped through the bottom. The act of corralling them destroyed any evidence of how they might have escaped, however, so we may never know for sure.

The neighbor was able to get one of the piglets into the chicken run, and another was cornered. Before long, however, the one in the chicken run found a way out. We called our pig partner for assistance, and both pigs were in the other crate before we got home for the evening. This crate was reinforced with rat wire and has a fully functioning latch, so the piggies were secure. A quick, flashlight-guided survey of the realm showed no sign of damage. Aside from various items that had been moved around to try to contain the animals, everything looked completely normal, so we went to bed.

The Little Marauders... Contained Now

Sleepy Mr. Farmer awoke on Sunday morning to find that the chickens were out of the run! Apparently that piglet had left an opening in the run where it escaped. The chickens had been marauding in my garden for a few hours. The whole family was awakened to try to contain the little beasts. I made coffee. Mr. Farmer and Young Master Farmer rounded up chickens. Little Miss Farmer, in spite of her efforts to lure the chickens with worms, was not having success, so she worked on closing up the breech in the chicken fence. In just a few minutes the hens were secure, but the damage had been done.

The chicken's weeding of the garden looked kind of nice at first, then we saw the damage. The mint that I had so painstakingly rescued was completely gone.  I think the root has survived, but not a single leaf remains. All the baby butterfly-bush sprouts that I had transplanted from all over the yard and gardens were scattered to the winds. Several leaves were torn from the rhubarb. The brand new thyme was above ground, as was one cucumber plant. All of the full-grown dill was laying down on the ground.

Early morning gardening does get the blood flowing, I guess. So if there is a silver lining in all of this, that must be it. How often can I say that before 8 am on a Sunday morning I had located and replanted almost a dozen butterfly-bush sprouts, re-planted several herbs, and trimmed and re-mulched a rhubarb? Not many, that's for sure. I certainly earned my morning tea, and my title as Mrs. Farmer.

Chickens: Boo Boo Chicken

Recent events regarding an injured chicken bring back memories of my very first chicken experience. (Cue Flashback) 

Spring, 1995:
It was back in what we referred to as the Blue House in Colesville, Maryland. Back in those days Mr. Farmer was Mr. Antique Car Repair Go-Fur, and I was Mrs. Pregnant and Big as a House. During that time, our landlady, who ran a string of daycare centers, allowed the children to hatch baby chicks as a project. As is common, however, she didn't think very far ahead about what to do with the chicks after they hatched out. That's where we came in.

Mr. Go-Fur was hired for the job of building the chicken run and coop on the animal-loving landlady's property. Until then, the baby chicks needed a place to brood. Our unused upstairs bathroom seemed like the perfect place. We installed a warmer lamp in the shower stall, and the vinyl flooring was easily cleaned.

I could not do the cleaning of the floor, considering my condition, but I could feed the chicks and change their water. I did so every day. Baby chicks need feed available almost constantly, and water without fail. Within a week or two, the babies started roaming away from the light and all over the bathroom. Once they were mobile and could easily get over the low ledge of the shower stall, they quickly started to run to the door when they heard the knob turning in anticipation of being fed. One day, when I opened the bathroom door, one of the chicks got too close, and her foot got caught under the door!

I felt really bad about maiming the chicken. I closed the door most of the way as gently as I could, and I pulled the chick out from under the door. Her foot was clearly broken, but it was too small to do anything about it. She limped a little, but she had no trouble getting around or getting food, and the other chicks did not bother her. I endured an almost never ending ribbing over the event, and the poor chick got nicknames ranging from Boo Boo Chicken to Gimpy.

All the surviving chicks (we only lost one or two) were moved to their big new pen just a bit later. They gave the landlady years of happiness and amusement. Occasionally she would have to rescue them from her dogs. Once or twice she was unsuccessful. But in the end, it is my understanding that Boo Boo Chicken was the last hen standing, and died of natural causes.

Our Chicks, 2010
Safer Brooder Than the Bathroom

Chickens: Mrs. Farmer to the Rescue!

My Farmer Senses were tingling.

Farmer senses aren't very specific, but I knew I needed to go look at the chickens. I was hoping that I would see that they had begun laying eggs again. So I went to the farmyard, picked a bunch of the chickens' favorite weeds as a peace offering, and entered the enclosure. I tossed the weeds aside, and the hens all ran after them. I peeked inside the coop, and there was not a single egg. Not one. Again. I was so disappointed, thinking that my Farmer Senses were off, so I took a quick glance around the enclosure and headed for the door.

