Grand Re-Opening

Grand Re-Opening of Dusty Springs

A little dust goes a long ways.  Hens, however, can handle a lot of dust.  Fall, with the rain and the wind, has none to be found.  So there is the dilemma.  Where does a hen find her dust?  A hen must dust.

Supplies: scraps from other projects

My girls had a resort hotel for their dust bin.  The space was really the first story of a chicken tractor that since has found itself moved to a friend's house and is fully occupied with more hens.  My flock has been short a dust bath house for a couple of months.  That's now a situation looking for a solution.

Bath house frame: as big as the
longest boards available

Checking it out!

Looks like it's acceptable.  Nora (on the right) has an itch
that won't wait.

 Find that solution and build a dust bin are Things I get to do today.

Afternoon sun makes blissful dusting.  Violet demonstrates.

Green Mountain Girls

The girls are not a militia.  Well, in some respects they are.  Earwigs, earthworms, cutworms, flies, spiders, little creepy critters of all kinds would definitely consider these chickens to be armed.  Sharp beaks and strong toe-nailed feet count as lethal weapons.

Mountain of gifted greens

When my hens bellied up to the mountain of grass clippings and clover dumped from the five-gallon bucket, they meant business, and they became the Green Mountain Girls, for just a minute or two.  Collecting the bucket of greens from my sister's place was one of the Things I get to do today.  Dumping it in the hen house where they could forage without concern for the rain was another.  Eating their way through the pile as tall as they were was their job which they dispatched with the precision of a platoon of soldiers.  What they didn't eat, they scratched.  Days later whatever is left will have dried and become the pickings for a boring day inside coop while a fall storm thrashes its way through.

Cool Down for the Hot Chicks

Coolin' it

90 degrees is too much.  Even with shade the hens are cooking in their downy coats.  It must feel like a perpetual hot flash, except that you can't peel off your clothes if you're a chicken. Gotta just sit there and pant.



On days like this one Things I get to do today include keeping the girls moderately comfortable. There's a  fan clipped it to the wall along side their roost for a night breeze. But during the middle of the heat, we provide refreshment in the shade for their comfort and pleasure. Several times a day we put ice cubes in their pen water bowl.  At the sound of the cubes splashing,  the girls come running and dip their hot beaks into water next to the ice cubes, drinking until they probably get brain freeze.  Hot chicks can be cool!

Hedge Warrior

I thought I'd have to go it alone.  The job had to be done.  Rats could live under the debris, so the dead twigs, branches, and leaf litter had to be removed from the ground for a length of the "hedge."  One yard-debris can at a time, once a week, over a period of a month or so and the task would be finished.

Nina, the brave spider hunter/gatherer and my coworker on a tough job

The Giant Sequoia growing in the hen yard has gradually extended its reach, covering a portion of the Arbor Vitae hedge that marks the back line of our city lot.  Apparently the hedge prefers sun because the Sequoia-shaded side of the hedge died.  When the brown foliage and branches were removed, they were dumped conveniently into a pile at the base of the hedge trunks.  And so the mess was created.  A truism:  the easy way is the hard way.  With rats always being in season where there are chickens, and with Hobo spiders starting their mating march, now would be the best time to correct the "easy" and careless haven for pests we had created several years before.  So it is that the sweatiest of Things I get to do today is drag the yard debris bin to the back of our property and fill it up.

Armed with gloves, lopers and a watchful eye for little things that scurry about and bite, I started to work.  Moments later, Nina Simone Hen hustled over, bravely scratching about and eating everything crawling about that had lived under the debris. My hero: this courageous, hungry warrior hen!

Early Harvest

Is it time to harvest potatoes?  The hens have decided it is by virtue of their sturdy toenails, unmanicured and filled with common dirt.  Nearly all of the potato vines have disappeared, so there is little hope that the tubers beneath the soil will find nourishment from above.  Must be harvest time.

Hen-harvested Yukon Gold.

While picking in the berry patch last week, I noticed fat brown and red potatoes with the distinct markings of hen tattooed on each of them.  Things I get to do today will be to salvage the rest before my eager farmer hens think I'm shirking my duties and take on the task themselves.  Could they be taught to use a shovel?

If There's Singing in the Hen Pen

It is Sweet Violet who is carrying the "tune."  She seems to be talking to herself mostly, though a poorly aimed peck from a sister hen causes a protest squawk intended to be heard.  Generally speaking, her song is only a gentle little "brawk. . .brawk. . .brawk" as she drifts about the hen yard doing chicken things:  scratching and pecking in the dirt.

