We knew all along we wouldn't keep any roosters.
Now that Joseph was crowing (thanks to ..uh..well, me, and some YouTube rooster sensation) we had to act fast.
I wrote notes to all our neighbors promising to get rid of him ASAP.
On June 25, 2009, we sold Joseph on Craigslist, to a used car salesman for $10.
I know the exact date, because it was the same day Michael Jackson died.
Interestingly, his new owner named him Elvis.
We handed him off, drug deal style, smack in the middle of the car lot, as he looked back at us with his beady little chicken eyes as if to say,
"YOU did this to me, YOU DID THIS TO MEEEE!"
But like I said, we knew all along we wouldn't keep any roosters and besides, he would have learned to crow on his own inevitably.......... right?
He is now spending his days on a farm with several other Blue Andalusian ladies, where he is no doubt, the King.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
There "She" Crows...
It's hard to sex a chicken.
Yes, I just said, "sex a chicken" and no, I have never used that sentence before.
Anyhoo, using official farmer jargon, it is hard to sex (determine the gender of) a chicken.
Because of this there is no 100% guarantee on the gender of the chick you are purchasing, but there are many, many wives tales.
The tractor supply employee told us:
"Pick up the baby chick, if it curls its feet up to it's body, it's a female."
Another blogger mentions this:
"Hold your chick on their back in your hand. If they stop kicking after a short time, it's a pullet, if they keep kicking it's a cockerel."
To that I would like to add a third option, "If they stop kicking after a long time, they might be dead."
So with no way to accurately know what we were getting, we went ahead and bought a mix of pullets (young chickens that are almost 100% positively sexed as females) and a couple of straightruns (50/50 chance of winding up with either gender).
I got the pullets because I wanted egg laying hens and I got the straightruns because they were interesting, and I thought I'd take a chance on some exotic chickens, hoping they would be hens and not roosters.
Growing up, I would often visit my grandmother in Monclair, CA (southern CA) and I have fond memories of feeding the free range chicken in her neighbor's backyard.
Man, how I'd love to go back in time and tell that old woman (the neighbor, not my grammie) how progressive she was in her urban backyard chicken-keeping and how I'd one day aspire to do the same.
So, in tribute to Josephine, the first urban chicken I ever met, I passed the name down to the little grey fuzzball with grey legs and a spunky attitude.
This chick had a name to live up to, and big talons to fill.
"She" filled them all right...along with other chicken anatomy that shall remain nameless.
(Frankly, because I have no idea what it's called or how it works and I'm happy to keep it that way.)
There were gender clues I tried to ignore in wishing Josephine to be a hen.
A large comb.
Huge waddles.
Mounting the other hens.
Then one day I heard a God-awful shriek.
It was like a short bark mixed with the blood curdling scream of a child.
Sort of a loud cluck - it definitely did not sound like crowing.
Maybe it was time I accepted Josephine for who he was and let him reach his full chicken potential..?
Perhaps all the gender identity pressure got to him and he was trying to stifle his crowing.
This went on for days and I couldn't take it.
I brought him inside, sat him on my lap, and pulled up the ol' YouTube.
I actually played for him, over and over again, footage of a crowing rooster.
This blue roo was gonna learn to crow.
A couple of things to add:
1. Yes, that was me lovingly holding and stroking the chicken (not a euphemism, I swear!) and yes, it seems weird in retrospect.
2. What did roosters do without YouTube??
Yes, I just said, "sex a chicken" and no, I have never used that sentence before.
Anyhoo, using official farmer jargon, it is hard to sex (determine the gender of) a chicken.
Because of this there is no 100% guarantee on the gender of the chick you are purchasing, but there are many, many wives tales.
The tractor supply employee told us:
"Pick up the baby chick, if it curls its feet up to it's body, it's a female."
Another blogger mentions this:
"Hold your chick on their back in your hand. If they stop kicking after a short time, it's a pullet, if they keep kicking it's a cockerel."
To that I would like to add a third option, "If they stop kicking after a long time, they might be dead."
So with no way to accurately know what we were getting, we went ahead and bought a mix of pullets (young chickens that are almost 100% positively sexed as females) and a couple of straightruns (50/50 chance of winding up with either gender).
I got the pullets because I wanted egg laying hens and I got the straightruns because they were interesting, and I thought I'd take a chance on some exotic chickens, hoping they would be hens and not roosters.
Growing up, I would often visit my grandmother in Monclair, CA (southern CA) and I have fond memories of feeding the free range chicken in her neighbor's backyard.
Man, how I'd love to go back in time and tell that old woman (the neighbor, not my grammie) how progressive she was in her urban backyard chicken-keeping and how I'd one day aspire to do the same.
So, in tribute to Josephine, the first urban chicken I ever met, I passed the name down to the little grey fuzzball with grey legs and a spunky attitude.
