Chickens at one year

Twelve months ago yesterday we bought ten baby chicks. Two died days later. Eight have muscled their adorable poultry lives into our hearts and daily existences. Currently one is missing her tailfeathers from molting. Another is opting out of the broody stage except at bedtime. The rest are being their little henny-penny selves and here I am, writing a post about them.

Because a year ago, I was overwhelmed in becoming a new chicken mama, also wondering what the hey we'd done.

Lol....

It's not like I ponder, "Oh, what would we do without them???" Though, I do wonder for how long our lives will include them, especially since early this morning I again saw the gray fox trotting around, then slinking into the underbrush. Whatever! I've let go and let God concerning these hens, which for the most part are very healthy and seemingly happy. And honestly, what more could I seek?

Suspicious of scratch in a pan.... All photos courtesy of my husband.

Becoming chicken owners has been more of a time suck than I imagined, yet this week I've written three chapters of a short story concerning those in Home and Far Away, so I can't complain too much about my time being usurped. Just that having hens is one more item on our plates, and I'm only getting older, and....

Happier with scratch on the ground. Ruthie and her sole tail feather on the far left.

Or maybe I'm channeling the strum und drang of this section of On Being Brave: The Enran Chronicles Part Five. Richard and Suze are dealing with familial DRA-MA, while my husband and I deal with hens, and it's a sunny day, which is great, not that the chickens care. But I'm tired of that busybody marine layer, and I wanted to write about owning hens, but honestly, what is there to say? We feed them, keep water available, corral and isolate the broody ones, and talk to them when we encounter them outside. We give them the occasional bowl full of chicken scratch, plates of carrot peels, and allow them to dustbathe in our scraggly before they arrived front yard. They like being close to the house, even before the fox appeared. Like they know where we live, and if we allowed they would march up the few steps, come inside, and that would be that.

Um, not so fast chickens. We like you and all, but....

I can hear Owl now, purring in her I'm right behind you Mama trill. Or how Ruthie clucks SO DANG LOUDLY. Or how Cami LOVES herself a good bath. Or how Camilla LOVES to hog all the treats. Icey had to be stopped from laying eggs under a camellia tree and Welsummer can be a bit shouty and Gigi is a piece of work to break when broody. And then there's Nadia.

Owl and Nadia are my faves. Nadia is named after Nadia Comaneci because when Nadia Chicken was tiny, she expertly navigated the top rung of the baby chick perch. She's very independent, our Nadia, and like Owl doesn't mind foraging in the rain. They appreciate the late nights of summer, and aren't obnoxiously loud. All our hens are pretty quiet in nesting boxes, rare are egg songs. They only cluck when worried. It's like, aren't hens supposed to be more work than this?

Actually the hens do care about the weather; grass-bathing in today's sun. Silly henny!

So are they a time suck? Kinda. Or I'm just being silly, like they are when they roll around in the dirt, splaying dust in the faces of sisters also trying to relax and get clean. Fluff-fluff-fluff and dirt goes EVERYWHERE. So much I have learned along the way, like how dang enjoyable it is to simply watch them go about their little chicken businesses. A running hen is a HILARIOUS site, and I still half expect them to flap their wings like using arms, if they knew to do something so un-chicken-like.

They waddle. It's truly a LOL moment. And we get those moments daily, which right now is WONDERFUL.

We didn't know what a marvelous distraction they would be. Or, oh my goodness, HOW MUCH THEY POOP. Though, this summer season has taught us that by staying out MANY HOURS, they poo less on the roost than in winter. So that's cool.

Others decide sunbathing is fine too.

They don't seem to eat what we know is bad for them, like slugs. They do try to eat old ponytails they dig out of the dirt, and I don't try to chase after them to retrieve the ill-gotten booty. They've survived a year, could live upwards of at least a dozen, or maybe half that amount. We won't know till we get there.

From a year ago, just had to include one. Like kids, they grow up too fast. Unlike kids, they don't talk back. And well, there you go....

For now we know we're happy with them, they're happy with us, and the fox seems fine to merely remind us of its presence. And as things warrant, I'll certainly let you know what happens next.