This morning was very different.  Violet went from Sweet to Urgent in her tone.  The "brawk. . .brawk" was now Brawk and BRAWK as she paced insistently up the slope to the north end of the pen and then back down past the coop to the berry patch.  Things I get to do today always takes me out early in the morning to release the girls from their coop, do a light cleanup from their night inside and toss them a grain treat.  My chores took me past Violet several times, and I admonished her repeatedly to keep her voice down or the neighbors would complain.

Violet's first egg since coming to the flock nearly four weeks ago.

When the tidying was finished, Violet was in the coop, still pacing, but in front of the nest boxes.  Her urgency was now clear to me.

Looks Like She's In

They'll never tell her their most private secrets.  She won't be asked to chant "Say, Say O Playmate" with the rest of the girls.  Lena Horne Hen still gives her an occasional bit of extra exercise escaping a sharply aimed beak fueled by an old grudge.  But somehow in the great chicken social hierarchy, Violet has slid between the bars of exclusion.

The very next of Things I get to do today is email this picture  to her former owner to let her know that for all practical purposes, Ms. Violet is in.

Violet in the foreground, accepted as much as she probably ever will be.

Sweet Violet

It just wasn't meant to be.  Chickens cannot behave like anything other than what they are.  This close knit clutch of girls are a seemingly impenetrable clique.  Sweet as Violet is, she will never be a member of the club.  That's just the way it is with chickens.

Shy Violet keeping her distance

In Violet's previous home, one of her sisters turned mean and aggressive toward her.  Her hen-tender mamma thought it best to send Violet to a new home.  I agreed to let her try out my flock to see if Violet would be better off here.  I wasn't thinking.  I know that moving the aggressor hen is a better idea.



Poor, shy, beaten-up Violet moved in a day ago with my gang of rough gals who are not shy about beating her up to keep her poor.  I sent a message to Violet's hen-tender mom that tonight would be a good time to come and rescue her Sweet Violet.

But now I'm not so sure.  I just came in from the hen pen.  All the hens, including Violet, were together with about two feet between them.  They were ignoring her.  I opened up the upper bank area for the girls to forage.  The gang ran up the bank to peck and scratch.  Violet stood still for a bit and shot off after them.  She suddenly came to her senses and stopped just short of the closest hen.  And then she made her way carefully to her own spot to scratch, got the leaves out of the way, and found a juicy worm that took two swallows to get down.  Let's give it another day.

Could Pass for a Raspberry

A hen can fly straight up.  How high she can go depends on the raspberries.  Fortunately, our raspberry canes this year are lush and loaded, with huge green leaves sheltering the fruit from the up-turned eyes of four chickens.  Get a bead on a berry, and they go straight up.

Mostly the girls occupy themselves during the day with whatever is directly in front of them as they drift like sheep around and around their spacious hen pen.  But as the first of the morning Things I get to do today, I'm gathering fruit for our breakfast, and the lovelies hang right at my feet, well trained in the knowing that berries slip from my fingers.  An intermittent flattering of wings tells me one of them spied an accessible treat and has flown three feet or more straight up to grab it.  Shooing them away is futile, and I realize they really deserve all they can reach.  After all it was their scratching, their fertilizing, their picking off bugs that has made the berry patch seven feet tall with all the berries as big as my thumbs.

Could pass for raspberries in the eyes of a hen.

Two minutes later it seemed one of the hens was walking on my exposed toes (flip flops are my default garden wear).  A glance down told the story: it was a sharp beak pecking at my toes.  Raspberry toenail polish can fool even a clever hen.

Are They Spoiled Yet?

Monday's the day.  One o'clock is the time.  My local market prepares for my Hens (perhaps it should be all capital letters) a huge box of greens.  The market's lovely organic lettuces get tidied up and replenished everyday, and by one o'clock the trimmings and scraps are boxed and ready for me to pick up.  We (my hens) are so fortunate!

Finished bouquet for the chicken table
 that won't tip over.

There was a bit of magic in the Things I get to do today because an idea danced right out that hadn't shown itself before--a way to keep the lettuce leaves clean, fresh and inviting all day for the girls.

Quart plastic container on scrap
of shelving

Couple of short screws hold "vase"
to its "table"

Our usual routine is for me to toss out several handfuls of lettuces or greens. The chickens all come running, peck a bit or not, walk all over the treat and maybe wander off to something else in a few minutes.  By the time they come back, the greens are wilted.

The girls chow down on the "arrangement."

The magic looked much like a bouquet of lettuces.  Water in the bottom of the "vase" will keep it fresh until the top is pecked off. Not spoiled yet!

