World famous Tic Tac Toe chickens…can you seriously resist this?!?
Remember that chicken at the fair that could pick out the Queen of Hearts from a deck of cards? Or the one that could kick your booty at Tic Tac Toe? Well, it was on a dark, cold night, as I’m crawling around on the floor of the chicken coop, smearing chicken poop all over myself, that these visions came to me. I’m out in the freezing temperatures, stretched out on the bottom of the coop. I was trying to coax the chickens up into the roost (i.e., I’m grabbing each one and hurling it into the roost), when it occurred to me: Maybe the chickens have trained me instead of me training the chickens.
It was at that moment I decided to TAKE BACK THE FARM! Ok…well, take back the chicken coop at least. But someday I’ll take back the farm. I hope. Anyway, for today, I decided to train them to go into the roost at night. It’s warm in the roost, and I can lock them up there so nothing can dig under the coop at night and get them. It’s been a good anti-predator strategy for me.
So the next evening, before it got very dark, I went out to the coop with cracked corn. Cracked corn is the nectar of the gods to my chickens. They will do just about anything for it. So while they were out rambling around the coop, I made a path of the golden treat all the way up the little ladder from the bottom chicken run into the coop. And then I went inside and waited.
Chickens roosting at night
When I went out later to assess my plan’s success, I was shocked and amazed to see every chicken sitting quietly in the roost. They were staring at me like it was totally their idea to come in out of the cold. I decided not to burst their little bubbles and just went with it. I also added a warming light in the roost for winter to give them some extra incentive. And for the most part, it worked. I had fewer chicken wrestling matches every evening, which is a good thing.
The other chicken behavior that I have worked to modify is that of “egg dropping.” So sometimes, when a chicken decides it’s time to lay an egg, she just plops it out. And I mean, she plops it out.…whenever or wherever she might be at the time. This can result in eggs getting broken, stepped on, pooped on, and it can also require you, once again, to have to crawl inside the coop to recover them. The inside of a chicken coop is just not a place anyone wants to crawl. Ick.
So I grabbed one of my husband’s golf balls (it looks a little like an egg) and put it in the nesting box. Once again, while it’s not a perfect science, it does seem to eventually do the trick. After a while, they begin to understand that eggs are better placed in a bed of straw.
I’ve done a ton of reading on the subject of chicken training. I know, my life is really kind of sad. There are many who will argue that chickens are little geniuses. While I love my chickens dearly, I tend to side with the “chickens are not so smart” camp. Doesn’t brain size somewhat affect cognitive ability? There are multiple opinions on the topic, but it seems to make sense to my simple mind.
No worries….I won’t be touching this anytime soon.
It also tracks for me that the less complex the brain, the easier it is to train. My reasoning is that chickens have ways fewer arguments going on up there to stop them from following the corn…or the golf ball…or the light.
Don’t look for my chickens and I anytime soon on the Tic Tac Toe circuit. I’ll be sticking with simple, meaningful tasks. And if anyone out there has training tips for pre-teens, please give me a call. I doubt the cracked corn is going to hold much clout with these complex creatures….but cell phones, on the other hand….
Today I ran to the grocery store. A lady I know through a friend of a friend of a friend’s friend was in front of me at the meat counter. As the butcher handed her a package of meat, she turned to leave, and looked me square in the eye. I smiled and said hello. She raised her eyes above my head (which isn’t difficult because I’m so short) and walked away. And thus, my blog today is about mean people. Not sure why it is so heavy on my mind right now, but I am feeling it all the way to the bone.
C’mon people, just smile!
Ok, so that lady probably isn’t really mean, (although I want to believe she clubs baby seals as a hobby), but as long as I live, I will never understand looking another human being in the eye, seeing them smile, and then acting as if they don’t exist.
There are some excusable reasons, I’ll give you that. You’ve had a really traumatic loss and just can’t deal with people at the moment. You’re bleeding to death and need to get to the emergency room. Those are a couple that come to mind. Typically, those are both pretty readable to the person attempting to greet you. If I don’t know you well, and you look sad, stressed out, or are bleeding profusely, I’ll let you off the hook. If I do know you well, I’ll probably hug you or take you to the emergency room whether you like it or not. Sorry, that’s just who I am.
My next example of mean person behavior is the yelling, screaming, bird-flipping driver. There are days when I’m running late (ok, everyday), and I drive like a bat out of you-know-where. I get more than a little irritated with drivers in front of me that just can’t break the 15-mph mark. But is it really necessary to completely lose it? And if you can completely lose it in this situation, what are you like to live with? Yikes. I’m guessing not pleasant.
