How come Amy is magic and my hero.

The other evening I decided to move the not-spring-chickies up to be with the grownup chickens. Their mother had notified me that it was time: she was sick of them, she explained, and was ready for them to be big chickens on their own.

So at dusk, I grabbed the Mama and one baby, and moved them into the garden. Then I came back for a few more babies. Then a couple more. Soon I had moved all apparent babies. But as I counted the babies with the mama, I kept coming up with "six." Correct number of babies? Seven. "Hmmm," I thought. "We have minus-one babies."

Wherever this singular baby was, I thought, it would be very upset. Chicken babies do not like to be alone in the great big world. But I couldn't find the missing baby anywhere, and I couldn't even hear any agitated peeping. Eventually, I took a closer look at a weird shadow in the baby enclosure. It turned out to be not a weird shadow, but a creepy surprise: the missing baby. It was still, and quiet, and kind of smashed into the corner closest to the garden.

I got the total heebie-jeebies. I remembered my now-prophetic-seeming dream in which a little chicken had been killed by a kitten. Had a kitten gotten into the baby chicken pen? That didn't make any sense. I paced around the gravel outside the baby pen in tight, agitated circles. I did NOT want to crawl in the baby pen and get the sad, creepy little body of the dead little chicken. On the other hand, someone had to do it.

So I decided to see if Amy was awake from her nap.

"Amy!" I said in relief when I found her barely awake and in the kitchen. "Something happened at the chickens." I made a couple more circles and gave a garbled explanation of events. She grabbed some gloves and came outside right away.

That was really nice of her. But HERE is why she is magic and my hero: she crawled in to get the chicken baby, and she got it, and it was not dead. It wasn't even really hurt. It had just gotten its head stuck. That's right: I conscripted her to deal with a dead chicken on my behalf, and not only did she do it without raising a single objection, she crawled out of the pen and held out to me a living chicken. So: magic, and my hero.

Here the little chickens are, enjoying the big-chicken life on a tall, grownup-sized perch. Little baby Stuckface is on the extreme right, this time with her head stuck outside the photo frame. (Will she ever learn?) I banded her so I could keep an eye on her, and she is doing great.

Molting: It ain't for sissies

Here's a surprise fact about chicken keeping: when chickens get old enough (let's say...two), one day you look at them and they do not look so good. They seem disheveled. "I hope that chicken is okay," you say to yourself. And then a couple days later they look like this:
Auggh!! And this isn't even the worst of it. A few days after this picture was taken, this hen was down to a number of feathers that was extremely close to zero. (let's say...two)

At that point, the chicken looks horrible. Just...horrible. I don't know why she hangs on to those last two feathers, either. They don't keep her warm, they don't help her fly, and they certainly don't do much for her dignity. But they're all she has. Maybe I do understand--she's all cold and cranky and naked, and she looks ridiculous, and she just wants those two feathers. Okay.

Eventually things get better. Here is that hen now, a few weeks later. Her new feathers are small but shiny and they cover her naked skin.
"Phewf, glad that's over!" We all are.

Blog Revival: Stand up straight. Comb your hair. Edit your prose.

These days I have chickens. Twenty chickens live in this chicken house, and more chickens are on the way.


And six years ago, apparently, I had a blog. I named it "Hensteeth," posted on it, eventually stopped posting, and finally forgot I had even ever had a blog.** At that time--6 years ago-- I did NOT have chickens. I had no particular interest in chickens. I was a vegetarian and did not eat chickens; I didn't know anyone who had chickens; I had probably never encountered a living chicken. So, why "Hensteeth?" I wish I knew.

But now. NOW I have chickens.

"Them chickens are funny," I thought to myself recently. "I should make them a blog." I tried several obvious chicken-related blog names--all taken, and not all of them were even about chickens. Then, unaware of the creepy surprise I was in for, I tried "Hensteeth." Also taken, I discovered, and also not about chickens.

"Heh, this one is funny though," I thought after a couple seconds. "But it kind of sounds...a lot...like...ME!! WHAT?!?!"

It was the internet version of seeing yourself in what you think is a wall, but turns out to be a mirror. There is a short period of wrongness and horror, during which it seems you may be in the Twilight Zone or The Matrix. But the heebie-jeebies pass quickly and you are left facing your reflection, thinking: "Oh jeez, do I always stand like that? Is that what what my hair looks like? Is my prose still that wordy?"
Yes, yes, and yes, folks. But now it's about chickens.

** For a sweet ride in the time machine, I have left up three of the original posts. They all have to do with the bathtub...?