To the Hilt

adventures with a psychopathic bantam

{ 09:59, 2006-Sep-24 } { Posted in homestead projects } { 2 comments } { Link }

It all started when my best friend's father called up and asked, "Do you want a chicken?" They were on their way back from a family reunion, that much I knew. How did they come by this chicken? What breed was it? Was it a hen or a rooster? Did it have three eyes or one leg? I knew not.

In the end, we did not receive a chicken. We received a brood of eight bantam chicks and one feathered psychopath. The brood consisted of three chicks in varying shades of brown or red, three white chicks, and three black chicks. We lost three to an unknown predator. Our prime suspect is the rats that we have been seeing sneak back onto the property with the addition of our horses, but the detectives were never able to come to a conlusion on the case. We then took the remaining brood from their caretaker, and brought them into our house from the coop, where they would be warm. We lost two more in an escapade involving home-mixed feed and rickets. We were down to three of our valuable little friends. And one monster.

She - for it had become clear through her overzealous mothering instincts that she was, indeed, a hen. At least, she resembled one - was thriving, much to the chagrin of our older, larger hens. They were a bit disgruntled. First we had brought in nearly twenty little screaming things that were constantly underfoot, stealing what they took to be their food and the attentions of their rooster, and now... this? Fortunately, this new addition took to the idea of sleeping in the rafters of the coop, instead of on the perch where the rest of the flock resided. While she was, indeed, the only one who could manage such heights at that time, there are still those who lurk in the shadows that claim she did so out of antisocial spite and dangerous positioning in order to divebomb any "intruding" humans. I was beginning to believe these conspiracy theories. We named her "Rafter".

It did not bother me that she slept up there. She was out of the way, in some aspects. But then - well, then it went to far. She began to corrupt the youngsters. It became apparent that while they were shunned by the older hens, this newcomer was willing to accept them. These adolescent chickens took to her like ardent worshippers after some mountain guru. That is, until she started to beat on the up-and-coming roosters in the flock. I will get to that soon enough. Now, they started to take after her example. They began to roost in the rafters, something they were still capable of at their size and age.

One day, we noticed something new in the egg contraption that adorns the southern wall of our coop. A miniscule egg. Eureka! She was indeed laying eggs. Before long, however, we stopped seeing them. Had she found a new place to lay? Our older, wiser hens had done so in the past. It was not an altogether far-fetched idea that she, too, would do so. The only difference was that one could find it believable that she did so out of sheer spite, rather than the instinct of hiding her clutch.

I did not think much of it. After all, they were bantam eggs. Not as large as the other eggs we were getting, and therefore not as big of a concern. It was just one hen, and strangely, her neurosis was beginning to endear itself to me. (It is just one of the signs that I am losing my sanity one little bit at a time.)

Time elapsed. Our adolescents were quickly approaching the threshold of adulthood. One rankled youngster even developed the audacity to begin crowing. She beat on him. Still he crowed. She continued to beat on him when they would come to the same pile of feed in the pasture. I think that she has successfully given the other young roosters a complex, for none of them have begun to crow. Only he, and the two old roosters, grace us with their beautiful song. (I know, I have no taste in music.) I did not think much of it.

Tonight, after feeding the horses, I opened the dutch door to allow the chickens who had not flown over it - another habit picked up from their illustrious role model - into the barn and subsequently, into their coop. I shut the elderly matrons of the flock and the young ladies in, and ushered the young roosters out. I wanted the hens to get used to being shut in there at night, instead of just roosting wherever they pleased. I did not tell the young roosters why they were being shunned. I prefer to let them live out their last days peacefully.

I then walked over and scooped up the three young bantams off of their favorite roosting spot and carried them over to the coop, as well. We apparently did not remove them from their mother's influence soon enough, for they too have adopted rebellious roosting habits. They have taken up residence on the edge of a plastic crate near the horse feed bins. Whenever I open the top of the bin, they come racing from wherever they happen to be at the moment, scramble over the bale of straw at the doorway, and start clamoring for horse feed. They learn quick.

It was then that I realized that I had not seen Rafter for at least two days. Hmm. I had seen her roost in the rafters of the barn itself on nights when the coop door was closed before she came in for the night. It was a good twenty feet off of the ground, but she had managed to include a stop on top of the rabbit towers to allow her to achieve such heights. She was not there now. However, there was always the hay loft. Snatching a flashlight, I climbed up the ladder and onto the hayloft. I shone the flashlight around, looking for places she could be roosting. No sight of her. Shrugging, I began to shine it around the rest of the loft, examining the contents. After all, we need to remove them in order to store hay up there for the winter. After passing the beam over the few old, dusty hay bales that were sitting against the wall, I did a double-take. Or rather, the flashlight did.