Obviously, there are justified anger situations on the road. However, if I accidently do something to tick you off, would you do me a favor and count to ten? I prefer not to explain to my children just yet what the middle finger in the air means.
And now to reveal my number one pet peeve: the all-around mean-to-the-core person. I’ve only known a couple in my lifetime, but they are out there. Of course, there are the obvious ones, the Charles Manson types. They live it and know it. Those are not nice people. Stay away from them.
DO NOT hang out here!
Sometimes, though, they come in disguise. They’ll kick your dog when you’re not looking, or pinch your kid. They’ll be nice to your face, but then do everything they can behind your back to destroy your happiness. Don’t be sucked in. If you suspect, watch them out of the corner of your eye. They’ll eventually show themselves. Then just walk away. Trust me, you’ll be better in the long run. Never forget the old cliche, “With friends like that, who needs enemies?” Truer words were never spoken.
Now I’m starting to sound “preachy.” I used to have a surgeon mentor (I know, strange for an accountant, but I never do things the normal way.) He was the complete opposite of me…kind of cranky, very in-your-face, but always cut right to the chase. I would call him periodically before I had to deliver a difficult message in my previous job. When more than five words would come out of my mouth, he’d say, “That’s it. Stop. Now you just sound ‘preachy.’ Nobody listens to that.”
Well said.
And therefore, this ends my sermon on meanness. To summarize, it’s not good. I have a plaque in my office at home, which holds the best advice I can give myself every single day. Having grown up in a very small town and then moving to a big town, I know this to be oh-so-true. It says, “Be nice, the world is a small town.” Because I promise, Karma will find you and bite you right in the booty. Ouch.
Yes, I said “chicken toys.” I know. It’s ridiculous. However, it seems to be a growing industry. Why didn’t I think of it? I ask myself this question every day.As your chickens stabilize (which for me means they stop dying), I guess it’s time for us to climb Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (see Mom, I did learn something in college). Chickens begin to need “things.” Ok, somebody’s chickens need things anyway. I don’t think mine are that smart.
Yes, that’s a chicken sweater.
The first chicken accessory I saw was a chicken sweater. Uh huh….a sweater for your chicken. It popped up on an advertisement while I was on Facebook as an “item you might like.”
I do like it. But I’m not paying $14 for one. Or rather $112 for eight of them. I mean, how could you single out one chicken with a sweater? That’s like saying, “Hey? You up there, Mr. Hawk! Please eat ME! I’m wearing a really cute, bright sweater.” Not the best plan.
Next, I read about cabbage toys. Apparently, chickens get really bored in the winter. This was a HUGE news flash to me. First of all, I’m really curious about the people that sit around and watch their chickens all day and determine they’re bored. I peek at my chickens occasionally during the day, and never have I seen one twiddling her thumbs….or claws…or whatever. They eat, drink, poop, lay eggs and roost. That pretty much sums it up.
But after I read it over and over, I started to feel guilty. Maybe they’re out there in the coop just praying for a little fun. So I did what the books said: I went to the grocery store, bought some cabbage, chopped it in half and hung it from the top of the chicken coop with a string. Sounds like something a chicken would like, right? Well….not my chickens. They just sat, stared at me and blinked. That’s all I got. And I tried it twice.
Beautiful red cabbage
Sounds like I’m pretty negative on the chicken toys, doesn’t it? I was a total non-believer until I saw….the Chicken Swing, the best chicken toy EVER No matter how silly it sounds, I swear that in every advertisement I’ve ever seen with a chicken in a swing, that chicken looks ecstatic.If a chicken could smile, it would be doing just that while swinging happily back and forth. Seriously…Google it. You’ll see the look of pure joy. I will be investing in one of these very soon. Do you think the eggs taste better when they get a daily ride on the swing? Can’t hurt, right?
Happy chicken on a swing!
So to summarize my thoughts on chicken toys: they are totally adorable but they are totally for you, not the chicken. As long as you realize that, go crazy. Buy eight chicken sweaters. Knock yourself out. And if you do, would you please, please, PLEASE send me a video of you putting the sweater on the chicken? That, my friends, would be entertaining.
I gotta talk about the bees. Apparently bees are the latest rage, and my husband is fascinated by them. Awesome. Can you hear the excitement in my voice? I didn’t think so. I actually think he might be allergic to them, too, but he’d never let a small thing like that get in his way.
