Chicks In The Mail

We have chickens.

It was my husband's idea.  Two years ago he came home from work with a big ole smile on his face.   "Kids!" he shouted.  "I have a surprise for you in the car!"

Greta and Finn ran gleefully to the car, and he pulled out a shoebox with holes in the side.   Inside were - get this - SIX baby chicks.   Turns out there is a little farm store in the neighboring town, where one can purchase baby chickens if one is so inclined.

I knew he was thinking about getting chickens, and while I thought he was a little nuts, I wasn't going to get in the way.    But I didn't realize at the time he meant he was going to get chickens, like, that week. 

While Steve and the kids giggled and played with the newest members of our family, I peppered him with questions like: where the heck are these critters going to live, sweetheart?    He had it all planned out.   The chicks spent the first two months living in increasingly large boxes in our basement, while he built a gorgeous A-Frame chicken coop.   I call it the Chicken Condo.  It's practically nicer than my living room.

About ten months later we started getting eggs.  If you are an egg person, there is nothing more delicious than a farm fresh egg.     Although the idea does take some getting used to.   I was accustomed to purchasing my eggs in a nice brightly lit supermarket.    Now we could get an egg that was still warm from the, er, source.   One of the chickens lays light green eggs.   That took some getting used to as well. 

Turns out chickens are pretty low maintenance.     We've had the occasional mass break-out.  I can picture them there, late at night, pecking out their escape route in the dirt.      One day they all figured out a way over the chicken wire surrounding their coop and fled, en masse, to the neighbor's yard.   This prompted a little visit from the Chicken Police, politely asking us to keep them contained.   Yes, there is such a thing as the Chicken Police.   

Talk about a learning curve.

We've had a few losses, and we're down to three chickens.   Yellowy passed due to natural causes, PeePee was lost due to the proverbial Fox in the Henhouse, and most recently Blackie had an unfortunate encounter with a Chickenhawk.    Such is life.  My husband started making noises that three chickens isn't enough.   Maybe we should get some more?

So yesterday as he was heading out the door to work, he shouts over his shoulder, "the new chicks should be arriving today.   Have a good day!"  

I was rushing around getting the kids ready for school, so he had already pulled down the driveway when I thought:  Wait?  What? What does he mean arriving?    This question was answered a few hours later with a voice mail message from the post office.  "This is Sue from the post office.   Your express package from, er, 'My Chicken' is here, and we need you to come pick it up as quickly as possible."

Yes.  It turns out you can order baby chicks by mail*.

The kids and I piled in the car and drove to the post office.   We walk in, wait in line, and then we hear it:   cheeping.    It is so loud the post office worker has to raise his voice a little.    It gets to be our turn at the counter, and I sheepishly say, "We're here to pick up an Express Delivery.     The, um, cheeping one."  

We take the chicks home, and carefully open the box.  There they are:  nestled comfortably in straw over two warming pads:   three baby chicks.     Meet Curious, Fluffles and Joe:

*I was worried about this practice, too, but it's done all the time, and the chicks are safely and comfortably transported  through a special delivery service.    So it's all good.

Chickenhawk Down

Yesterday I was washing the breakfast dishes (oh, who am I kidding, I was washing last night's dinner dishes, too) when my eye falls on a the spaghetti pot, still partway full of cooked noodles. I decide to give the chickens (yes, we have four chickens) a treat; they have been trapped inside their coop since the last snowfall, and began gleefully running around their pen as soon as we let them out this morning. The chickens love spaghetti.

Greta follows me outside (Finn is at a friend's house), and I open the little gate and step into their pen - a small fenced in area in our woods that is about 20 feet x 20 feet.

That's odd, I think. The chickens are nowhere to be seen.

"Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!" I yell - this always brings them running. Nothing. I spot one chicken through the trees, cautiously making her way over to me. I scoop some noodles into my hand and slowly walk towards her. "C'mere chicken, I have some noodles for you!" I say, and hold the spaghetti out like a peace offering.

Now, my eyesight isn't what it used to be, so I'm only about four feet away when I realize that what I'm looking at isn't a chicken at all: it's a hawk. A big one. Five feet beyond the hawk lies the sad remains of one of our chickens.

"Stay where you are!" I yell to Greta, who immediately catches the alarm in my voice. "WHY?" she yells back. "WHAT IS IT?"

I'm trying to spare her the sight of what is left of Bubbles, and I don't know what hawks do when they are cornered, even when offered spaghetti. So I say, as calmly as I can, "It's a hawk, sweetie. Stay where you are."

"NOOOOOOOO!" she says, and starts to cry. "Are the chickens okay?" Before I can stop her, she runs up to the side of the pen. Thankfully, Bubbles is mostly covered by leaves, but she knows what she is seeing, and she cries even harder.

The hawk is eyeing me cautiously. I back away slowly and check inside the coop. The remaining three chickens are in there, safe, but clucking nervously. "The other chickens are fine," I tell Greta. "But we have to get the hawk out of here."

"BAD HAWK!" she says. "Go away go away go away!"

The hawk starts walking towards the far side of the pen, and I notice that it's hurt. One wing is dragging on the ground, and it is limping. Greta sees this, and her affections change immediately. "The hawk is hurt, the hawk is hurt! MommayouhavetohelpitohmyGoditshurt!"

