I Smell a Rat!, or There's an Agnostic in da house...

As a recovering Catholic, this guilt laden entry, (as it is long overdue, but who cares the reason, there are gazillion opportunities to saddle myself with guilt!), is proof that I will never be an atheist no matter how hard I try. Three Hail of Marys, two Our Fathers....done.

Picture a cold as hell day in January. The bare trees creak in the wind, the snow crunches like Styrofoam packing peanuts under your fugly Uggs, friends (all 1,567 of my closest), are FaceBooking temperature readings off their cars...12F, 15F, 2F.  I saw it coming so the day before the deep freeze I emptied my girls' coop of all its old litter, and replaced it with a thick blanket of new shavings, clean and dry. I had read that during abominably cold winter days, hen mothers must be sure that the coop is bone-dry, lofty, and impeccably clean so that the girls can languish in all their downy goodness without the threat of warmth-sucking high humidity levels.

That done, I look for a measly egg or two, which have not been forthcoming as of late. So I conduct a quick perusal of the Taj McChicken for possible robbers (and while I'm at it for cheaters and liers, because I was raised Catholic). I see many holes and tunnels, but no trace of their occupants until......AH HA! AHHHHCK IKES WTF!! There, lying in an nesting box, right next to one of Bonnie's beautiful blue eggs is a giant furry RAT! I suck my lips back over my now protruding teeth in abject horror. I'm sure I hear the thrum of Jaws music in the background (instead of my usual tinnitus), and feel my gag reflex...WAIT! (screeching halt) What do we have here? "Templeton's" eyes appear half opened, AND he looks fairly pliable, so I'm not sure if he is dead or alive. I scoop him into the kitchen scrap bowl that I carried to the coop and he doesn't budge. Yep. Dead. Phew! I stood there for a moment, confounded by this discovery....Why? Why did this furry, not so utterly disgusting creature, with rather cute ears and a beautiful soft coat of brown fluff die right there in a hen's nesting box?

Poor fatty TempleTON

Kinda dead? and kinda cute

My possible conclusions:
1. He had never seen a blue egg of such fine stature, so he utterly dropped dead at the sight of it.

2. He was somewhat afflicted with Alzheimer's and completely forgot why he was there, where he was, or where he was headed and simply died of confusion.

3. He had learned to imitate the survival technique used by opossums and was only "playing dead". Then after leaving him for two days on top of our grill cover in single digit temperatures, what appeared to be a stiff state of rigor mortis (this rat was an over achiever by any standards), was really just a frozen solid, slightly live version of his former self.

4. His obese and glutted body finally did him in with a heart attack catalyzed by a high cholesterol count from eating numerous giant snacks of chicken feed and over indulging on eggs.

I'm gonna say the latter.

With all the tunnels and holes under the chicken coop now stuffed with bricks and sticks, AND chicken feeders stored securely in an overnight bin, AND added trips to the henhouse for egg gathering and general spying ons, it appears the seige state is over and TempleTON may have been working as a single agent.

Fingers crossed!

Bonnie's blues

Next up: Staving off the plague...

It's Business Time Girls!

And then there were two...Bonnie and Violet, the old guard, sadly adrift without their demanding, over sexed,  frilly yet protective quasi-male counterpart (sorry Oli, you know what I mean). No more pirouettes, sonatas, romantic dinners and lusty "get with that 2 seconds in heaven is better than 1 second in heaven, i'm bouncing girl, get your own jiggy on" interludes.  What to do? What to do?

Again, I digress...

I quick search on Craig's List  and I would soon be three eggs a day richer, cuz even though I love my girls, they are working girls let's face it. Uh huh, that's what this pimp mama says! Making my way out to the wild's of Rhode Island via a requisite stop in Providence for a face stuffing fest in Federal Hill (um hm), I burped and smacked my lips across the tiny state to choose a few teenaged chickens. I was done with the peep thing and really just wanted to roll right into hormonal rage inspiring egg production, which has nothing to do with my hysterectomy. So, I picked out two beautiful black and iridescent green, shimmery birds known as Jersey Giants...and just because they were still small, and jersey girls, and a bit overly made-up, we named them Deena and Snooki. I was also offered a rather irritable older gal of one year, golden in hue, a bit speckley, definitely a loner who reminded me of Lindsey Lohan, but out of respect I named her Milly, because she is a Millefleur.