One chicken, however, wasn't swarming on the tasty greens I had brought in. She was tucked in the corner, dug into a hole. She wasn't dust bathing - the ground was wet and muddy from a recent rain. She was barely moving. Upon closer inspection, she was stuck. Her wing was stuck behind a fencepost and trapped between the pole and the chicken wire. The hole was dug in her attempts to untangle herself, and she was crammed tight into the corner. I couldn't get her loose.

She was so entangled, and her feathers were so beat up that I was sure she wasn't going to make it, so I did what any good, strong farmer's wife would do - I called Mr. Farmer and begged him to come home and put her down. He was too involved in his project to come and assist me, except to give the advice to either a) cut her throat, b) break her neck, or c) leave her there a while; if I hadn't come out to peek she would have been stuck there until he got home anyway. Something in his tone made me decide that I just had to act. This time I was not just going to let it go.

So I put on my gardening gloves and set out to work. I kicked the stones that were pushed up against the outside of the fence by the pigs away. That did not create as much "give" as I had hoped, and I was no closer to getting her out. So I went to the other side of the fence, and with superhuman (or at least supermom) strength I yanked the fence pole out of the ground. When I got back into the enclosure, the chicken had not moved, and I feared the worst. I was able to pick her up fairly easily at that point, and I carried her away to a waiting dog crate filled with straw. I closed the door and watched to see if she would move.

Within moments she was up and moving. She picked through the straw and even ate some of the grass that was coming through the bottom. She was moving in a normal manner - pecking and scratching and even shaking off the rain. She was dirty and wet and bedraggled, but she was alive and not bleeding.

The hen has been returned to the flock. Her wing is dropped and not moving, and her tail is pointed to one side, but she's eating and moving without any issue, and the other chickens are not bothering her. All because I saved her. Mrs. Farmer to the Rescue!

Chickens: Free Range Experiment

Mr. Farmer made a proposal, and I could not argue. The chickens had already been reported to the local authorities. The neighbors had already decided that they were a nuisance. We are low on cash for feed, and the yard is just full of grass, weeds, and tasty bugs and worms the chickens could eat. So, he let them out.

After tentatively pecking just around the door of the enclosure, the chickens soon made their way to the side of the pen where the old pig yard was. The soft, rich soil was teeming with bugs and worms, and the feeding frenzy was on! Occasionally a chicken would grab a worm and try to run away with it - resulting in a game that we like to call "chicken rugby". The chickens' first adventure into the outside world was very entertaining to watch.

Sadly, what seemed like a good idea took just a few short hours to turn bad. The chickens stayed largely in the fenced area I call The Barnyard (the fence was originally for hot tub privacy) at first. In fact, it was probably more than an hour before even a single chicken wandered out of that grass and bug filled area. After all, there is an aged manure pile back there that attracts many flies and worms, as well as their favorite weed, which I pick for them and throw into the enclosure a few times a week. Eventually, however, they ventured out into the front yard and started picking through my herb garden. Those greedy chickens dug up my new oregano plant, which needed to be replanted, and destroyed a fair amount of my parsley as well. If it weren't for Mr. Farmer's vigilance, who knows how much damage they could have caused?

So, when the chickens went back into the coop for the night, we closed them in for good. Completing that back fence to contain them is not in the budget right now, so I guess the food will have to keep coming to them for now - for the sake of my beautiful gardens.

Chickens Outside of the Enclosure

Unwelcome Visitor

Last month, while Mr. Farmer and I toiled away at making scrapple, there was an unexpected knock at the door. I peeked out the kitchen window and saw an unfamiliar white pickup truck with a vaguely familiar green tree painted on the door. I described it to Mr. Farmer, who is good at recognizing people by the vehicles that they drive, and he lowered his voice and said, "It's the township." I immediately remembered what the tree logo was, and I knew instantly why this person was making this not-so-social call. It was a time for quick thinking.

Johnny Law was persistant, unfortunately, and knocked a second time. It was louder this time, and with our tiny cabin, there was no way we could claim we hadn't heard, short of being passed-out drunk at 1 in the afternoon on a weekday (which has never happened).  I decided to greet him (I am calmer than Mr. Farmer, even if I am not as fast a thinker under stress), try to read him, and chose whether to play dumb or be very compliant.