When we began to get our chicken population stabilized, we discussed whether our next project should be bees. Since I have a panic attack when any flying, stinging insect gets within 50 feet of me, I was a little on the negative side. What if the bees attack us? What if we create some mutant strain of killer bee and destroy the world? It may sound extreme, but trust me, if it can happen to anyone, it would happen to me. My husband affectionately calls me “an accident looking for a place to happen.”
We decided it might be a good idea to reach out to our local beekeeping experts (yes, there are local beekeeping experts). We signed up for an informational meeting to learn all the ins and outs of bees. We both did our share of research and reading up to the meeting so we could ask intelligent questions. Turns out that wasn’t necessary.
Could it look more evil?
We showed up bright and early (ok, 8 a.m. on a Saturday is bright and early for me) at a very large auditorium for the session. There were hordes of people. The place was packed to the max. We walked in with a guy who told me his bee saga. Turns out he’d lost multiple hives. I was afraid to ask him where they went or why they kept leaving him, but after talking to him for a while, I can honestly see why a bee might want to get away. In fact, I wanted to get away.
The “bee class” turned out to be a four-hour session of the most irritating people you could possibly pull together (me included, of course). Remember in college when all you wanted to do was get out of class, but there was always that one person? Just as you prepare to stand up and gather your books to leave, that one person had to make a point or ask the same question that had already been asked or, worse yet, a philosophical question that could cause the professor to pontificate for hours. Love it. Makes me want to rip my hair out and scream.
Now imagine an auditorium of about 250 of those people, plus my husband and I. Oh, and Sasquatch. I spotted him right away. He was sitting on the far left side of the auditorium but kept having to get up and stalk across the room for the donut table. That creature must’ve eaten 50 donuts. I’m fairly certain he wasn’t there for the bees.
The four hours were spent listening to the same questions and answers over and over and over and over…..you get the picture. And the poor guy who keeps losing bees honestly should join a bee grief support group. His questions were more and more emotional as the day went on. I think maybe he should step away from the bees.
My favorite question was about the type of bees. Apparently, Italian bees are very nice. I guess all that pizza and pasta makes them kind. So those are the bees you want…..very docile. One lady asks, “So how do you tell the difference between the Italian bees and the French bees?” It took every ounce of strength I had not to raise my hand and respond, “Well, the Italian bees all have gorgeous dark hair and love spaghetti, while the French bees have these teeny, tiny little berets.”
It was at that point my husband decided we should leave the bee class before I lost control of myself. My sarcastic comments can only be suppressed for so long, you know, and then I explode. It’s just too much.
We did get some good information that day so I can’t say it was a waste. I had no idea bees were so complex. As compared to chickens, they are like little Einsteins. The whole hive concept is fascinating and amazing.
I’m gonna need a bigger can.
But the jury is still out on whether we can actually tackle them. If we ever go there, I can promise you I’ll be sleeping with one eye open and a can of Raid under my pillow…..just in case things start to go apocalyptic……
In the twenty-something years I spent in the corporate finance world, I experienced all kinds of integration. People, numbers, ideas…all are very complex to integrate. Such integration requires a plan, a committee, a timeline and maybe even an incentive. Bottom line: it is a real drag to combine things sometimes. Change is difficult.
But nothing in all my years of integrating things prepared me for “chicken integration.” Wow. What a nightmare.
I thought (very stupidly), “Let’s get a couple more cute little chickens and toss them in the coop with the others.” Thank goodness I sought advice before I did that. Apparently, those little chicks wouldn’t have make it out alive. The big ones are brutal! They will tear the babies up with their beaks. Yikes! As if I didn’t already have enough death and destruction in the chicken coop. All I needed was a couple of mutilated baby chicks to top it off.
And so began the birth of my Chicken Integration Plan. Unfortunately, the only people I could get to serve on the Committee for Chicken Integration were my daughters and my husband, and they were not what you’d call enthusiastic.
I like to call my oldest daughter The Strategist as she has strategized her way out of trouble many, many times. The Strategist had a brilliant idea. She thought that the chickens were so intellectually challenged that if we snuck the babies into the coop at night, in the dark, that when everyone woke up in the morning, nobody would even notice there were new chicks.
Actually, not a terrible idea. Chickens are really, really not smart. I researched it a bit myself, and I read that in some cases, it can work. There were a couple of instances, however, where it seemed like it was working, and then two weeks later…..BAM….death and destruction.
