Roosters

He's not the first Lester, but rather Lester Jr. The name seems to stick to all our roosters as the phrase "Lester the Molester" just seems so apt. When it comes to his hens, Lester is not at all concerned about their romantic desires. He's all business, the boss, and in return, he will point out the choicest morsels of food and fight off any intruders to death if necessary (which is what happened to Lester Sr., killed by a dog through the fence).

I'm always amused to hear about people that are about to have "the talk" with their thirteen year old kids. At our place, the talk starts about age two or three when the child laughs, "Look, Mommy, Lester's riding on the back of that chicken!" And, I say no, Lester is fertilizing her eggs. At that age, you usually get an "oh" and that's the end of it. Of course as they get older, the questions require a more detailed explanation.

Having farm animals teaches so much, science, bringing life into the world, death, how to handle emergencies, how to love. We've lost something in our culture by being disconnected from our food sources. For example, I've many times been asked if we must keep a rooster in order to have eggs. I then explain to the adult that no, hens have eggs daily just as humans do monthly, male or no. I am happy to field such questions, such as do we eat the fertilized eggs (we do) because I'm happy to share what we have.

I hear Lester now, crowing his head off, waiting for me to release them from the coop. He starts this time of year at about 4 a.m. Two of the five ugly black chickens (an unlikely mix of one quarter Arucauna, one quarter Cochin and one half black Silkie) are roosters. They will easily be re-homed through Freecycle, though I try not to think about their fate once they leave here. I try to find them homes at horse farms, where they are prized at eating bugs. The yellow chicks (I still don't know what breed) are as yet unsexed.

Farm Notes
On NPR, I heard a story about a farm that uses horses for pet therapy, something I have wanted to do with our minis. To my delight, it is about 20 minutes from my house. How fortuitous!

I got a load of hay yesterday. We made it through the winter with what we had bought, though perhaps had Bay lived (the boy liked his hay) we might not have. When I called to buy more, it wasn't yet ready or "cured". It looks to be a good year for hay so far.

A Load of .....Well, You Know

Lauren and I are pet sitting this week for a young couple and their baby who are in Paris and then London. Another job starts in two days for a woman traveling to Israel. And of course, my own dear daughter just returned from Japan. Myself? I am moving manure.

Over the winter, we've accumulated a good amount of, shall we say, fertilizer? An elderly neighbor loves all that we can give her, and so her husband dutifully brings a trailer over for me to load with our tractor.

It is good timing. The house next to ours, built behind our barn and near the manure pile for what reason I'll never comprehend, was sold and a "middle-aged woman and her mother" (according to the selling couple) are moving in. I've not had to deal with neighbors much at all, but each time I do, I wonder if they'll complain about our rooster crowing, my kids in the yard all hours of the day, or horses that churn up the dry paddock that is next to the intensely manicured lawn.

The house and yard in question are beautiful. Lauren described the cleanliness of Japan. Yet, how could I live without the animals? What could be more satisfying than a good tractor and a pile of manure to move. Okay, I dream of a Caribbean vacation with dh and my girls before they grow up and fly the nest. And yes, I'd like to travel. And yes, a new house with a working septic system and new roof would be lovely. But right now, in this place, we've worked together as a family, felt joy and loss, learned to appreciate small things - like how little chickies love to fight over and rip apart a worm, or how foals make a funny face to older horses that says "I'm a baby - please don't hurt me". I wouldn't change our lifestyle for the world.

As for the photo, William continues his paternal family's farming tradition by learning to drive a tractor from an early age. Dh claims to have driven a tractor standing up, well before he could reach the pedals. (Warning: Do not try this at home!) You can see that Wm has the same photosensitivity that runs in our family. I offered sunglasses, and he claimed he did not need them.
"But, you are squinting," I protested.
"It's only because my eyelashes are sweaty," he replied.
Okaaaaay.

Beyond Gross

I've had to do some disgusting things in my life, but Sunday took the cake. My mom, hearing the tale, said that she has changed her mind about someday owning a mini-farm or at least one with chickens. It all started Sunday morning when I noticed that Mo, a six year old Black Giant hen, appeared to be moving very stiffly. Her rear was completely caked. You can guess with what. When I picked her up, she gave the breathy whine that signaled either pain or distress that I was picking her up.

Taking her into the kitchen, she was given a bath in the deep sink there, causing nearly everyone, myself included, to nearly lose our lunch from the smell. Blown dry, I took her back outside and put her down. She stood there miserably. I noticed her crop was quite large. A crop is a kind of pre-stomach in a chicken where they gather food. Sometimes, they get impacted, perhaps from eating hay or long pieces of grass, or some food forming a ball there. I took her inside and put her in a cage. I thought we'd wait and see if the "in" might improve after cleaning the "out".

I'd read how to make a hen vomit by holding her slightly upside down and squeezing the crop. A sour smell indicates impacted crop. I almost emptied my crop with this process, but she indeed was sour. I liberally cleaned the kitchen with pure bleach and went with my family to a Super Bowl party, hoping she'd now feel better. On my return, it seemed she was going downhill. It was either drastic measures or she'd die for sure.

I read on the internet how to slit the crop and pull out the contents. The websites assured me that this was not painful to the hen. I took out the razor, cleaned it and her with peroxide and made a small slit. She didn't move. Out came bird seed and who knows what. I hadn't given her bird seed in several days, so she was impacted, but I found no "mass". She looked worse, and I saw that look I've seen many times. She wasn't going to make it. By the next morning, she was gone.

Wm and I took her and Lester, the rooster who'd been "on ice" since his death by racoon, and buried them back in the woods. Wm went on about how happy they'll be in heaven with God and how happy they'll be to be buried together and have "company".