Baby-baby

It would appear that Sam is a daddy, Chicky-baby surrogate Mom and Lady-bug the egg donor.

Chicky-baby will hatch a rock. Girl is the broodiest little hen I ever saw. So when Ducky-baby flew away it didn't take long before Chicky-baby was setting again. She'd sit on anything any of the girls laid. They'd sit on her to deposit their eggs and she'd tuck those eggs underneath and sit. Of course she sat just where everybody else wanted to lay their eggs so it wasn't a surprise when her comb started looking kinda ratty from all the girls using it to pull her off the nest. I finally let her have ONE egg. It was Lady-bug's egg. I was pretty sure it wasn't fertile. Not that the boys hadn't done their darndest to go forth and multiply but anytime they cornered a girl and got down to business the other girls hauled feather across the yard and chased the boys off. So that egg wasn't a gift, it was a decoy--to get her away from the other girls and get the other girls off Chicky-baby.

Every day I'd gather eggs and leave Chicky-baby and her egg alone. She sat through the heat of August and if anybody tried to mess with her egg she showed her dinosaur genes (Velociraptor I'm pretty darned sure). I figured 21 days would go buy and I'd toss the egg and Chicky-baby would have got her broodyness out of her system and peace would reign in the backyard. Ha!

We took a trip to Charlotte over Labor Day weekend--got back on a Sunday evening. Went out back to check on the girls and toss that egg before it exploded. It already had.

Baby-baby (what else?) was hatched sometime Sunday. She was the tiniest little chick I'd ever seen and pure white. It was pretty obvious that Sam was a proud papa--she had feathers down to her FIVE toes--just like dear ol dad and a blue beak. At one month she's showing some black in her wings and some light brown--mama's side of the family for sure--she has a little crown of feathers right on top of her head and fluffy cheeks. She shows every sign of being a hen--and if nurture plays a hand--she's gonna be as ornery as her adopted mommy. She's already chasing poor little Milly. I finally made friends with her this week. Mealworms are the ultimate peace offering in chickendom. Chicky-baby is teaching her the skills she'll need to be a proper chicken and Baby is already well established in the pecking order. Both Sam and Buffy keep a close watch over the baby--from a distance of course. Not because they wouldn't get close--but because a ball of chicken motherhood would peck their eyes out if they got too close to her baby.

Mama Lady-bug

Papa Sam

Kibbles

Kibbles is NOT a chicken. In fact first time I saw her she didn't look much like a squirrel. She looked more like something you'd fish with than the critters that raid the feed bags out in the shed.

Stacey called early on a Monday morning after we'd been hammered with a frawg-strangler storm the night before. "The dogs got a baby squirrel! I thought it was dead! It's not! Can you come get it?" Of course I did, and ever since I cracked the top of the shoebox and laid eyeballs on that little pink worm wrapped in an old T-shirt, I've been hopelessly in love.

Poor thing was covered in dog slobber and dirt. She had a bruise where the doggies "tasted" her. They must have thought she was a squeeky toy--or food. Squirrels are NOT Kibble! Sixty-five pound puppies play too rough for a tiny pinkie. She must have been born just a coupla days before that mean ol storm tossed her out of her nest. If the whole nest was blown down then she's one lucky girl--the other babies were lost in the domain of Mishka and Bear (doggies).

Kibbles is a tough little girl. She's beat natures odds and my own incompetence as a squirrel mommy. My bald worm is sporting soft gray fur and her little paws will be white. In another week her eyes will open and her little ears have unglued from her head. She has twitchy whiskers and her tail is starting to bush--a lighter gray than the rest of her. Together we have conquered getting formula into her and the poop and pee out (did you know baby squirrels won't excrete anything unless a mommy cleans em?)

It's August 23. In the month since Kibbles squirmed into my heart she's opened my eyes to the wonders of the "Kingdom of Squirrel" my own backyard--the peeps of the baby squirrels calling for their mommies; the adolescent squirrels "neeyh neeyh neeyhing" Tyson the cat; the chattering of the big guys defending their territory. It's always been there. I just pay more attention now that I'm fostering one of their kin.

Will Kibbles eventually join them? Guess that's up to her. She will always be welcome on my lap and if she chooses a life of pampered ease, I will gratefully serve her needs. If she is to be an outside squirrel and gamble that nature will show her the same kindness it did when she lost her nest and litter-mates. So be it.

Right this minute there's the warm miniscule weight of a micro-squirrel curled up in my hand. She's a happy girl--and so am I.

Squirrel report: August 28: I was feeding the girl and two little black eyes glittered at me. Kibbles is opening her eyes. By Monday or Tuesday she should be able to look at her world--and then there's no keeping her down on the farm.

Oct. 3: Kibbles is a big girl now and plays till she drops, drags all of her toys into her bedroom (box) to sleep with and loves riding around on a shoulder, head, arm, neck or under a shirt (and those little feet are prickly!!!! Apparently she also has some unique features I hadn't noticed till I took this picture.