This chick had a name to live up to, and big talons to fill.
"She" filled them all right...along with other chicken anatomy that shall remain nameless.
(Frankly, because I have no idea what it's called or how it works and I'm happy to keep it that way.)
There were gender clues I tried to ignore in wishing Josephine to be a hen.
A large comb.
Huge waddles.
Mounting the other hens.
Then one day I heard a God-awful shriek.
It was like a short bark mixed with the blood curdling scream of a child.
Sort of a loud cluck - it definitely did not sound like crowing.
Maybe it was time I accepted Josephine for who he was and let him reach his full chicken potential..?
Perhaps all the gender identity pressure got to him and he was trying to stifle his crowing.
This went on for days and I couldn't take it.
I brought him inside, sat him on my lap, and pulled up the ol' YouTube.
I actually played for him, over and over again, footage of a crowing rooster.
This blue roo was gonna learn to crow.
A couple of things to add:
1. Yes, that was me lovingly holding and stroking the chicken (not a euphemism, I swear!) and yes, it seems weird in retrospect.
2. What did roosters do without YouTube??
"My First Place" Chicken Edition
The chickens were fast outgrowing their cardboard box in the garage.
Josh (the hubs and resident urban farmer/carpenter) built a larger brooder out of wood and chicken wire (which would later become Popcorn's indoor suite) that could be rolled outside and back in at night to keep the chicks safe, yet allowing them sunshine during the day.
Meanwhile, he built them a home of their own and we had a 6' wooden privacy fence installed in the backyard.
Roosting on the top of the coop
Stay tuned, for the next installment in which we discover Josephine (pictured) is in fact...a Joseph.
Josh (the hubs and resident urban farmer/carpenter) built a larger brooder out of wood and chicken wire (which would later become Popcorn's indoor suite) that could be rolled outside and back in at night to keep the chicks safe, yet allowing them sunshine during the day.
Meanwhile, he built them a home of their own and we had a 6' wooden privacy fence installed in the backyard.
Roosting on the top of the coop
Stay tuned, for the next installment in which we discover Josephine (pictured) is in fact...a Joseph.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
And They Grow...
It doesn't take long for things to get ugly.
One second, the baby chicks are sweet cuddly puffs of downy fuzz, then they begin to get their feathers and turn into gangly teenagers.
It is an awkward time to be a chicken.
Because I ama crazy bird lady a photographer's wife, I snapped a few pictures to capture their growth.
And that concludes the Spring photo shoot '09 with the ladies...and gents.
One second, the baby chicks are sweet cuddly puffs of downy fuzz, then they begin to get their feathers and turn into gangly teenagers.
It is an awkward time to be a chicken.
Because I am
Josephine - Rare Blue Andalusion
(later renamed Joseph in light of some proper gender identification)
(later renamed Joseph in light of some proper gender identification)
Genevieve - Cornish (A meat bird)
(Genevieve also turned out to be a rooster, but we kept the name because, 1. We were lazy. 2. We we sold it on Craigslist, and 3. It's just a chicken)
(Genevieve also turned out to be a rooster, but we kept the name because, 1. We were lazy. 2. We we sold it on Craigslist, and 3. It's just a chicken)
Popcorn - Sultan Hen
(also very rare, decidedly the kids' favorite. She is docile, and sweet, and when she runs around in those feathery bell bottoms, it looks like a scene from Saturday Night Fever)
(also very rare, decidedly the kids' favorite. She is docile, and sweet, and when she runs around in those feathery bell bottoms, it looks like a scene from Saturday Night Fever)
Cup, Rainbow, and SweetiePieDaisyRosyFlower (yes, that was one name)
Unknown Red Variety, perhaps Brown Sex Links
(They all look the same. I don't know which is which. The girls do though. They are hardy egg layers)
Unknown Red Variety, perhaps Brown Sex Links
(They all look the same. I don't know which is which. The girls do though. They are hardy egg layers)
And that concludes the Spring photo shoot '09 with the ladies...and gents.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Poporn and the Paparazzi
We interrupt the chronicling of our chicken history to bring you THIS breaking news.
Mother Clucker and her brood featured in the Tennessean!
Read HERE.
The hens are full fledged celebrities now, well, at least our fanciest Sultan Hen, Popcorn is.
She stayed calm and collected as the paparazzi snapped away capturing her feathered feet and pom-pom head.
What a classy chick.
Mother Clucker and her brood featured in the Tennessean!
Read HERE.
The hens are full fledged celebrities now, well, at least our fanciest Sultan Hen, Popcorn is.
She stayed calm and collected as the paparazzi snapped away capturing her feathered feet and pom-pom head.
What a classy chick.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Tweets...or uh, "Clucks?"