There, pressed down between two of the bales, was my favorite ruddy-feathered psychopath. She fled, and I paused. There, where she had been settled, were nine little eggs. She was setting. This would prove to be interesting. After all, we did not have a bantam rooster. Two full-size roosters, and a half-dozen adolescent ones. Could the eggs be fertile? It was dark enough in the loft that I began to "candle" each one with the beam of the flashlight. I am not an expert candler - we've only ever had one hen go broody and hatch out eggs, and she did so without our knowledge. However, it would appear that seven of them have at least some development, while when I examined two of them, there was not a dark area and the air sac moved as I moved the egg. Not being an expert, though, I set them back with the other seven, and climbed back down the ladder.

Rafter was busily beating on the young roosters again, so I took the free moment to go outside and pick up a Vari-Kennel dog crate and haul it inside the barn. I put down a layer of shavings. I raked up some loose straw. I hauled it up to the loft. By the time I had finished that process, she had abandoned her favorite hobby of violence in order to return to her nest. In the dark, she did not notice that the eggs were on the bale beside her nest, and not actually in their previous position. She was settled down into her nest next to the eggs when I got the Vari-Kennel up there. I carefully transferred the eggs into the crate, and set food and water at the front. I turned to snatch Rafter.

She took flight. Straight down from the loft, over the dutch door, and into the run-in stall. I sighed. There was nothing to do but wait. I settled down on a bale of hay and watched. Or rather, I listened. She clucked. She squawked. She screeched. She ranted. If it could be said that chickens could swear, then she was swearing worse than a sailor who has spent ten years at sea, and another in the brig, just for good measure. Willow walked into the stall and pinned her ears. I heard Rafter vacate her haunt for the other side of the stall, her swearing now directed at the horse that hates poultry. Then the swearing stopped. I slid down in front of the bale, to alleviate at least some of the sillhouette that would be visible from the stall door.

After a few more moments of silence, she flew up and onto the dutch door. She preened for a few moments, and stalked across the wood. She eyed the chain link fencing that surrounds the rabbit area. She eyed the not-so-precocious young rooster that was perched atop said fencing. It was him. She hopped onto the fence. He took the discerning route and hopped off. She shuffled across the top of the fence toward the edge of the loft, occasionally scolding the young roosters below her. She left my line of sight. Then... she was there. On the edge of the hayloft. I could tell that she sensed something was off, but still she meandered across. I barely exhaled. She passed out of my peripheral vision as she hopped onto the bales.

A few moments later, I allowed my head to turn slowly. It was excellent practice for movement during hunting season, by the way, but I digress. She was settled in. But now... how to go about capturing her? She had fled twice before. She could obviously sense my presence as a shadow before her as I approached. I pondered. Ah! Huzzah, a brillig plan was in the making! I had pulled a short-sleeved tee over my long-sleeved one before coming to the barn, as I have found that layering makes sense and often lessens the need for a coat, or in this case, a sweatshirt. As carefully as is possible in a dusty hay loft, I pulled the outer tee off, and held it before me as I stood up and crept toward her location.

She still fled - but now, I had more than just my hands, and when she flew into the tee shirt and was knocked to the floor of the loft, I pounced. She screeched. She called the cavalry. She spoke of murder. She promised to take me in my sleep. I shoved her in the crate.

After I brought the dogs in from the kennel, I climbed halfway up the ladder and shone my flashlight toward the crate. She had settled on top of the eggs. All appears to be well.

The questions are numerous: What will happen to the eggs? Will anything hatch? What will these mongrel beasts look like, these spawn of a full-size rooster and a bantam psychopath? Time will tell.
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{ 10:11, 2006-Sep-24 } { Posted by OurLittleHomestead }
you need a hard hat type helmet....and a helmet cam.

lol!

Lisa

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{ 01:38, 2006-Sep-25 } { Posted by morningsunshine }
I can't wait to have my own!!!!

will I get such adventures with the purchase of chickens?

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Blessed Child
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All Flesh Is Grass
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To the Hilt

adventures with a psychopathic bantam

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