Bit

When I first saw Bit she was a teeeeny little bald worm of a bird with a big gaping beak. Her mama was a lousy nest builder--her babies tumbled out any time the wind blew--in Calcutta. I watched the better part of an afternoon, scooping the two little guys back into the nest again and again because that's what the wildlife rehab people said to do. One of the little birds disappeared--most likely a snack for a crow or a cat (so much for wildlife rehaber wisdom). When dark came and no mama, "Bit" joined the family.

Bit is no beauty--at least not yet. She does have some feathers but right now, she has to make up in personality what she lacks in looks. I'm amazed at how fast she's developing. I had to stop by PetSmart today and get a cage. In a matter of an hour she decided she should explore the car rather than stay in the comfy nest she's called home since I picked her up off the sidewalk and brought her inside. I see little lightbulbs going off over her tiny tiny head every minute. she went from stationary food disposal unit to overactive manic busybody while I watched. She's started preening, hopping onto my finger/arm/body, DEMANDING attention, watching everything I do if I'm in the room with her. This morning she'd figured out how to perch on the edge of her nest. This afternoon she's hanging off the sides of the cage. If she's on my lap she's happy. If she's in the cage she's trying to figure out how to get out--and always, ALWAYS demanding fooooooooooood!!!!!! It's amazing. That little 1/2 ounce body would appear to pack a perfectly functional brain. Wow!

Bit grew up this past summer--well--she matured anyhow. She's still tiny--larger than a sparrow but not by much. She spends her days--and warm nights on the screened porch watching the chickens who come onto the porch to watch her--sometimes beak to beak. She's a fearless little critter and I don't let Kibbles out to run around the porch--Bit will go for her and that beak packs a wallop. I got got a big cage at a swap a few weeks back. It's been scrubbed and spray painted bright yellow. It'll be winter stomping grounds come another month or so. I have no idea where Cowbirds sleep--branches, under leaves, sheltered under eves. Bit prefers flannel shirts or a lap. She's molting and there are dark feathers on her wings now. This afternoon I went out to sit with her for awhile. I'd been up early and needed a break. Little Bit snugged down in my lap and took a nap--happy for the company. Tonight she's with me at the computer--hanging out on my arm preening her feathers. My sweet husband would like to have some company watching a Tom Hanks movie but I can't imagine any movie more satisfying than a little bird--who just pecked the crap out of my finger!

This is Bit and Abby--who seems to like hanging out with the little girl. If the two were left together I'd worry about Abby. Bit has a wicked beak--and knows how to use it. Still, from opposite sides of the screen, Bit has been accepted into the flock.

A Rainy Day

Nuthin like a cool rainy day in July. I guess Ducky-baby is the only one of the flock who REALLY enjoyed rain on his iridescent green feathers. The girls endured with the temperament of wet hens, and Buffy--little gold Cochin rooster-- hid out in the shed staying dry. Eventually I put Buffy in the pen, closed the gate and let Sam (white Silkie rooster) out for his walkabout with the girls. He didn't think much of the rain either. 

I talked to Bea this afternoon and enjoyed a conversation where if the topic turned to chickens, it wasn't weird. We discussed the terminology in local county ordinances that prevents folks from keeping chickens as pets--companion animals only. Exactly what defines a companion animal? My girls are as companionable as most dogs. As much as I love Tyson--the crook-tailed little cat I hand raised--she is hardly companionable. Cats want service not companionship. They get that on their own terms. 

I think I'll go out to the shed and enjoy the companionship of the flock--all snuggled on their perches for sleep--each in the place the flock agrees on. It's peaceful out there on a cool night when the traffic sounds have died down. I love hearing the girls sing themselves to sleep. The smell of clean pine shavings and straw is cleansing--like being in deep woods--deep woods that are occasionally pelted with a plop of chickenshit. 

RIP

Bye Gimpy

Gimpy's gone. She was broken from the day she got here and when she didn't start layin around the time the rest of the girls did--well--I guess I always knew she'd not live as long as her flock mates. So she's gone--died last week while we were out of town. She was well cared for and had everything she needed--water--food--a place to hide from Chicky-baby--everything. 

Gimpy's wings were tattered where she'd banged them on edges flapping to help her get around. The feathers on her underside had worn away and her one good leg was kind of twisted to help her scoot along. She couldn't scratch--tho if you set her in cool dirt in the garden she enjoyed digging into the ground with her beak and if she had a mind to get somewhere she got there--even tho it cost her a whole lot of effort. Gimpy was as valiant as any other creature who's made the best of their lot. 

I'm glad I knew her. Sometimes when I was sitting out in the shed on a cold night Gimp would flop into my lap. I'm glad I spent extra time out there sitting with her. I'm glad I stroked her feathers till her eyes closed and she slept a few minutes as a normal chicken before waking up and being tossed into the reality of never being able to roost with the rest of the girls. The best she could do was a warm lap--or a folded towel next to a straw bale. I loved her fierce face and the coloring of the feathers on her neck. She should have been a beauty. 

