Oh that's what it is for

There has been much investigating (by the laying pullets only, the Cornish can't get up there) of the roost the last few days. None of the hens stay on it long - mostly they look like neophyte tightrope walkers as they wobble from one end to the other.

So far they have been piled in a corner to sleep at night. But when I went to close them in before turning out the light and saw this:

both Cuckoo Marans, Sheena and the Brown Leghorn

I think the meat chickens will soon find themselves alone on the floor.

ladies, it's raining!

It is a wonderful morning. I have my coffee and there is a thunderstorm.

The hens are trying to huddle under the eves to stay dry, but it is not working.














Yet, on the other side of their run is a cozy house, with food and water. The light is on to keep out the dampness, and a couple inches of straw/hay mix is on the floor. It is chicken paradise.

Which they are ignoring.

Crazy chicks.

A new day

I am sitting down to coffee in my favorite NPR mug. Mmmmm coffee.

The poultry have been fed. We have lost 2 quail so far - both were the smaller than the rest and less robust (obviously) - which brings us down to 9. Mesha wanted a full burial and funeral for them both but I demurred. Part of raising livestock is loss. Some makes us shrug and say "Meh" and some makes us sad, but it is part of a balance.

I need to get one (or 2) small chicken tractors built. I would like to separate the Cornish and feed them high protein game bird food - it's not organic, but since I have it . . . . Also planting can happen in earnest now that the rains have stopped.

Hubby is out of commission for awhile, as happens now and then, so I really wished I had listened to Mom when she was teaching those time-management classes.

Newest residents

Driving to Kiowa and back was just over 2 hours.

It was a strange drive to the SE. First the middle class suburbs of SW Denver then through walled and gated communities of million dollar houses with their private golf courses and horse corrals. (These two areas were actually dotted throughout the drive) It wasn't long before I could no longer see the mountains in my rear view mirror. Trees were lone sentries on an arid landscape of rolling hills (well save for the previously mentioned private golf courses). It was a different dryness than say Eastern Washington. The area seemed to be hushed, ready to shout "Surprise!" when the rain finally came home, having worked late on the other side of the Rockies.

Then at Franktown the gated communities became intertwined with ramshackle farms (many for sale) and small towns sporting a post office, feed store, town diner and a Walmart. The trees, almost all evergreens of one sort or another, were back lining both sides of the highway giving travelers a feeling of welcome. I felt relaxed here - despite the Walmarts.

On the way there I was serenaded by the morose stylings of Robert Smith. The drive seemed stretched out, as it usually is when one does not know where they are going. The Cure just seemed appropriate to the dark clouds and brown grass that back-dropped the scenery.

The country store was small and dusty. Were it not for the helpful clerks, I don't think I would have found anything. The aisles were narrow and crowded with feed and country style decorations. I stepped over or pushed aside half filled boxes of weed killer to get to the counter.

But I left with a dozen baby bob white quail, a new larger (Purple!) waterer for the coop, locally grown organic starter, and commercial game bird starter (higher protein, no other kind available)

The ride home was much faster and upbeat. Steve Martin & the Steep Canyon Rangers were regularly interrupted by the quail, whose peeping is much larger than they are. Even now I can hear them, even though they are in the basement behind 2 closed doors.

And yes, Mesha squealed in happiness - I had not yet even taken them out of their carrier box (reused from the mail delivery) It turned out I had only 11, but it is hard to count them when they are trying to jump out of a box 8x their height - and succeeding. They are fast and fearless.

I am not driving to get my $2.70 back.

In the first photo notice the quarter on the saucer for size reference. The marble in the last photo is a shooter. I could not have planned that pose.

hgtv

It's like those home improvement reality shows when the owners are living in the house during a major remodel.

The chicks are in their new home - sans nest boxes, and a roost, and shutters to close at night and keep out the rain. And there are no shingles or tar paper, no window seats.

They are practically doing dishes in the tub and cooking with only a microwave and a toaster oven.

They do have an apple box full of hay to nest in at night - well Quesadilla, Cacciatore, and Dumpling fill that up. Sheena and the other girls have a pile of straw under the playhouse sink.

But they are much happier than they were 2 days ago.

So is Mesha.


(I don't know what is up with these pictures today. After 2 years I may have to break down and read the directions for my camera. Or I could just call the help desk and ask vague questions - they love that)

Sheena is . . .

a punk rocker

Morning After

I admit to some concern when I got up extra early this morning. I wanted to check on the chicks - if there was a massacre I planned to clean it up before waking the girls for school.

The cats had refused to come in last night, (I saw a few of the other neighborhood felines skirting our yard) they are very territorial of the yard in general and (at least Butters) chickens specifically.

But they are all accounted for.

So I went back to bed for another hour.

Not exactly farmer material am I.