Some of my favorite chicken related Twitter posts from last spring, starting with the day I got 'em:
Also, I tweeted that before I began taking portraits of my chickens. *Cough*
- On my way home with a boxful of baby chicks.
- Thinks it's hilarious and fitting that Sera named one of the chicks "popcorn"
- Feels like a nervous first time mother. I keep checking to see if they are still breathing. This is ridiculous. They are CHICKENS people!
- Listening to my child baby-talk to the chicks saying such things as "Do you want to be a chicken?? Dooo you??"
- Is socializing my chickens.
- For reals just googled "how to get my chickens to like me"...... No results were found.
- Has a rooster eating organic whole wheat pasta scraps under the dining room table. WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE!?
- My chickens have gotten ugly and dumb. I could totally eat one if I had to.
- Me: "Girls, what do you want for lunch?" Amelie: "Ummm...I want.......Rooster nuggets."
- *Thought I was getting a bit too obsessed with the chickies until I saw professional portraits online of someone's chicken in a santa hat.
Also, I tweeted that before I began taking portraits of my chickens. *Cough*
Bringing Home Baby....Chicks
My friend Stephie gave me a call, saying she wanted to go pick up some baby chicks, and we decided to ride together.
My husband wasn't as "enthusiastic", initially as I was, so I called him on the way to the Tractor Supply to let him know I'd be bringing home little chickies that afternoon.
I'm one stubborn lady, so he knew better than to talk me out of it...I already had visions of the girls picking out their own baby chicks, and the picture of sweetness it would be to see them collect eggs from our yard every day.
The clerk at the Tractor Supply was a young teenage girl, and she was visibly nervous as I peppered her with chicken questions.
Turns out the "chicken expert" had gone home for the day, but I didn't drive 45 minutes to come home empty handed.
I tried to figure out which chickens were "pullets" (baby hens - future egg layers) and which were "straight run" (males and females - no way to know which is which).
The pullets looked all the same, like a sea of carnival gold fish, each of them little tufts of hopping golden fuzz.
The straight run were all different colors, sizes and breeds.
The store required a minimum 6 chick purchase, so I picked out (what I thought to be) 4 pullets to be sure I got some egg layers, and 2 straight run just because they were SO pretty.
We drove home with happy meal shaped boxes full of baby chicks and my oldest daughter named one for herself, "popcorn" and my 2 year old named one "cup."
I realized then, that I could never eat a chicken that had a name, but definitely looked forward to some tasty eggs!
At home I popped them all into a big cardboard box with paper shreds on the bottom, a small water dish and feeder and a heat lamp.
They spent the first night in the bathroom and I felt like a new mother, checking on them every couple of hours through the night to make sure they were still breathing!
We kept the temp around 90-100 degrees the first week, then lowered the temperature down by 5 degrees every week until warm, hardy feathers replaced their peach fuzz.
Most people had told me to expect to lose one or two due to sickness, etc., but they all thrived and soon were old enough to move out of the cardboard box, and let explore the outdoors!
My husband wasn't as "enthusiastic", initially as I was, so I called him on the way to the Tractor Supply to let him know I'd be bringing home little chickies that afternoon.
I'm one stubborn lady, so he knew better than to talk me out of it...I already had visions of the girls picking out their own baby chicks, and the picture of sweetness it would be to see them collect eggs from our yard every day.
The clerk at the Tractor Supply was a young teenage girl, and she was visibly nervous as I peppered her with chicken questions.
Turns out the "chicken expert" had gone home for the day, but I didn't drive 45 minutes to come home empty handed.
I tried to figure out which chickens were "pullets" (baby hens - future egg layers) and which were "straight run" (males and females - no way to know which is which).
The pullets looked all the same, like a sea of carnival gold fish, each of them little tufts of hopping golden fuzz.
The straight run were all different colors, sizes and breeds.
The store required a minimum 6 chick purchase, so I picked out (what I thought to be) 4 pullets to be sure I got some egg layers, and 2 straight run just because they were SO pretty.
We drove home with happy meal shaped boxes full of baby chicks and my oldest daughter named one for herself, "popcorn" and my 2 year old named one "cup."
I realized then, that I could never eat a chicken that had a name, but definitely looked forward to some tasty eggs!
At home I popped them all into a big cardboard box with paper shreds on the bottom, a small water dish and feeder and a heat lamp.
They spent the first night in the bathroom and I felt like a new mother, checking on them every couple of hours through the night to make sure they were still breathing!
We kept the temp around 90-100 degrees the first week, then lowered the temperature down by 5 degrees every week until warm, hardy feathers replaced their peach fuzz.
Most people had told me to expect to lose one or two due to sickness, etc., but they all thrived and soon were old enough to move out of the cardboard box, and let explore the outdoors!
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