LESSONS FROM LUCY

Lucy was a special-needs hen.

At the age of six months, she was stricken with Marek's disease. She survived, but her legs and her stamina were permanently affected. 

Lucy needed me, so she invited me into her life. 

For six and a half years Lucy and I shared a beautiful trusting friendship. She taught me what it's like to be a chicken.  And she taught me what it means to be alive. 

This October Lucy fell ill. I recognized her symptoms at once, and made a confident decision on her behalf.  I called Rosario, the wonderful vet who I wrote about in my book, and she met Sarah and me in our backyard the next day. Together we gave Lucy a comfortable ending while I held this beautiful hen my arms. 

It has been an honor to share Lucy with the world. I continue to be amazed at the way she touches people's lives in my book, Once Upon a Flock, in my blog stories, and on Facebook. 

Lucy's flock mourned her passing.  And now her flock guides me in moving forward.  Because the sun is shining, and it's a beautiful day. 

If you, too, aspire to attain the wisdom of a chicken, here are a few pointers:

Thank you for following my stories, and stay tuned for more tales of a soulful flock!

Meet the New Guy!

Allow me to introduce

Angel.

Angel is Grandma Nancy's dog. He has recently moved in with us because Grandma needs a break from dog-walking duties these days. 

Marky likes Angel. 

Especially because Angel came with all this loot.

But Marky seems befuddled by his new little buddy. 

Is he really a dog?

I mean, can he bark like this?

Can he pull a tree up by its roots?

Can he catch a snowball with his bare fangs?

Can he burn rubber?

Can he smell this putrid?

Apparently not all dogs are descendants of the bold and mysterious wolf.

We've actually traced Angel's DNA

to this. 

Don't get me wrong. Marky, like most dogs, has suffered cuteness at times. 

He has a girl, Sarah. And, well, sometimes cute happens.

But for the most part he's a serious chicken-protecting dude. 

At first, Angel was curious about the ladies. 

But on closer inspection,he found that they are bigger than he is, and pretty darn scary.

So he prefers to stick to the things he does best:

Keeping me company and 

looking cute.

Food Chain

In addition to feeding my ladies,

I feed a healthy population of mice.

It's kind of inevitable.  

They live in the rafters of the shed, in nests made of Marky's shredded dog-toys.

They tunnel into the coop and eat the spilled chicken feed.

Last fall, these creatures had quite the population explosion.

When I stepped into the shed, great herds of mice brazenly scurried across my boots and stalked me fearlessly from the rafters.  

When they moved into our own attic, I began to think unpleasant thoughts about mouse traps and such. 

But I didn't have to think about that for long. On a warm night with the window open, I was pleasantly awakened by the calls of three different types of owls. The mice had been discovered. Their numbers swiftly declined.

So my mice are doing their jobs supporting the food chain, and I'm feeling much better about supporting the mice.  

Now a fox has made a home in the woods right behind the coop. 

I'd like to think that this fox is attracted by the mice, but...well, it did find a good chicken-dinner in our yard a couple of years ago (see Silent Morning).

A raccoon, a fisher cat and several hawks also check in on the girls from time to time.

Recently, we left town for a whole week, and I made certain that my flock would be safe and comfortable while we were gone.




When we returned, the ladies were incredibly happy to see us.

You'd think they'd seen a predator or something.

Chicken Milking

Some well-meaning friends talked me into trying a Yoga class. They said it was just what I needed.
  
Gentle music played and incense wafted as the instructor guided our twists, our stretches, our breathing...while I wrote my grocery list in my head and tried to remember if Sarah's orthodontist appointment was tomorrow or next Tuesday.


After about a half-hour I actually began to get into the groove when, balanced on left knee and right hand, I twisted my head to look up at the clock---

Only nine minutes had passed. 

Nine Minutes?   


Aside from maybe having a molar pulled, this was the longest nine minutes I'd ever endured. 


Panicking silently, I tried to come up with an urgent excuse or a graceful exit, but could think of none.  I would have to endure the eternal yoga class.


Believe it or not, it eventually ended.  With the delightful Corpse pose which I mastered like a master.  I rolled up my yoga mat and skittered out the door never to return.