Enter THE PECKING ORDER! Yep, chickens invented it. They have mastered the art, cold and with no regrets. You're in or you're out. Knowing that the introduction of new birds onto another's turf could end in gang wars, I prepared well for the event....I queried the internet. Most integrated flock owners agreed the best way to mix and match two tribes was to initiate it at night, while everyone lies peacefully sleeping, under the light of only the stars, casual like. So around 10 PM EST, or 22 hundred for Navy Seal purposes, I snuck the new girls into my roost and placed them stealthily and quietly next to the snoozing "guards". I heard a few rustles, ahumpfs and perhaps a teedle peep and then, TA DAH! It appeared to work. Until daybreak.

Awakened by a flurry of excited bawks and okay I'll just say it, chicken screams, I flew to the coop to find everyone in a tizzy and more than a few feathers scattered everywhere. I freed the tumbling, mangling mass by opening the run-door through which they promptly rolled out and squawked at high speed. Once outside on the freshly cut lawn, they disentangled themselves. Even though they were highly embarrassed they refused to show it and stomped away indignantly as though it was each others' fault entirely.

Not to belabour this tedious subject further, suffice it to say after two more weeks of brawling, pecking, flapping and harumpfing, they all settled into a new pecking order, with surprisingly mild mannered and snuggley Bonnie at the top, and little snippy Milly at the bottom, while the Jersey Girls weaved in and out of various "positions", kinda like they do on The Jersey Shore with Pauli, the Situation and some other dude.

The Jersey Girls in an unretouched photo, sans body glitter.

Snippity Millie

Next up: Who's in a time out!?

Au revoir, oh Sultan!

It's been some time since I last entered an update, so as you can imagine there is lots to tell!  As you know Oli and I had developed a love/hate relationship. He continued to herd his girls around, ward off the dog from prospective attacks, and gobble like a mother hen to call the girls to dinner, watching and waiting patiently while they ate first. Of course his manly protection came with a tiny cost of, uh hum, sexual favors...but what Sultan is going to let his harem languish in the lap of luxury in the verdant hills of a pretty coastal town, while Spring bursts and beckons all about? Okay, enough of the romance, let's call it what it is, he just needed to "get it in", or "smush" as its been called by that outrageous bunch of guidos and guidettes in the other coastal town on the Jersey shore; Seaside. (Aka Sleazeside, my husband will quip.) But more of THAT later!

So after being forced to arm all humans large and small who traversed THAT side of the yard where Oli ruled, with either the Nimbus 2012 (which looked like any ordinary broom), or the Scratcher 2011 (which looked like any ordinary rake), or a giant stick, that looked like, well a giant stick...I announced "Enough is enough!" I immediately called every known farm, rooster rescue and chicken rearing friend within a 50 mile radius to no avail, when finally we (that would be Oli and I) had the good fortune of one return call from the only humane farm in all of Connecticut, Footsteps Farm.

The very next day I ellicited aid from my good friend Dianne, who helped me pack Oli into a dog crate that we shoved in the back of her car to transport Oli the Sultan of All He Surveys to farmer Craig, where he hoped to reign supreme. He settled down quickly once Dianne discovered that he enjoyed John Coltrane on her Sirius/XM radio, pumped rather loudly.  We arrived at Farmer Craig's with bird in hand (because as we all know that is worth two in....) oh whatever! After a short pleasant exchange, Craig gently removed Oli from my arms and promptly sat on him. (Whoa, maybe I should have tried that!) He told Oli, "This won't hurt a bit although you won't like it",  and proceeded to clip one wing with a pair of sturdy shears. He then released him, no worse for wear, although he did look a little wobbly and embarrassed. Dianne likes to think of Oli as getting an attitude adjustment, which was probably long overdo. Craig likes to think of it as keeping his birds close by so they don't take to flight.