Field of Dreams

Scratch, scratch, a flyin'

Chickens dream of fat, round grubs.  At least that's my guess.  If they dreamt of scratching the way dogs dream of chasing, their paws twitching, nose snuffing, and little "whiffle, whiffles" telling us of their progress, it would be difficult for the hens to stay on the roost.  So I think they dream of worms, long, stretchy ones and fat, fat short ones and grubs that are always short and fat.

Making chicken dreams

Things I get to do today included removing grass, weeds and roots from a huge berm area in the yard.  The by-product was 5 contractor-size wheelbarrows of debris that went straight to the hen pen.  It was spread out to cover the hard-pack of mud set up by the drier weather.  Hens can't scratch mud turned to brick. But this debris, filling with grubs and worms and seeds and green grass was heaven.  I know it made rich dreams.

Not If You Need a Jacket!

What's the best day to skin the coop?  Not a snowy or windy day.  No, no, the extra protection around the chickens, that vinyl skin that keeps out the weather, needs to stay up to keep the girls comfortable. The careful Things I get to do today are to remove and pocket each and every staple and peal off the protective wrapping on the girls' accommodations.*

Fresh and airy once again.

Today and for the last week the hefty feather rompers that my hens wear were surely almost too warm. My two shirts were plenty. A long-sleeve T would have been enough. So where you live, do you skin the coop today? Not if you need a jacket!

*A note to all chicken keepers.   Zinc will kill a chicken. The galvanized water can is fine since the water does not leach out zinc. But a hen will peck at and eat anything.  They would eat a galvanized staple. I vowed that losing one hen to zinc a couple of years ago was one too many.

Can't Push a Chicken

I may be slow, but I'm not dumb.  It took me about two years to learn that noodles in chicken noodle soup and live chickens have things in common.  They can't be pushed.

Katy and Lena are serious gardeners

It's lovely to let the hens roam around the whole back yard at this time of year.  They make perfect fowl-weather gardeners, not caring if it's cold and blustery (not too crazy about rain, however); there are no seeds or young growies on the verge of emergence; and they are after all the bugs and critters that would grow up to eat the garden later in spring.

Unfortunately, Nora is not careful
about edges

Nora takes the interior part of the bed

One draw back: if I go away from the house, the girls need to be in the safety of their pen and not available for some slouch-about coyote with nothing better to do than provide fresh hen for his family's supper.  So time to herd the hens back into their space--think again.  There must be some poultry gene that says if an object is pushed toward you (like a hand attached to a voice saying "shoo"), you dart, dodge, and run around it.

Tidying the edges--good work, girls!

So now my smarts can shine.  After observing what makes a hen run (watching other hens run--they mimic), Things I get to do today say get their attention by singing "girls" in a high-pitched cackle and start to run toward the hen pen.  Helps to have a handful of oats to toss into the pen.

Where, Oh Where Has My Black Hen Gone?

Before 

They've come out by fistfuls.  Big, black, handsome Nina Simone Hen has lost her feathers.

A small token of the feathers
Nina has shed in the last two days.

That a hen would molt at this time of year is not a newsworthy item, facts be known. For some reason I thought Nina was immune.  When the other hens stopped laying, she did her best to keep up with an egg every other day or so.

Bare wing flesh showing today.

Then the bag of layer pellets ran out. The replacement sack seemed different, and I blamed the new feed saying it wasn't high enough in protein, saying maybe it was pullet feed instead of layer feed, saying I'll take this stuff back and get the real thing. My eyeballs bulged as I hefted the 50 pound bag out of the metal can (Things I get to do today) to inspect the tag:  Layer pellets.  Well, fine. And now the fistfuls of feathers.  It isn't the feed.  My big, shiny black hen is molting just like the rest.


Well, hurry up and get it over with.  Snow is flying.  You'll need your new coat soon.  I'll keep the heat lamp on to tide you over.

Happy Damp Dance

The opening lines help set the tone.  When the morning began with heavy cloud cover, the stage was set, the play about to begin.

I didn't want to miss this.  Already moisture glistened the patio, and drops could be seen on their vertical plunge to dampen the earth.  I grabbed my rain coat for a few "quick" Things I get to do today before it became seriously wet.

Canna pods scrubbed clean.
Fresh and renewed.

But the pace of this show surprised me.  The rain was immediately steady, dense, heavy and very wet.  Delights in every drop!  The girls in the hen yard were stunned.  Three months is close to forever for a chicken.  I think they had forgotten that water can fall from the sky.  The rest of us nearly had. But now we're pretty much all mixed into the first act of this show, everyone in their own version of the Happy Damp Dance.  Let it rain!