It cracks me up that two weeks after the babies get snuck into the coop, in the dark, one chicken looks at another chicken and says, “Hey, wait a minute. Does something seem different to you?” And then they go all Charles Manson on the babies. Given the risk, the committee voted this approach down. On to Plan B.
Wait a minute. We have no Plan B.
Finally, the brains of the operation stepped up. My husband came up with a separate, smaller coop that we could attach to the big coop. The babies could exist for a while, in full site of the big ladies, but they were safe out of pecking distance. Brilliant! Not the easiest thing to construct, but we…okay, he…figured it out.
One of the most nerve-wracking days of my life was the day we put them all together, about two weeks after they saw first each other through chicken wire. It was a little tenuous for a bit, but soon they were all doing the “Chicken Dance” together like one big, happy family. Now there’s mental picture you’ll carry for the rest of the day. You’re welcome.
So for all you chicken people out there….the lesson of this post: Do not put baby chickens in a coop with unfamiliar grown chickens, or you will get chickens nuggets. Unless, of course, you want chicken nuggets. Then go for it. But for the rest of you, introduce them first, and give them time to think they’ve known each other for years.
On another note, I’m getting ready to start my giant pumpkin growing escapade. Stay tuned for what is sure to be a complete disaster. I’d love any tips you have on the topic….pumpkins, not disasters.
Tomorrow, April 7, is my grandma’s 90th birthday. So I’m taking another detour and writing this post for her.
I can’t even begin to help you understand how important my grandmother is to me. I had a wonderful childhood. My parents were, and still are, great people. All I remember is fun. And that’s exactly what childhood should be. I was lucky enough to have also a second set of parents…my Grandma and Grandpa Scott.
Grandma and Grandpa when they were dating
Unlike many kids, I was fortunate enough to have young grandparents. They were just into their 40’s when I was born, close to the age I am right now. That alone blows my mind.
I have so many memories of time spent with both of them. There were endless days of fishing, riding horses and tractors, playing on the farm, gardening, working cattle and playing all kinds of sports. My grandma could throw a mean left-handed softball. She could always strike my grandpa out (and he loved that.)
I spent nearly every Saturday night with my grandparents. We would eat dinner early and then my grandpa tortured me with the “tickling game” (he’d hold me upside down by my feet and tickle the bottoms of them until I would nearly puke). Then he would go to bed.
Grandma would let my sisters and I stay up with her and watch “The Carol Burnett Show,” but we had to keep the television (and our laughing) really quiet so Grandpa could sleep. Sometimes we didn’t do such a great job with the quiet thing. But man, we had some fun.
We would wake up on Sunday morning to the smell of Grandma cooking pancakes, bacon and eggs. Grandpa would already be off to check and set trot lines and take care of cattle. She’d then get started on lunch as we’d head off to church.
Nearly every Sunday for as long as I can remember, Grandma made fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, homemade rolls served with her own plum jam, and homemade pies. We would have it after church, as a family, and those meals are still so warm and wonderful in my memory.
We’d play the rest of Sunday away and then have leftovers at my grandparents’ house while we watched “The Wonderful World of Disney.” I’d give just about anything to go back for just one weekend and live it over with my family, truly understanding how precious those moments are. Here I am, writing this, getting all teary just thinking about it.
Grandpa Scott
My grandfather passed away from colon cancer when I was 16. I was devastated and to this day, knowing my grief, I will never comprehend what my grandmother experienced. I sat on her lap at his funeral and held on tight to her. I remember feeling like a baby, even though I was almost an adult. I never saw her cry or heard her say a sad word until much later in my life. She has so much strength and grace.
She never remarried, but she also didn’t dwell on the tragedy. She kept moving forward, pushing all of her grandkids to be something and do important things in our lives…to hold us each of us up as she knew my grandfather would have done.
My grandma was forever singing, always holding my hand, telling me she loved me, comforting me through sickness and sadness. She was always laughing, even at times when my Grandpa was so serious. There were times at the farm that I actually thought he might leave us out in the field because Grandma would get cracked up over his seriousness, and then all of us (except him) would end up in a fit of giggles.
Today, at Grandma’s 90th birthday party, I was sitting across from her. So many people were there. She had a fall earlier this morning and hurt her elbow pretty badly, sixteen stitches worth. She really didn’t remember falling, and I was sitting there with her, talking and thinking about how I wasn’t totally sure she knew why all these people were gathering for her. Sometimes her mind isn’t totally as it used to be, not that any of us can say we’re as clear today as we were yesterday (me included).