Johnny sounded like he was a combination of being a little annoyed that he had to take time out of his busy day to see me with just a pinch of man I hope this crazy hillbilly chick doesn't pull a shotgun on me on the side, so I chose the compliant approach. When he told me in a well-rehearsed, matter-of-fact tone that the animals must go, I replied that we weren't looking to upset anyone; we are just trying to feed ourselves. "They must go, just the same," he said, so I replied (with as little evil glint in my eye and as much wide-eyed, mountain-girl innocence as I could muster), "Well, we raise them to eat, so I know how to get rid of them." The look on his face when I said that let me know in an instant that I had handled him properly. He did NOT want any details on how they would be disposed of. I think his crisp, white, oxford shirt became suddenly crisper.

At that point, part of me was wishing I hadn't removed my apron to answer the door. That would have solidified the issue in his mind, I'm sure, just from the look of me. At any rate, after an intense call from the home office that made him seem even more annoyed to be dealing a trifling matter like li'l old me, he took my information and said he would send me something in the mail.

More than a month passed and neither official recognition of the visit, nor threatening letter, nor pamphlet, nor printout of the zoning code has arrived in my mailbox. Maybe I read him right, and he really didn't care about what we were doing. Maybe our small farm was super-low on his list of priorities. Maybe he assumed that when I said, "I know how to get rid of them," that I surely would, without further influence from his office. Like I told Johnny Law, we are prepared at any time to dispose of our animals, and not to waste them.

Our relief was short-lived, however, as another official has since approached the property. Young Master Farmer greeted him since neither of us were home. Apparently "They" mean business. So, we are in the process of relocating the animals to a farm that is, sadly, an inconvenient distance away. The landowner is willing to take meat in barter for use of his land, so long as we pay all the expenses of building the fences, bringing in the feed, etc. It is going to be an almost epic move, but the alternative of putting down all the animals and abandoning our hopes of trying to breed the pigs is just too painful to consider. Wish us luck!

Apparently, THIS didn't work.

Chickens: Fart Egg

(Apologies to my mother, who does not like the word "Fart"... I will use "wind egg" from this point forward; I promise.)

Little Miss Farmer has been on chicken/egg duty for the better part of a year now as part of her chores. She is getting bigger now (12 years old, nearly 5 feet tall), so her responsibilities around the house are increasing. I'm sure she doesn't look forward to feeding the chickens each day, collecting their eggs, then washing the eggs. The egg washing alone can be a fairly unpleasant task, especially when the coop gets dirty. The other day she was rewarded for all her hard work by finding an unusual egg - a "wind" egg.

We have had an unusual egg or two before (such as this one, without a shell), but I believe this was our first wind egg. It was so tiny in comparison to the extra-large to jumbo sized eggs we get most days from our leghorns. Little Miss knew right away that this egg was special. She showed it to all of us with great excitement (egg-citement?).

Naturally we had a full photo shoot before we broke the egg open to see if she was right. We took pictures with other eggs for size reference and pictures of them in her hand. Finally, once Little Miss was convinced that the event had been sufficiently documented for posterity, we broke it open.

I think that is under-developed enough to call a wind egg.

Surely enough, Little Miss Farmer's suspicions were correct. This egg was clearly underdeveloped. It was so small that I didn't even see the point in dirtying a pan to fry it in. So I put it in the microwave, and it exploded in under 20 seconds.

The End.

Life Is Good: Getting Dirty

Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel is one of my favorite shows. The people who make that show share many of the same beliefs we have regarding the value of hard work and knowing where your food comes from. Mike Rowe's rugged good looks, soothing voice, and everyman manner don't hurt either. Mr. Farmer, however, sees the show as a challenge. Having worked many dirty jobs in his lifetime, Mr. Farmer likes to watch the show with me and repeat "I've done that!" over and over. It occurs to me that I get dirty every now and then myself.

Dirty jobs come in various types. Some are literally dirty- where your clothes get soiled and you end the day with mud under your nails. Others jobs are smelly or distasteful. Many tasks are just plain hard, backbreaking, sweaty work. And of course there are the jobs that many people don't even think about that "make civilized life possible for the rest of us." We do a lot of those thing here on our little suburban farm.

***Dirty***

Planting the garden each year is dirty work. Raking the leaves away and shoveling soil and mulch is sweaty work, but the earth is the main mess. To do it right, it is best to get down on your knees and start digging in with your hands. I have tried using gardening gloves. I have tried using rubber gloves. I have tried using gardening gloves on top of rubber gloves. However, without fail, I end up with dirt under my nails and behind my ears (from pushing my hair back).

Feeding the pigs can be dirty, too. Pig water and slop have the amazing ability to splash up and get on your clothes, even when you pour carefully. I recently got some pig mud (I'm going to keep telling myself it was mud)  in my eye when feeding eggs to the females. Fortunately, pig feeding is not one of my usual chores.