I guess you could say Gimp had as good a life or better than most chickens--she always had a clean place to live, plenty of clean food and water and even treats. When she died she was in her own place and in the company of her flock. Compared to the millions of poor terrified birds raised and slaughtered in god-awful poultry operations --- Oh lordy--I gotta stop eatin chicken. 

DUCK!

There's nuthin sadder than a broody hen with nuthin to brood. Poor Chicky-baby was sitting on an empty nest and even the indignity of having a big girl climb on top of her and lay an egg didn't dissuade her from sitting on that nest until the chick fairy left her something for her efforts. She didn't eat. She didn't drink. She didn't poop. She sat. 

Bea to the rescue. On a particularly rainy raw Wednesday, a trip to the farm ended with my buddy reaching under her Muscovy Duck and coming out with an egg. Mama duck had 15 under there and didn't seem to mind losing one. A half-hour drive with the heat blasting brought one duck egg and one VERY broody little white hen together. Chicky-baby tucked that precious egg under her and for the first time in a couple of weeks she looked content--content enough that the next day she flew off her nest for a mountainous poop, a glorious dust bath and the first real meal she'd had in a long time.  Then she tucked herself around her egg, with a chorus of little clucks and squawks that lasted pretty much around the clock--a chicken lullaby.

A week later I checked her egg and there was a tiny hole. Next morning I looked for a baby and there was an egg with a bigger hole. That afternoon when I checked, you could see wet brown feathers through a crack in that egg and the little guy was squirming around. That evening Ducky-baby was finally OUT!

Chicky-baby has her baby. The little guy has soft brown feathers with a yellow bib, black patent leather feet with claws (didn't know ducks had claws)  and tiny beady black eyes. He's a cute little bugger. CB is a lioness when it comes to protecting her baby and I've got a couple of good blood blisters courtesy of  her beak. If they gave out Nobel Prizes for motherhood, she'd be at the top of the list to win. OK--so there's a slight problem. Chicky-baby is desperately trying to teach Ducky-baby how to scratch, how to peck for goodies--you know--how to be a functional chicken. Ducky-baby just doesn't get it. He wants to stand in the water and bob for goodies. He doesn't come when called and (horrors!)  he gobbles his food.  I gotta hand it to Chicky-baby--she's not giving up. She's glad to be a Mom--even if her baby IS obviously developmentally challenged.

As for little Ducky-baby--if he survives his mother's efforts to teach him the ropes, he'll be a very fine Muscovy Chicken

Addendum: Ducky-baby is a full fledged part of the flock. The little guy waddles around with the big girls all day long. While they still don't like little Millie, they LOVE Ducky-baby. He's the "worm-whisperer" and if there's a worm in the backyard, he'll find it--to the girl's delight. They gotta be quick tho if they hope to snatch his prize. Ducky-baby can suck a worm down in a flash--just like a piece of spaghetti.

For George

My friend George said I hadn't added to my blog since November. Good grief! Somebody reads my chicken blog. Go figure. 

Everybody has survived winter on their heated perches. Ohmuhgosh I wish I had video of the first time I turned the girls out after the big snow. There was no way they were going out till some of the white stuff had melted away and patches of ground lured them from the doorway of the shed where they had been holed up since the storm. It was mighty funny watching them tippy-toe across the snow, wings flapping to keep their feet out of the ice, till they got to a bit of soggy dirt where they scratched around waiting for more pecking room to melt out of the snow. 

Today the whole flock was out--even Millie--my teeny little girl. She's just started laying--small whitish pink oblong eggs--HUGE considering her size but dwarfed by the big girl's monster eggs.  Millie still sleeps on a towel thrown over a chair in my dollie room. Eventually she'll sleep in the condo but she's the lowest member of the pecking order--and the smallest. Today was the first day she was out unsupervised. She hung out near Gimpy who sat in a pile of winter leaves sunning her tattered wings--not even flopping under the edge of the shed where she feels safe. She was OUT and she was staying OUT. Millie hid out behind her--big girls don't pick on Gimpy.

Chicky-baby is back to her sweet self after hatching out three peeps from eggs imported from the farm. The little roosters would be real happy to contribute to the backyard gene pool but they'd never sleep peacefully together in the same box again if they walked on the wild side. Poor boys watch lustily from behind wire as the girls peck around in the yard--admiring the full figured ladies from afar and wistfully pining for Millie who was part of their little flock till they started feeling their oats. Damned hormones!

This week I'll be starting spring cleaning--scrubbing out the condo and taking a pitchfork to the pen in the back. There'll be new straw all around and the whole place will be dusted (poultry dust). I'll clean out the shed and get the lawnmower out from under all the accumulated winter clutter. In a few weeks the insulation will come down so air can circulate better and the heat lamps will be traded for fans. We'll trade the misery of cold for the misery of heat.