The lady who helps take care of her came over, patted her on the shoulder and said, “Now don’t touch that arm, Sweetie. The doctor told you not to push on it too much. As soon as this party is over, I’ll get you a pain pill. If I get it now, you’ll get sleepy and not be able to function.”
My grandma sat there for a minute, nodding her head sweetly at the lady. As soon as she turned her back, Grandma looked me square in the eye and mouthed, “Bullshit.” Her eyes twinkled, and I burst out laughing.
I love her so much. She isn’t the same to everyone else as she was years ago, but to me, she’s still Grandma. She’s my amazing Grandma. Here’s to 90 blessed years of her making this world a better place.
If you had told me two years ago I would spend an inordinate amount of time scouring the internet, buying every book I could find on the shelf and participating in online chicken forums (I know….lame) to find out what is killing my chickens, I would’ve said you’re nuts. I mean, as my daughter said, “Mom, they’re just chickens.”
I get it. They’re not complex animals. In fact, there are rocks smarter than your average chicken. But they don’t deserve a brutal death, in my opinion. Unless, of course, you’re serving them up for Sunday dinner after church. Then it’s totally acceptable to lop off their heads, soak them up in buttermilk, dust them in flour and paprika and drop them in a frying pan. Yum. Sorry, lost my train of thought….I was dreaming of fried chicken.
So we started with the monster raccoon and the deaths of my first three chickens. Next, I had an Americauna that came down with some sort of illness. Her eyes were oozing and she smelled rancid. Ick. It was pretty gross. That’s my very technical diagnosis. We treated her and the rest of the flock with antibiotics. None of the others got sick, and she was recovering nicely, when my friendly neighborhood owl swooped down and made brunch of her.
Big Red
I ordered three baby chicks (and received five…but that’s a whole different story for another day) to replenish my flock. They were living in the garage in an old blue tub when one day, my dog, Sallie, tried to eat one. I went to check on them after I heard a commotion in the garage, and they were scattered to high Heaven. I found my little black and white chick bleeding around her neck.
But don’t worry, I applied chicken first aid. I cleaned the wound, applied antibiotic ointment and wrapped a bandage around her neck. She loved that. It stayed in place approximately two seconds before she managed to get it off. It was pretty amusing to watch. In fact, I’m certain she sustained more injuries from throwing herself against the sides of the blue tub to get the bandage off than she did from the neck wound. I will say this: she lived to lay eggs and is now perfectly healthy. Therefore, my first aid must’ve done some good.
Our flock had finally made it up to nine birds (four of them laying), which felt like a huge success to me. We were still free ranging them during the day, and then locking then up at night. I walked down one afternoon to check on the ladies, and it struck me that it was eerily quiet. When I got to the coop, only one chicken was inside. I started searching frantically for the other birds, with no luck. Finally, I stumbled on the bad thing. One of my beautiful Black Australorp hens (my most prolific layer) was a goner, killed by a hawk.
The Black Australorp sisters
We were eventually able to find the other birds, but they were not happy campers. It took DAYS to get more eggs. Stressed out chickens do not make eggs.
I now strongly dislike (my daughters won’t let me use the word “hate”) hawks….and owls….and raccoons. While free ranging chickens sounds great in concept, it has been pretty difficult for me. If there are any flying daytime predators or wandering neighborhood dogs, you might as well count on losing one of two girls pretty regularly. Which brings me to the worst predator of all: the unknown kind.
I constantly monitor the coop to try and avoid a sneak attack. I’m always tracking footprints, watching for dig marks around the coop and looking for bent wires in the coop walls. You might say I’m a little on the paranoid side. I should’ve been a detective. Except I’m terrible at detecting.
One night I decided we needed to do a chicken check. I had forgotten to do it before it got dark outside, and I really like to make sure everything’s secure before I go to bed. My husband offered but being the trooper (or martyr) I am, I insisted I would be fine. He told me to grab my flashlight and my gun, just in case something was waiting for me. That did nothing to ease my vivid imagination.
I had my gun in one hand and flashlight in the other as I stepped out toward the chicken coop, which sits about 50 yards from our house, in the pitch black darkness. I had made it approximately 5 feet from the driveway when something, and I mean something BIG, spun in the dirt and took off in the opposite direction of me. Like a bolt.