Dirty Chickens
After Several Straight Days of Rain

*** Distasteful***

Putting down animals is not a pleasant task, but if we are to eat meat, someone has to do it. Usually that means a shot to the head, the cutting of a vein, or both. The animal must then be dressed (opened and entrails removed). The process involves death and blood and occasionally a bad smell if an intestine is accidentally opened. Most people find this necessary task distasteful. We just find it necessary.

As much as I can handle, there is just one job that I cannot stomach: cleaning pig heads. Slaughter and disembowelment of animals doesn't bother me at all, but when Mr. Farmer starts cutting apart the heads, I have to run and hide. Something about the crunch of cartilage when he is removing the snout just makes me cringe. I can't take it.

***Smelly***

If you are going to keep animals, you are going to deal with excrement. In our case, neither pigs nor chickens nor dogs use the toilet, so the poo has to be picked up. And poo smells. Aside from the usual shoveling and pitching, this week the boys power washed the pig enclosure. This caused a river of mud and straw and stink, but it was extremely effective. The remaining breeder pigs now have clean beds that are more mud than poo. They were kind enough to do the resulting laundry themselves, rather than getting me involved.

***Slimy***

Last week I helped separate meat for scrapple. That meant going wrist deep in a pot of boiled pig parts and peeling gelatinous fat off of meat. The job of butchering meat can be pretty slick as well, and more than a pork chop or two has gone flying across the counter.

***Sweaty***

There seems to be no end to the things that need to be humped across the yard. The garden needs soil and mulch. The animal pens need to be cleaned out and the resulting mess piled up. Fire wood needs to be cut and carried, then shortened and split, and finally stacked up- until it's time to carry it into the house, of course. Slaughtered animals are hung in the fridge to age. Sacks of feed are purchased and moved. The list goes on and on, and the work continues, as does the sweat.

***Unexpected***

I have mentioned more than once that the entrails of an animal have to be removed. Most people give little thought to what happens to them next. Sometimes they are discarded, but simply putting them in the trash is not the best option. The enzymes involved break down entrails quickly, making for very smelly trash that attracts unwanted animal visitors in the night. So, Young Master Farmer usually has the honor of walking the entrails into the woods a mile or so, where the animals can enjoy them without messing up my yard. Conversely, the insides can be cleaned out for sausage casings- which involves squeezing out the semi-digested food and running fresh and salt water through the intestines.  On one occasion we were even asked to clean out a stomach for some old-world recipe.

***

Few would argue that farming on any scale is hard work. There are things to do every single day, and we drop into bed, exhausted, nearly every night. The work is rewarding, however. It provides for our family. It teaches us new skills. It gives us a feeling of more independence. Every day is an accomplishment, and life is good.

Chickens: The Bantams

Three years ago, Mr. Farmer agreed to pick up a few baby chicks to amuse a friend's children for Easter. Day old chicks are not easy to come by at that time of year because most reputable breeders want to avoid exactly what we were attempting. Newborn chicks are very fragile and smother easily. A good number of them die on their own, without the assistance of young children who don't know how to handle them. When we located them, we bought twice as many as we needed.

Just before Easter, we set up some eggs for the children to watch. They checked on them over and over. Then, on Easter morning, something amazing happened. The Easter Bunny left a bunch of candy, and the Easter Chicks had hatched out.

Knowing what we do about city children and baby chicks, we prepared a place for them to stay after spring break ended and the children returned to the big city. They had a nice cage with a warming lamp and all the food and water they needed. There was the expected loss, but most of them grew into adulthood and the hens were integrated with our layers (the roosters were relocated). They even laid eggs for a while, but bantams just don't lay as prolifically as those egg-laying machines, the leghorns. 

For nearly three years, the children came to visit when the weather was nice. They took some eggs home with them on most visits and enjoyed them. They fed them and chased them around like they were in a petting zoo. And they argued over which was his, and which was hers, and which was hers.

When the little brown eggs stopped coming, things changed. Our cute little bantams were still sweet and pretty. But they had taken to sitting on the nest almost constantly. They barely came out to eat or drink, and they discouraged the new hens from laying by being in the way. At first we just physically removed them from the nest a few times a day, figuring they would get the hint. Nature got the better of them, however, and we had to separate them to their own cage in the side yard.

It was a good arrangement. There were 2 left alive and well, so they kept each other warm and company. They loved eating the grass and bugs in the yard that the other chickens didn't have access to. We moved the cage every day or two so that they always had fresh grass, and they kept that bit of the yard tidy. They even laid an egg every now and then.

