Chapter 2: Step away from the baby chicks

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, alrighty then.

Hugs and blessings always,

LITTLE JEN in the BIG WOODS

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