Dirty Old Hens

The best Things I get to do today usually involve my chickens. 

 A friend, new to her own flock, called recently to see if I put a pan of water out for my hens to hop into and flap around like birdies do in a birdbath.

It's been awhile since I've thought of the phrase "madder than a wet hen," but that certainly sums up what these gals think of taking a dip to cool off or get clean. 

 Just give me a well-scratched divot in the shade, and I'll show you a good bath was had by all.  

You might want to dust off your computer screen after viewing this blog.  Take a swipe at your keyboard, too, for good measure.

Heat Crazy

While setting the sprinkler (hen AC), I nearly
planted my foot on this very unexpected egg!

Maybe it was because I carelessly "locked" the hens out from the nests one long day.  Or maybe they just decided to do the REAL Free Range Eggs thing.  Or perhaps they were inspired by the cute little Song Sparrow nest from last week's blog.  Or the heat has made us all a little daffy.

Things I get to do today, everyday this past week, have me providing extra measures to cool my hot hens.  I set sprinklers about in their yard to wet the ground.  Damp earth is cool earth.

Egg to the right (hard to see) about three feet from the clutch of eggs
 down in a hollow under these branches pruned from the Sequoia tree.
Such a perfect, cute, sheltered little nest! Felt guilty taking the eggs away.

I thought they were just sitting in the shade, panting.  But these girls are full of surprises. Everyday is an adventure.  And I think the heat has made them or me or both a little crazy.

Hot Hen Blues

Lena Horne Hen singing
"I'm so hot, and I'm dry on love."

My hens are pro blues singers.  Hot days bring out all their best.  Bra-h-a-a-a-a--a--a---a---a--a.  Talk about a sad and plaintive tale!  Oh, my!  I can't make out the words quite yet, but the tone of voice tells all.  "Ain't no man around.  I'm so hot, and I'm dry on love.  When will this love drought end?  I'm so hot, even when the sun is down.  Ain't no man around."

The girls are hot, probably not hot for a rooster, but with the temps at 100, they are hot.  Even on the perch at night, they're all splayed out, begging for a little cool under their wings.  They probably dream of running naked.  Shorts and tank tops for the humans; down coats for the chickens--not fair.

Did you ever?

OK to heat the outdoors

On such days Things I get to do today let me cook outside to preserve the bliss of our air conditioning.  The rice cooker plugs in and stays outside till the contents are cooked and cooled.  While assembling the rice, water and seasoning, I came across these instructions.  Dang!  It really is hot if I'm supposed to keep the bullion cubes cool after opening a cardboard box!  Bet there's a blues line for that one, too.

Green Feeding Frenzy

The head of lettuce already torn apart for easier access

They take bigger bites than I do, I swear! Lena Horne Hen tore off a piece of lettuce two inches square and swallowed until it went down.

OK.  This one is a little too big to swallow.

The rest of the girls didn't take smaller bites because they were polite.  It was just the luck of the tear.  Grab what you can.

Getting down to the last leaf

When a whole head of bolted lettuce (all you garden folks know that's what it's called when it is starting to grow tall and make seeds) lands in your yard, in the hen world you have to get to busy or there'll be nothing left to cackle about (or eat).

Katy reigns over the core

Going down!

The first lettuce plantings have turned bitter, so chicken Things I get to do today are fling a head over the hen-pen fence and watch the gals gobble it down.  I'm expecting them to say "oink."

Chicken Beetles

They got my potatoes!  Beetles have been eating great gobs of the leaves leaving only the spine and the stalk. They made a swath two-plants wide through the middle of the potato patch.  No other vines were affected.  The selectiveness puzzled me.

Damage from Chicken Beetles

Being observant is always one of the Things I get to do today.  So I observed. This "infestation" occurred suddenly after allowing the chickens to roam about in part of their "gated community" where the berry vines and the potatoes flourish. When the potatoes vines were small and tender, no chickens were allowed.  I did reason that once the plants were twice as tall as the shortest chicken, the vines would be safe.

Who?  Me?

Closer observation:  1) open gate to berries and potatoes, 2) chickens run in to browse, 3) hens wander, scratch and peck about in a poultry fashion, 4) Katy Perry Chicken goes straight to the center of the spindly potatoes, 5) Katy Perry Chicken plucks vigorously at the naked vines, 6) potatoes vines must not be poisonous to chickens, 7) Chicken "beetles" are harmful to potatoes.

Conclusion:  Katy Perry Chicken is not allowed visiting privileges in that special corner until I've protected the plants from Chicken Beetles.