Hen Tragedy

The fox got in amongst our chickens yesterday afternoon, and killed one of the big Buff Orpingtons.

We had moved their portable fence and chicken tractor to the lawn in front of the house while the field was being hayed. Without the acres of tall grass to obscure the view, the hens were too much temptation for the fox, who pushed her way under the fence and chased them around until I came shrieking out of the house and made her drop one. (I was tempted to let Wolfie out to teach the fox a lesson, but thinking that he might chase chase her all the way to the Mason-Dixon Line I kept him indoors.)

The hen the fox had been carrying died in my arms. Another one seemed to be in a bad way, so I took her into the chicken house and gave her a drink of water laced with that old-time panacea, organic apple cider vinegar. It's hard to give a chicken a drink, hard to know whether you are saving the critter's life or drowning it, but I had to do something.

After the sun went down we moved the rest of the hens into the chicken house--if the fox was half as clever as she looked, she would surely be back, and the birds would be better protected inside their permanent house and fence. The hens seemed to remember their old haunt, and hopped readily up on their roosts. The fox-traumatized chicken had survived my ministrations and seemed o.k.

Every couple of years we lose a chicken to the fox. With only seven or eight birds in the coop, it's easy to get attached to them, and I find their deaths hard to take. Still, I am not angry at the fox. These days everybody--the birds, the rabbits, the chipmunks, the coyotes--has young to feed, and if you look at it from the fox's point of view, she was just being a responsible parent. Thinking of that, I asked my husband to carry the dead hen into the woods, to provide sustenance, if not for the fox, then for some other hungry creature.

Phoebes Et Al.

The phoebes are back in the nest they built last year just inside the overhang of the front porch roof. I'm glad they're making do with their old nest, because when phoebes build a nest they make a mess you wouldn't believe, and every time somebody comes to the house you have to explain about the mud and poop.

On a less felicitous note, another bird--I don't know what kind--tried to build a nest directly opposite the phoebes, between the carriage lamp and the wall next to the front door. This bird had made such a haphazard-looking nest, mostly out of dried-out iris leaves, that I thought it had abandoned the project--until we found a bunch of nest materials and two little blue eggs broken on the slate floor.

Speaking of birds, the hens spent their first night in the chicken tractor. This morning, when I let them out, the four older birds rushed out as if the grass and its inhabitants had literally been calling for them. The three pullets, however, stayed in the little upstairs sleeping loft, in the dark, peeping. I forced them downstairs and outside and they wandered around on the grass, peeping, trying to figure out how to get back in. Which they eventually did, and rushed up the little ladder, back into the dark.

It rained a little this morning, which is good for the roses I planted yesterday. I've never planted roses before, so at the nursery I asked for the toughest climbers they had. Climbers being the toughest of all roses, mine should be just about indestructible. I got two "New Dawn" pink ones, which sound hopeful, and one "Blanc De Blanc De Corbe," which sounds like a wine.

In the rain, the two little apple trees, which have been blooming their hearts out, started shedding some petals. I'm concerned because I checked them yesterday morning in the sun for pollinating insects and found one wasp, one common housefly, and a couple of ants. Where are the bees?

On a happier note, the giant hostas that I purchased at the Rupert village library benefit last year, and that I had given up for dead, have been thrusting their scary-looking spikes out of the mulch, clearly enjoying the rain.

Who says that nothing happens at our house?

Chickens On Pasture

We may have blizzards (well, almost) here in April, but that doesn't keep the grass from growing thick and lush and green. Today, barely into May, my husband did the first mowing of the 2010 season.

That meant that we had to move the temporary chicken yard from the lawn into the field. In the field, away from the chicken shed, the hens will need the portable house that my husband built last year, with beautiful, smooth carrying handles, a ground-level "lounge" and a top apartment (accessed by a retractable ladder) with room for roosting and egg-laying. This keeps the hens safe at night.

During the day time, they are supposed to range freely within the confines of the portable fence, but last year we noticed that the hens spent most of their time inside the house, not eating grass, not catching bugs, not making their egg yolks a deep orange color, and not saving us thousands of dollars in laying mash. Out there on their own, under the deep blue sky, I think they felt exposed and vulnerable--and with reason, what with spring-mating hawks wheeling and whistling above.

This year, in addition to the portable coop, there is, inside the portable fence, an A-frame structure, also husband-built, that will provide shelter from the hawks and shade from the sun. We moved all these portable-but-heavy structures into the side field this morning--close to the driveway, away from the woods where predators lurk. Tonight, after sundown, we will transport the hens to their new abode.

To transport a hen, the most important thing is to wait until the sun goes down. Blessedly, after sundown chickens go into a sort of catatonic state, and you can do with them pretty much what you like. You go quietly into the quiet chicken shed. The hens make some muted greeting sounds, which you ignore. You pick up the nearest hen by her "shoulders" (the part of the wing nearest the body) and, supporting her with both hands, tuck her head under your arm. The bird you have picked up may make some protest, and so may her mates on the roost, but they will all settle down as long as you move quietly and don't trip on any feeders or waterers or nests that may be in the way.

That is what we are going to do tonight. I have gotten so good at this that I can catch and carry two hens at a time. When they are inside their portable house, we will close all doors hermetically. Early tomorrow morning I will go out with water and food, and let them out into a brave new world of tall, tall grass and wild, wild bugs.

I am hoping that the A-frame shelter will make them feel secure enough to go out and catch their meals on the wing or on the hoof. I am especially hoping that the three new pullets, who so far have barely ventured out of the shed, will learn to enjoy the intoxicating flavor of new grass. This concept of moving chickens around from place to place during the growing season is the dernier cri in chicken keeping. I just hope my chickens agree.

After getting the chickens' summer quarters ready, I spent the rest of the morning threading sticks into another panel of my wattle fence--not much more to go!