New Chickens
In late October 2024, our 13 hens were in full molt, a.k.a. naked of feathers, and no more eggs on the horizon until the skies begin to brighten in the spring.
Suzy B is the eldest and last of our fifth generation. Hatched in 2017, she grew up with Uncle Schtude.
Copper is the last of our Icelandics. She was part of our sixth generation in 2018; Rosie and Flopsie were her siblings.
Pearl Bailey is the only one left of our 2019 seventh generation.
Petite and Grande, our French Morans, are representatives of our 2020 eighth generation and Beardette represents our 2021 ninth generation.
And the full monty of our tenth generation, all still alive and scratching. Adopted in 2022, Snowball and Foghorn, Barnadette, Duchess and Lady Jane Grey, and the two Black Beauty Morans were the most recent generation raised by that Best of Mother Hens, Toey (class of 2018 and sibling of Copper, rejected by the flock and so rehomed in 2022).
Currently, I use Mark Shepard’s orchard techniques on our hens. The STUN technique. Sheer, Total, Utter Neglect. Due to my relative dereliction, Carl has taken over the poop board and waterers — though, in my own defense, I note that the chickens are perfectly fine without me hovering about, giving them baths to tidy their bums, or — heaven forbid — a manicure. In fact, they appreciate how I respect their personal space. Which I had in mind when I considered the following…
TO DO OR TO DO IN?
Carl’s cousin and his wife adopted ten chicks this past spring. The babies, now pullets, are just beginning to lay eggs. We went to visit them. They are really cute. Four Rhode Island Reds. Four Orpingtons. Two Barred Rocks. As the months turned, August to September, September to October, Carl’s cousin and his wife had a recognition. They go to Nevada every winter. What to do with the pullets?
Carl and I discussed all the angles, even as we drooled for those fresh eggs.
The stress on the pullets (and me) during their move from one coop to here — a distance of five miles. And then the return in four months, when the cousin and his wife return.
Two flocks throughout the winter. Why why why would we force our hens to endure the hell of a renewed pecking order if they will only have to experience the disappearance of their newly made friends in the spring?
How much time and energy would we have to spend building a new coop situation? (For the record, we both play the role of architect; Carl is the builder and I am the building inspector…)
And back to the stress and worry of so many hens. What about emergencies? Wildfires. Hurricanes. Blizzards…We could move our thirteen (into the house…) if there is an emergency, but twenty-three? And to have to give them up, after bonding with them? Trusting the original adopters to tend to them? How could I even consider this hen request?
Because the alternative option is that they go to New Ipswich. That, as I have learned, is a euphemism for them all flying up into the sky to join the Great Chicken Spirit, a euphemism for their slaughter.
Really? Would that have to be on my conscience along with the demise of democracy and that of the world?
As ever, I can save chickens. Chickens, who are so forthright in their stepping up — feathers fluttering — against negativity, fear, and hate. They flap and the world is in balance.
