. Chicken Story #3
One more ramble about chickens, then I promise I’ll move on to another subject. Perhaps beautiful but deadly Angel Trumpet “Devil’s Breath” flowers, or the joy of seeing youth growing in responsibility and leadership or . . .oh, wait, back to the chickens. Starting with their support of fire ant control.
If you live in the South, you are probably familiar with fire ants. Actually small wasps, they are fascinatingly horrendous creatures. One of their roles is to teach people to watch where they walk. More importantly, where they stand for more than 30 seconds. Definitely, where they sit. Members of these miniature wasp colonies cooperate with each other. They creep up an unwary intruder’s feet, get in position, then signal “Now!” so as to all sting in unison. If you don’t believe me, research it.
Most humans are less than appreciative of the little ants’ work. Many people turn their yards into toxic chemical dumps blasting the unwelcome visitors. On our farm, an adult-assisted apprenticeship job is going about with diatomaceous earth, dusting every fire ant hill. In wet weather when the DE is less effective, the children are instructed to sprinkle scratch feed near the ant hills. If the free range chickens get interested before the kernels disappear down the hole, they will peck and scratch and have some ants for dessert. One less colony. Yay for the chickens!
Our first try at free range chickens came about through a mix-up at our local Tractor Supply. Four springs ago, we bought 10 baby chickens: three “straight run” (unsexed, you don’t know if you are getting males or females) bantams, and seven “pullets”, females which a knowledgeable someone has separated out. You pay more, but you know you’re going to get all hens. Supposedly. Chicken ignoramuses that we were, one morning to our shock and dismay we woke to our half-grown chicks crowing. Instead of clucking. Rather than seven Red Producer laying hens, we ended up with seven gigantic (REALLY big!) Buff Orpington roosters. Someone not knowledgeable enough or with a macabre sense of humor had gotten the chicks switched. Tractor Supply wasn’t interested in rectifying their error. The roosters obviously couldn’t stay in a pen together, so we let them loose. They wandered the farm, scratching and pecking and running after anyone with a stray kernel of corn.
Then as hormone levels rose, they did more than chase, and we got a crash course in rooster spurs and nasty temperaments. The children and I had to carry sticks to fend them off. Farm life was not so fun. Finally DJ and our older son Marc decided roosters were for eating. After watching a variety of YouTube videos, gathering supplies, and carefully separating out our tame pet Opie and his best friend, they selected a method and filled our freezer while cutting down the rooster population. DJ mounted a bamboo pole on the fence where Opie and friend steadfastly chose to roost on the top wire each night. Life went on, until the day sweet Opie not at all sweetly flew at me and dug his spurs in my thigh. Three years later as I write, I can still feel the residue of bumps left from the attack. Opie and friend left for new homes the next morning, and I decreed that never again will a free range rooster grace our farm.
As we’ve lost some chickens and gained others, they’ve developed different roosting spots. Some still retreat to the original chicken coop at dusk. Others go to the doghouse pen. A couple perch on one corner of the goat stall. One or another may be off somewhere trying to hatch out a nest, a challenging proposition without a rooster in the vicinity (sorry, girls.) During the day, the hens intermingle in changing patterns of color. In the morning when they gather for scratch feed is the best time to count: one black, one grey, one cream, four reds. Seven. Hmmm . . . plus the other black hen, sitting on a nest in the coop. Whew, all eight have survived another night.
I have a new appreciation for the shepherd counting his ninety and nine sheep and then going in search of the missing one.