Last I heard, Oli tried throwing his weight around his new digs, but since Craig is the true King at Footsteps Farm, and a benevolent one at that, Oli was given one second chance to shape up.

We miss Oli's crowing dearly, but as with everything regarding that enigmatic Roo, it came with a price. I wish you well Oli, and may your new harem appreciate all the little things you have to offer, and overlook the ones that can be truly intimidating.

Next up: Deena and Snooki join our little flock, while Bonnie and Millie have at it.

Oli Throws Down for the Girls

The last time Maisie ran after the chickens, her butt got a significant butt-pecking, which is sort of like a butt-kicking in human terms.  Since then she has steered clear of Oliver the Sultan, and has let him rule his sultanate as he pleases, until today.

Maisie a "bird dog" at heart,  is having a heck of a time leaving those chickens alone. So today, like viruses that get smarter, and more virulent over time, even in the face of the dreaded Z-Pack (ya, you guessed it, we are fighting off the death cough here, but I digress), decides she will in all her wileyness glory, chase down our littlest hen, Bonnie. She locks her into her crosshairs,  and like a heat seeking missile launches off the side porch with only one thing in mind... chicken McNugget! Well maybe not McNugget, but chew toy for sure.  Whoa there Nelly, what's this??!! An intercepting infra-feathered surface-to-fur sensor package disguised as a rooster! The ISSP appeared to be in seek-and-peck mode as the canine in question became increasingly aware of the warhead quickly bearing down on her. For the sake of self preservation, and to avert further embarrassing butt-peckings, Maisie veered off and ran to the safety of the woodpile in the front yard.

As our household lowers it's chicken defense warning system from red to yellow, the birds live to squawk another day, and I have a new found respect, and dare I say deepening affection for our Oli.

Next up: Still that little tour of the McCondo, right?

Just saying Oli....

oh okay, and roosters

So check out Katherine Heigl's Foundation "I Hate Balls",  that supports animal shelters, and the neutering of pets. See the full length ad at the link below. Great merch too, as you can see above!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yF2TyajIL94&ob=av3e 

Oli's Neverending Day

Oli is getting quite a lot of attention today... mainly because he's so obnoxious. So last night we are at the Tractor Supply store to buy more wood shavings as warm bedding for the McCondo (because the McCondo is THAT large). The chickens have been getting off relatively easy this winter with balmy 45F days in January and not much lower than 20F at night. But, this could change at any moment, although I privately hope not as I strive to support the effects of global warming this winter by driving a Wrangler that gets 20mpg, eating massive amounts of meat, and keeping the indoor temperature of our rather humble abode at 85F, well I cheat with the help of a woodburning stove.

Oh, getting a bit cool insider, better close that front door.

So, bedding, yes, while I was grabbing a giant bag of pine shavings, my husband spied a "must have" on the sale table, "Just six bucks!" he proudly announced as I opened our little present. Oh Oli, this can't be good...of course we jest. As a particularly non-prophetic move, we hung it by the spices.

Oli, we kid, really

Next: Oh I don't know, maybe more Oli, maybe not, maybe the McCondo?

Oli's Antics

Oli spends much of the day crowing, and crowing, and crooowwwing. He crows in the morning to be let out of the coop, he crows haughtily when he is let out, he crows possessively while rounding up his harem, he crows when noisy people walk by on the street, he crows when I let the dog out, he crows when the UPS truck drops off a package, and when the mailman arrives, and when I leave the house, when I return home, when I stand by the window or door surveying our little yard, Oli crows just to hear himself crow and I'm worried the neighbors are getting fed up!

 Oli's second favorite activity (okay, maybe third), is acting all macho ("Description of someone manly, specifically someone who ignores or endures discomfort to maintain the appearance of manliness. The height of macho is jogging home after your own vasectomy." UrbanDictionary.com)...oddly this definition came to mind, hmm. So I've included a video of Oli doing the Baryshnikof a la seconde, (a side step of sorts), with the intention of picking a fight. Bring it Oli!

Next up: Well, I did say I'd do a McCondo tour, so I guess that is next on the agenda! Really.