Cherry

Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

Her name was Cherry. No, not very original, given that she was a Cherry Egger. In other words, a cross between a Rhode Island Red and a Buff Orpington, bred expressly for hardiness and egg production.

She was our best layer. She was our first layer, for that matter, producing the very first home-grown egg we got out of the first round of chickens that we brought home just over two years ago. By now, she was producing eggs of enormous size and quality, at a rate of almost one a day.

She left us, sometime between 7:00 and 7:30 this evening.

Around 6:00, as I was going to in to check something, I found her lying on the ground. Not at all unusual; they create divots in the dirt for dust baths every day. But she wasn't in a divot; she was lying flat on her stomach, not in brood position, and with head and tail drooping.

I picked her up; she was incredibly heavy-feeling, a dead weight. No motor control or apparent ability to stand. Panting, eyes closing. She reminded me of myself when I have a mono relapse.

Wings took her blinders out on the off-chance that they were bothering her. We checked her over thoroughly; no sign of mites, of Marek's, of any of the usual possibilities that afflict adult hens. It appeared much more like wry neck, although at just over two years of age, it would be unusual. There are, however, conditions that can affect adult hens that have similar symptoms: a form of congestive heart failure; abdominal fluid build-up; other conditions that can cause sudden paralysis. After comforting her a bit, we set her in the coop, and she seemed to perk up, eyes open again.

I ran an errand, back home by 7:00, and she was back, as well. Out of the coop under her own power, down on the ground in one of the mud pits, scratching and pecking happily. We went inside to eat dinner, and came out half an hour later to see about putting the little ones in for the night.

She was on her back in the mud, stone-cold and stiff.

Happy and eating one moment; gone the next.

If you have to go, I suppose it's as good a way as any.

Wings cleaned the mud off her feathers and put her in a protected place. We'll bury her tomorrow, over by the dogs and her little "sisters" who lost their own battles with wry neck two years ago.

I know it sounds silly to most people. But even our chickens are family.

We miss her already.




Copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.

Integration Day

Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

No, not that kind of integration.

Chicks. The actual feathered kind.

Narcissus contemplating her reflection . . . .
Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

Rumpled idiot contemplates Narcissus.
Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

Today was the day we decided, with not a little trepidation. to move the little chickie girls outdoors to the coop and fenced area where the four adult hens are. Trepidation because of concerns that it wouldn't be quite warm enough, and concerns that the hens wouldn't accept them.

Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

There's a lot of wind right now, and a little bit of pecking earlier, and a lot of cheeping and squawking across the board, but so far, at least, our fears seem to be mostly unfounded.

Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

Of course, I'll have to go out in the cold dark later to make sure they're all inside the straw bales, warm and safe. But despite all the squawking and feather-ruffling, I think everyone will be fine.






Copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.

Chicks!

Photo copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.

Not those kind of chicks.  What did you think I meant?

Six little strawberry blondes, Rhode Island Reds. We have a half-dozen black chicks reserved, too — Australorps, I hope.

Our four adults have returned to laying regularly again. If all the new girls make it, by this fall, we'll have eggs to give away again.

For now, it's a matter of keeping them warm and safe and fed and watered. I think they're covered.

Copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.