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...

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