I did what every brave and armed person should do. I screamed like a girl, turned around and ran back in the house, flashlight dropped on ground and gun waving in the air. I ran all the way into the garage, through the house, to the bedroom, where my husband was sitting calmly in our bed.
“Everything ok?” he asked me.
“IT TRIED TO KILL ME!!!” I screamed back, gun still above my head.
I will never know what was in the yard with me that night, stalking my chickens. My husband says it was a deer. Whatever. I’m pretty sure a deer wouldn’t try to kill me.
So that’s my personal synopsis of chicken predators. They are bad news, and there are many of them: neighborhood dogs, raccoons, owls, hawks and occasionally a coyote or fox. Complete protection isn’t possible. There are lots of deterrents but many predators are wily and eventually find a way if they need food. I’ve come to peace with that.
In my backyard?!?
However, I’m not fully at peace with the creature in my backyard that was after ME. I mean, are we really sure there’s no such thing as Sasquatch? Maybe he (or she) likes chicken? All I know is…if I ever find a gigantic footprint in my backyard, I’m considering a move to a really big city…..
Small detour from the chickens here. Sorry, but I had a “happening” that I have to get out of my system. I keep replaying the evening over and over in my mind and it just doesn’t get any better. Sometimes it helps me to “write it out” so here goes….
I have a precious miniature poodle named Sallie. Sallie has been my friend on days when I honestly didn’t deserve to have a friend. She has seen me through dark days and happy days, never wavering. Needless to say, I love her limitlessly.
Sallie the dog
Our family recently added a new member, Miss Rosie. Rosie is a beautiful black lab with tons of affection and energy. But with the addition of another pet, we decided to get some obedience training for Miss Sallie. She’s a great dog, we just never got around to doing it. Our thought was that keeping her from jumping on guests (in addition to curbing other doggie behaviors) would assist when we train Rosie, who will be massive in size, to not jump on people and maul them.
We asked a trainer to come evaluate her, since she’s four years old, so we would be clear on where to place her in class.
Sallie was brilliant in the evaluation. She could sit, ring a bell, take a bow….very cute. Based on this evaluation, the trainer placed her in a “tricks” class, for more advanced doggie learning. Sounded like a great plan. Until the class….
Sallie was a maniac. We got the pleasure of sitting next to a lady who had a tiny dog, that came into the dog training center in a cute picnic basket that matched her owner’s outfit….and the dog’s. Wowza. That dog could do everything but cook me a fried chicken dinner, which it could probably do if someone took the time to train it. Unfortunately, all Sallie wanted to do was eat that dog. Not so good.
Based on this performance, I made the call to move Sallie to a more basic obedience class for older dogs. I figured we could use the attention training, and thought it best that we not damage the sweet little picnic basket dog. So we went to our first class last Thursday.
As we walked in, the first thing they did was place us in a separate room from the other dogs, which was a brilliant idea, since Sallie was a little excited. They then placed a girl in the room with us to assist me with training Sallie.
Unfortunately, I think that girl, who was very sweet, has trained about as many dogs as I have, and that number is zero. Someone kept having to come in the room to tell her what to tell me to tell Sallie to do…lots of middle men here. We spent much of our time waiting for the person to come back in and tell us what to do next. I should probably state here that I have little tolerance for inefficiency. Oh, I’m not particularly efficient myself, but I’m great at judging others. I have a breaking point and we had almost reached it. Then the thunderstorm started.
I knew it had been cloudy outside, and we were expected to get some showers. However, I was not prepared for people running out of rooms and yelling, “These dogs are just shutting down!!!” I’m sorry, what!?! What the heck does that mean!?! Sallie was not shutting down. Well, anyway, I don’t think she was.
The lead trainer suddenly instructs us all to bring our dogs to the main room so we can learn about dogs and thunderstorms. Alrighty, we were fine with that. Apparently, some dogs can get freaked out by storms. It makes sense. Especially since my young daughter, who is with me, is also TOTALLY FREAKED OUT by storms.
I’m so happy that at this point we are all sitting around, discussing storms like the end of the world is about to occur. One guy yells, “I think I see a wall cloud!” At this point, my daughter turns WHITE! She is terrified. Forget the dogs, my kid needs a thunder shirt! And seriously, if you see a wall cloud, maybe we shouldn’t be here with our dogs, waiting to get blown away.
