The first chickens arrived 20 days after closing on our first farm. The little peeps were an "ornamental layer mix" from McMurray Hatchery and were loved, and cared for with great abandon and total incompetence. The ones surviving the incompetence were all of distinct breeds, easy to name and discern from each other with crazy hairdos and colors and tons of attitude. Did you know that premium electric chicken fence will not keep young or old chickens in? I didn't. If they are young enough not to fly, they walk through the openings, if they are old enough to fly well, they fly over it. I can say I and my family have extensive chicken chasing, catching, tossing, and corralling skills. We gave up and pursued our dream of free range chickens, much to every damn varmit in a 10 square mile area's delight. The fox-weasel-racoon-skunk-coyotes blessed our presence, rapidly procreating on our back doorstep knowing that the young-uns would be well fed. Needless to say we now have one, yes one, rooster left from the initial lot of chicks. After the first lot of needless death, I asked my father it he knew of a good varmit hunting weapon. I left my suburban childhood home armed with a .22, and a bit more introspection of my upbringing. I recall, DC in fall, no not that poetic, anti-gun marches are always DC in July. Who marches? Pa (Honey) saddle up the volvo, we are going to the mall, the green grassy one, to march in 100 degree weather with people who abhor the NRA and deodorant. Bring the kids!! I, kid, remember the marches well, guns bad, very, very bad. All of the really cool, odoriferous people know that to be true. Yet lurking in the basement, yep the unspoken .22. Glad of that fact now, yet it still bring childhood into a dramatic refocusing, (applies deodorant and keeps writing).
London's ring of steel leaves much to be desired when compared to the Fort Knox security now maintained on our quaint homestead. We have a .22, a few bows, a shotgun, a muzzle-loader, a 120 pound and still growing Great Pyrenees, and miles of electric fence. We are currently in negotiations with the squirrel union over which very tiny tactical assault rifles they wish to be issued. I am a hen/rooster/guinea hen/turkey linguistics expert. I can discern from a dead sleep on the second floor of my house a "that's my hen" call from a "take cover it's a hawk call". I can hear fox-skunk-weasel-raccoons at 200 yards in the night. I have become a farm fixture in my bathrobe and muck boots with whatever deadly object comes to hand. I chased a fox down in 2 feet of snow and made him spit out my rooster and spent 2 hours giving mouth to beak resuscitation. He survived. Oh, it's personal now.
There you have it, it is not sane. I do raise meat birds. I not only eat my chickens, we process them here. We kill them, right here. So it really comes down to possession and control. Oh that is so ugly, so un-karma building. But there it is. I love our chickens, we kiss them, we cuddle, we have house chickens. We have come to the realization it is not good enough to buy young chickens, we want all of our chickens to enjoy a natural life, one that begins with a broody mama hen and enjoys her tender ministrations, and then either ends up food or laying hen. Hatcheries be damned, mama hen is better than a brooder lamp and a fussy woman.
If I have a new fox purse for Christmas to go with my coon skin cap, I will be delighted.
Even as a vegan myself, I can understand and totally appreciate the all-too-human response here. I know your chickens are in excellent hands and in those hands frequently. Knowing you started this path with little expertise is really inspiring. Like, wow, even I could have chickens and not screw it up (too much). What's the next weapon to be acquired?
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