One day last week our nephew came to visit. He took our two remaining bantams on their next adventure. His two daughters, 5 and nearly 3, have taken quite a liking to them. I understand they even take them out of their cage and into the house to play with them. They are house chickens now. They are happily retired as beloved pets. Let's just hope that no stray eggs are found stashed in corners weeks or months after they are laid.

Our Broody Hens
On the Nest, but Not Laying

Chickens: First Egg (No Shell!)

Commercial egg producers pay little attention to the soft, semi-transparent first eggs laid by their chickens. After all, even if these odd little wonders could survive the harsh machinery and sterilization process, without that smooth, white(or brown) shell, they just can't sell them. So what interest could they possibly have in them?

One of the coolest parts of being a farmer in a suburban setting is the shock factor. So many city-dwellers have no idea where their food comes from, and most would rather not know. Still every now and then you encounter one of these exciting moments where you can shock and amaze without terrorizing and disgusting your audience. These moments are pure magic. The no-shell egg is a great showpiece for the "Really? I didn't know that!" set.

**********************

I did a search on "shelless eggs", and for a moment became very excited because there was next to no information on them. For one brilliant moment, I was sure that I was about to compose a blog that would change the agricultural world forever.

Then I realized that "shelless" wasn't a word.

However, when I searched for "Eggs without Shells" I found that I might just have the coolest shell-free egg photos on the net. And your reward for sticking with me through this rambling post is that you get to see them.

"Shelless" Chicken Egg

Mr. Farmer Squishing Soft Shell Egg

No Shell Egg Squish
(and Accidental Dish Detergent Endorsement)

PS- For those of you who found your way here looking for "What do I do if my chicken lays eggs without shells?" here is your answer:

Don't worry about it. Chances are that your chicken, like mine, will start wrapping her eggs in shells in no time. If not, then you've got a defective chicken, but they are very rare. The third possibility is that your chicken might be sick, but probably only if she was previously laying normal eggs. In that case, better to analyze all of her symptoms before making any quick judgements... but a little extra calcium in her diet wouldn't hurt.

Chickens: Bumble Foot

We lost 4 chickens to Bumble Foot this past week. These were the remaining 4 chickens, over 2 years old, from our very first brood. They were leghorns that gave many extra large to jumbo eggs at least every other day, but usually daily.

Bumble Foot is basically a staph infection of the foot in chickens. It is caused by the infection of small cuts on the unprotected feet of the not-so-concerned-with-cleanliness, not-so-bright, egg laying machines that we love so much. The cuts are from jumping off the perch by older or overweight birds. Ours fell into the former category.

So naturally I was concerned when large, fluid filled boils started appearing on the feet of the older chickens, right when some of our 30 new chickens became mature enough to start laying. After all, it could be contagious, and that's a big flock to risk. So we separated them immediately, cleaned the pen and the chicken house, and started the entire flock- sick or not- on an oral antibiotic.

When the sick chickens did not improve in a few days, Mr. Farmer decided it was time to intervene. Like any boil, the procedure is the same: Lance, Clean, Medicate, and Bandage. During that intervention, I discovered that maybe I'm not as "Little House on the Prairie" as I'd like to think I am.

We put  the first chicken head first into a burlap sand bag, so that just her feet were showing. She was calm and agreeable throughout the procedure, for which I was grateful. Unfortunately, the smell of the thick, white pus, combined with the fact that it was actually semi-solid and almost stringy, made me dizzy, and I had to sit down. After a moment of recovering, Mr. Farmer was able to go back to opening the boils with a scalpel. It was no small task when you consider the callus on a 2 year old chicken's feet. We had to repeat the process 3 or 4 times per chicken, so we stopped after the second one out of exhaustion. Mr. Farmer had to stop after each boil to wipe sweat away, as it was hot out and he had to bend over to reach the chicken in my lap as I sat with her. He tied gauze to the cleaned and medicated wounds, and put them back in the quarantine pen.

The chickens did not peck at their dressings or each other, but they did not improve either. Based on that, we decided it was time to dispatch them for the sake of the rest of the flock. Retiring them was not really an option either, since the infection would have undoubtedly spread to their blood and killed them slowly and painfully anyway.

So ends the first (and VERY successful) run of egg producers in my back yard. The second string has stepped up to the plate and is laying in full force now. The eggs are smaller, but they should get bigger as the birds mature.

"Dirty Butt" and Her Sisters

The New Brood - 2 Days Old - May 2010

The New Brood - Almost Ready to Lay - July 2010