The lead trainer points to a dog, a beautiful yellow lab, and says, “See…look at that dog! He’s completely SHUT DOWN!” I look over and he appears to be sleeping peacefully. Hmmmm….now I’m struggling a little with the whole “shutting down” thing.
She then instructs us to rub our dog down with fabric softener at home when a storms approaches to calm it. I’m thinking, “If I rub Rosie or Sallie down with fabric softener sheets, I am fairly certain Rosie will try to eat them,and then we’ll be at the emergency vet clinic all night.” (Rosie has an appetite for dryer sheets….not sure why, but she really, really wants to eat them.)
I’m sure there’s merit to the recommendation. It just hit my daughter and I as hilarious. And it’s never good to get the giggles in the middle of what other people perceive as a crisis. Not good at all.
After the thunderstorm lecture, we are asked to get our dogs going again and try to get them to follow the “sit” command. That kind of cracks me up as, after all the stress, the yelling and my daughter having an anxiety attack, Sallie is not very relaxed and cannot focus at all. We try and try and try again. Nope, not gonna sit.
Rosie the puppy
All of a sudden, the trainer blurts out a question to me, “Is your dog fat or is she just bloated and gassy?” I’m sorry…what?!? Did you seriously just call my best friend “fat” in front of everyone? And that’s when I went right over that little edge.
I did contain myself until class ended. I took my sweet Sallie up to the front desk and asked the trainer, “Did you call my dog fat?”
“Yes,” she said, “I think she might be carrying some extra weight. I think that’s why she won’t listen to you. She’s not hungry enough.” She then feels her tummy. “Oh, never mind,” she says then, “She just looks bigger than she actually is. How often do you feed her?”
I reply, “I feed her twice a day. She eats a special food as we’ve had a horrible time with her digestive system. I’ve worked with my vet, who I trust completely, for years to try and get it right. In fact, Sallie doesn’t eat much more than half a can of food a day.”
“Well,” she replies, “You need to cut her food in half. She won’t obey you if she’s not hungry.”
Ummm….I think I’ll stick with feeding her.
She asks me where I got Sallie. I make the mistake of saying we got her at PetLand, before we all knew the terrible things that place did to puppies. I then get a lecture on how those dogs were bred for looks, not personality, and therefore, Sweet Sallie is just from bad stock. She diagnoses her with generalized anxiety disorder. Now I’m getting anxiety.
“Are you a nervous person?” she asks, “You know dogs sometimes act like their owners.”
I look at my daughters. “Am I a nervous person, girls?” I ask.
“Not at all, Mom,” they reply faithfully and in unison, although the eye rolling doesn’t totally escape me.
“DO I SEEM LIKE A NERVOUS PERSON?!?” I screech at the trainer, in a voice so high-pitched I’m pretty sure only the dogs heard it. It’s at this point that my daughters start pulling me toward the door. Yes, probably a good time to head home.
Sallie in her party clothes
Needless to say, Sallie won’t be jumping out of any picnic baskets soon and we still don’t have our matching outfits. Actually, I think I’ll just order us matching thunder shirts and call it a day….
Ok, so I must first give you some background on how my chicken infatuation started. It may be a little boring but it will help you understand how something that is so simple for most people has been a FREAKING NIGHTMARE for me. I just don’t give up easily. So here goes:
Once upon a time, I ran to Orscheln farming supply store to buy some plants for my garden. It turned out to be a fateful trip, as I had an encounter with baby chicks. And I mean BABY CHICKS…hundreds of them! There were yellow ones, black ones, yellow and black ones. They were adorable.
I knew I wanted to start raising chickens, I just hadn’t planned to come home that day with three of them. But I did.
My kids and I left Orsheln’s with medicated chick starter feed, a chick waterer (more appropriately named, “a place for chicks to poop”), a chick feeding tray, and three sweet baby chicks. We also had to snag a heating light, a big plastic tub and some cedar bedding.
As I am a nuturer by nature (ironic, isn’t it?), taking care of the baby chicks was a piece of cake. I fed, watered, cleaned up poo-poo and gave them tons of playtime. I also made the terrible mistake of naming them: Lilly, Bailey, and Miss Kaye.
At about eight weeks, the chicks were fully feathered and roosting regularly in their big blue tub house. We decided it was time to move outside for two reasons: they were pooping everywhere and our dog, Sallie, was trying to make them into chicken nuggets daily.