I'm standing there helplessly, holding limp spaghetti, with my mouth hanging open. I decide to regroup. I throw the spaghetti at the hawk, back out of the pen and close the gate.

"I'm confused now," Greta says quietly, tears streaming down her face. "I'm mad at that hawk because it killed Bubbles, but now I want it to be okay, too."

"The hawk was just doing what hawks do, honey," I say. "Let's go inside and figure out what to do."

We go back inside and I call my husband at work. He doesn't have any bright ideas, but says he wants a picture. We head back outside with the camera to take a picture of the hawk. It is back to pecking away at the chicken, but when it sees us it starts limping away, dragging its wing. It look so pathetic that I feel badly for it, despite what it has done to Bubbles. I inch closer, camera raised. It limps faster. When I'm about six feet away, it spreads its wings and soars to a high tree branch. It is fine.

"It's not hurt!" Greta cries indignantly. "Stupid hawk!"

I have one of those moments where I just want to blink my eyes and forget about it. So that is what I do. I know - I'm great in a crisis.

"Let's go back inside, sweetie," I say to Greta. "There's nothing more we can do for Bubbles, and the other chickens are safe. We'll deal with it when Dad gets home."

Greta is still quietly crying, and we cuddle on the couch for a bit and talk about the circle of life, and the food chain. I get into a complicated conversation about who is higher on the food chain - humans or sharks - since sharks can eat us with their bare teeth and we can't eat sharks with our bare teeth. I'm in over my head, clearly, so I suggest we look up the hawk on the internet to learn more. Turns out birds will pretend to be hurt to lure threats away from their prey.

I'm going to try that the next time I'm in a confrontational situation and don't have a witty retort. I'm just going to limp away flailing one arm helplessly and go for the sympathy vote.

Or maybe I'll just chuck some spaghetti and run away.

Animals are People, Too

The other day I was sunning on the deck and I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A squirrel was making his way across our back yard with an hydrangea blossom in his mouth. I don't know much about the habits of squirrels, but from what I've heard their preferred foods run along nut-and-acorn lines... so I wondered what on earth he was planning on doing with it. As I watched, he made his way carefully across the backyard - the blossom was large, so it was slow going - and climbed up a nearby tree. He worked his way to the end of a large branch, where he sat patiently for ten minutes or so, the bloom perched delicately in his mouth. Was he trying to attract a mate? Did he offend Mrs. Squirrel in some way, and was trying to get back in her good graces? Were his reasons more practical - a good pillow, perhaps? After a bit he scampered away, so I'll never know.

One brisk morning I was sitting on the steps of our back porch, soaking in some late fall sun. My eyes were closed, and I heard movement directly in front of me, a kind of rustling. I assumed it was the dog, until I heard a low garbling sound, and I opened my eyes to see a huge wild turkey standing about three feet away. He was the size of a medium sized dog, and he was staring at me expectantly. "Hello?" I tried. Then, "Gobble?" He said nothing, just stood there, looking all superior. I waved my arms a bit hoping to shoo him away, he was freaking me out a little, and he took a step closer. It was awkward - he seemed to be waiting for something - food? a hug? an apology for the whole Thanksgiving thing? I got the impression he would have stood there indefinitely if the dog hadn't realized what was going on and come bounding out of the house. The turkey spread his huge wings - I didn't even know they could fly, for crying out loud - and soared up to the very top of a huge pine tree, where he resumed his hateful staring. I slipped back inside, feeling oddly guilty.

A few months ago I was cleaning up breakfast, and heard a loud, tinny sound from outside the front door - a ping.... ping.... ping. The noise would stop for a few moments, then from further away, like an echo, more pinging. After five minutes or so my curiosity got the better of me, and I poked my head out the front door to see what it was. It took me a few minutes to realize a little bird - no bigger than a sparrow - was perched atop the metal electronics box at the top of the telephone pole at the end of our driveway. He would cock his head, wait a bit, and the peck repeatedly at the box, creating a startlingly loud PING. Then, after 30 seconds or so, a distant answer ... another little bird was pinging back to him from a telephone pole up the road. Birdy morse code? A high tech way to attract a mate? Why wouldn't they just chirp to each other? It reminded me of the coffee-can-and-string telephones I would make with my neighbor when I was girl. We could totally call each other on the phone, but why do that when the other way is so much fun?

Last year I was sitting at my computer near an open window, and I heard a loud crashing sound in the woods. I looked out the window, and it took me a few minutes to see the large male deer standing about 25 feet away, slowing making his way through the woods - he was heading towards the road. Then, more crashing, and I realized there was an entire family of deer coming up behind him - a doe, and two smaller deer - not fawns, but more like teenagers. They cautiously worked their way right up to the edge of the road. Cars were rushing by, and my stomach lurched at the thought that I was about to witness something horrible. As I was debating whether to run out towards the road to stop any oncoming cars, the buck put one hoof on the road, stuck his head out and looked left, then right, then left again - as if he had been watching Noggin and knew the proper way to check for traffic. Seeing none, he huffed once through his nose, tossed his head, and the little family darted across the road and into the woods on the other side, with him following safely behind.