Chick Pic Gallery
The older hens are disheveled and pale, having all gone through a heavy molt this fall. And now it is cold and miserable out. Egg laying? Not an option. Time to put some Apple Cider Vinegar (ACV) into their water to boost their immune systems and to be extra nice to the dears.
Apricot is 8 and the last chicken to have known our original six: CooLots, Ping, Chickadee, Panda, Lola, and Big Red. She is respected in the coop as the Aged One Who Knows What Snow Is, and is entirely unfazed—well, irritated but resigned—whenever Carl and I turn up to change things around in the coop (again).
The Pullets—defined as under-one-year-old girls—have matured to the point they will consider laying their first eggs. After a month of no eggs, we are now getting 3-4 a day. From nineteen hens…
Bernadette-Go-Bernie is our Double-Laced Barnevelder. I don’t know her that well yet, but I’m determined to introduce myself to the coop on a more regular basis so that the hens will allow me to pet them— maybe even hold them—in my lap as Lucy deigns to do.
Snowball and Fogbank are Blue/Black/Splash Cochins and sweet-as-a-date natured.
Duchess is very large, and Princess is her sister. They are Blue/Black/Splash Orpingtons and have looooong legs. Given the singularly large eggs and the sweetly-little eggs—both light brown in color—that have begun to appear in the nesting box, they are officially hens!
As are Black Beauty 1 & 2. Being Black Copper Marans, they lay gloriously sumptuous dark chocolate brown eggs. Deep orange yolks.
Toey is the mother of our Pullets. She was a wonderful mother, if stressed out by the caretaking of seven— count them again (and again)—seven chicks. My fault. I had originally imagined giving all three—count them three broody hens—two chicks each with the third going to the most determined of the wanna-be-a-mommas. I was advised that three mini-families would be chaos. Toey won the lottery to mother them all.
It has taken her since August, when the babies fledged themselves, to be reintegrated into the flock; the other two ex-broody hens had no forgiveness in their little heartbroken hearts. Cautionary words: It is hell to plummet to the Bottom—rock bottom—of the pecking order. She lost weight. Her feathers. Her confidence and self-esteem. Only now is she allowed to get onto the roosts, rather than in her submissive place on the poop board. I mean, really. Terrible stuff.