Back to Orsheln’s we went to get a chicken coop. We finally settled on a small, cute coop with an attachable run to give them some exercise space. We also decided it was time to switch to layer feed (much less expensive) and to upgrade to a larger watering container. Chickens need A LOT of water. And it pretty much just runs right through them. Exactly like food. Nice.
My little chickens loved their new home. In fact, it was all running like clockwork until….our first predator attack. Ugh. It was brutal…feathers and feet everywhere. Lilly, Bailey and Miss Kaye went to the Great Chicken Palace in the sky. RIP girls.
After a good cry, I went on a rampage. It was like an episode of Chicken CSI. Unnoticed by me, something had been digging around the chicken coop, with a yummy chicken dinner on the brain. After several attempts and apparently an all-nighter, this monster managed to get into the chicken coop and pull the chickens out.
I took pictures of tracks around the coop. I compared the tracks to every internet source on predators, determined to seek revenge. I did everything except send the prints to a crime lab. My final conclusion was that a monstrous raccoon, probably 30 pounds or more (yes, they get that big), was our culprit. I bought chicken wire, rope, rocks, anything to reinforce the coop. I recruited my husband (Mr. Survivalist) to help build a fortress. When completed, it looked like something out of The Walking Dead…or the Beverly Hillbillies…anyway, one of the two. However, it did look like it could deter creatures that eat chickens.
Since I had not told my daughters yet about the chicken fatalities, I did what every insanely overprotective parent would do: I went to find replacements! This day shall always be known as “The Great Chicken Adventure.”
My husband and I searched low and high. We searched far and wide. And all we could come up with were two, newly hatched Black Australorps. At 3 bucks each, we boxed them up and drove them home from Lebanon.
Then I did the unthinkable, the thing every chicken resource under the sun tells you NEVER, EVER to do. I looked on Craigslist. I called a number on Craigslist. And I drove out into the middle of nowhere to buy three 20-week-old chickens from a fourteen-year-old girl, Sara.
Thank God Sara turned out to be a sweet chicken farmer and not a serial killer. Honest to goodness, Sara told me more that afternoon than anybody else had ever told me about raising chickens. She’s a chicken genius….a prodigy. I left her place with a Rhode Island Red (Big Red), an Americauna, and a Plymouth Barred Rock.
Big Red was an amendment to my earlier rule to never name another chicken. She was an exception from the minute I met her. If anything takes out Big Red, I will come out shooting. I love that girl.
Stay tuned for the next chapter…..we’ll talk about my chicken integration plan. It is actually a complex topic, considering the birds themselves have the IQ of an earthworm.
Oh, I did tell my girls about the death and destruction in the chicken coop. My oldest daughter’s reply? “Well, good grief, Mom! They’re chickens.”
Well….here I am. Getting ready to start something I NEVER thought in a million years I would EVER do. I’m going to write about chickens.
Yep, you heard me right. I’m starting a blog about chickens.
You may be saying in your head (or even out loud), “What a nut job.”
It’s true. I admit it. I may not be in my right mind, but it sounds like so much fun. And I can’t resist any longer.
Chickens have become a hilarious part of my day. I have eight….currently. It can vary by two or more pretty regularly. I love them but have learned to accept they are not brilliant animals (hello, my name is Jennifer and I know chickens are NOT smart). It’s taken months of hands on therapy for me to get to this point. I get it.
But…they are so sweet. Each chicken has it’s own distinct personality. They’re easy to please. They are uncomplicated. And best of all, they are always ecstatic to see me walking towards them. Does it get much better than that?!?!
On a down note, they do poop a lot. And I mean A LOT! It’s an awful smell. Trust me, I’ve crawled around in it. Not good.
I can’t wait to tell my stories. I’ve had many people say to me, “You should write these stories down! You can’t make this stuff up.” It’s true. You truly can’t make it up. It’s too ridiculous. And even though I know I should know better (I grew up in a VERY small town), I am a believer in the concept that it never really sticks until you go through it (true of life lessons and chicken poop, ironically).
So….come along and follow me….I’ll give you a smile for your day and if you are interested in getting chickens, I’ll give you hope that even the lamest farmer (I realize that’s a strong word for what I am) can do it. You can learn from my mistakes and even ask me your craziest chicken question. I may not know, but as it turns out, I have a wealth of chicken resources in my family. Who knew?!?!
And if chickens are not your thing, I’ll throw in some other topics that might be. One of my goals for the summer is to grow a giant pumpkin. Not sure why. It just sounds like all kinds of fun.
Here’s to new adventures! And laughter. Where would we be without either?