Wikipedia tells me:
"The goal of yoga, or the person practicing yoga, is the attainment of a state of perfect spiritual insight and tranquility."





Heck, I don't need no yoga mat for that.


Because I've got a Chicken-milking stool.

No, I don't milk the chickens on this stool.  But if chickens could be milked, this would be the perfect stool for the job.

I got it at Ikea for $7.99.  


It lives out in the yard, and it beckons me.


This stool brings me closer to all things awesome. 

Like Lucy's face.

Late in the day when the girls free-range, Lucy shuffles over to sit by the stool, knowing I'll eventually be planting myself there.   I join the ladies every evening for free-ranging time on account of this:

which has taken up roosting here:

A Red Shouldered hawk.  Actually, we've got a whole family of them, and they'd like nothing better than a chicken dinner.

Since Lucy can't get around too well, (click here for Lucy's story), she sits down and joins me on Hawk-Patrol.  
Marky also keeps an eye out for hawks.  He's a very good little watchdog.

Of course, when he's not scanning the skies, 

he's doing his yoga.

Lucy, too... When she's not watching for hawks, she practices the Bharadvaja's Twist.

They take turns, so somebody's always on watch--


which leaves me free to seek a state of spiritual insight from the comfort of my stool.

At my feet is a telltale sign that Lil'White has begun her molt.  

 

I find the rest of her beneath the forsythia,

 where she appears to have exploded.


How does she do it?   
While all the other molting gals look miserable and disheveled,   

(poor little Pigeon, here, sports one pathetic tail feather)

Lil'White loses more than half her plumage and still remains the picture of beauty and poise.


Oh, the perspectives I'd miss

were it not for my chicken-milking stool.

And you know, I'm not the only one who seeks to attain a sense of peace and spirituality through chickens.   



Here my friend Sharon Araujo does a modified Standing Half Forward Bend while Terry Golson of Hencam.com attempts an especially complex yoga position to attain the best chicken-butt photo,

and thus, spiritual insight and tranquility.

Namaste.

Fern's Amazing Rubber Egg

They say that one nest box is all you need for three or four hens. But when one of your hens is Lil'White, that's another story.


Lil'White hogs the nest box.  Always has.  


Sometimes she pretends to be broody, like this: 

Ouch!


...I swear she's faking it. 


Last year I made a new coop for my five gals, with TWO nest boxes.   
One for Lil'White, and one for everybody else.   


For some reason, everybody preferred Lil'White's nest box, so there was still a line of anxious hens waiting their turn.

Then I had a clever idea. 

I placed a rubber egg in the unused nest box to make that box appear desirable.


Instantly, that second nest box was deemed eggworthy by the flock, and we never had a problem with a long queue again.   


But another problem did creep up:

Her name is Fern.


Right about the time of the rubber egg, Fern stopped laying.
Until that time, she was laying beautifully -- 

Her petite blue eggs were regular treasures... maybe three or four a week.  


The shutdown of little Fern's internal egg factory was a mystery.


There are several reasons a hen might take a break from laying during the summer -- hot weather, a molt, broodiness, poor health...   I didn't see signs of any issues or problems in Fern.  

She was still the little whippersnapper she'd always been. Still getting into trouble.

(Closeup: Fern waits for Lil'White to resume pecking her on the head.)


Fern must have had her reasons for not laying eggs, and I supposed she'd get back to laying pretty soon.


Sure enough, after a few weeks, Fern did start marching into the nest box each morning. 

She preferred the box with the rubber egg. 

Every day, she settled in and hunkered down.


And when she was done, she stepped out onto the upper perch 

to formally announce her accomplishment. 

The problem:   
There WAS no accomplishment.
Fern wasn't laying anything.  
No blue eggs. No eggs at all. 


She still isn't laying, and it's been FOUR MONTHS.


For four months, she has been going through the motions, daily. 

...looks like Daisy's been here already.

Does Fern think she's laying a rubber egg every day?


If that's what's going on in her tiny little head, that's okay with me. But I really am dying to know.


If she never lays a cute blue egg ever again, that's okay too.  She won't end up in the stewpot because I still appreciate all the redeeming qualities that make her...well... Fern.


I guess Fern is just a bit unusual...


But, then, aren't we all?