Mommy's Pen

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Flocking Together

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When I got my first two chickens, one of the first things that struck me was how closely they stuck to one another.  They drank at the same time, ate at the same time, scratched around within inches of each other.  It was like they thought they were the same bird.

Ginger and Estelle as Pullets

 One day I was watching their inter-dependence with fascination and suddenly realized the parallel.  There was a little blond child lacing herself with my legs while I stood there.  She never lets me get too far away, her security is dependent on my proximity.  

Unlike chickens, which are flock animals, there will come a time when Nora will not want to be by my side every second, and that is as it should be.  But for now, we’re acting like one bird — and it’s beautiful.

Guest Post: Campbell Christmas Letter

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Every year, my father-in-law, an avid (if not rabid) reader of this blog, writes a killer Christmas letter.  This is too good not to share.  I’m beginning to think he’s Garrison Keillor in disguise…

We are oatmeal people – rather bland, but certainly healthy and hearty. That pretty well sums up our year. And we like it that way.

 Debbie still hasn’t quite been able to grasp the concept of retirement. Yes, she did retire in June as Director of Early Childhood Programs with the Sauk Rapids School District.  But with two part time jobs  — teaching at St. Cloud State and working at the Initiative Foundation in Little Falls, along with some consulting / training work — it looks like real retirement will have to wait.

 Larry, on the other hand, has mastered the subtle nuances of retirement, taking much care to pace himself. His life is slow and relaxed, with bouts of biking, camping, birdhouse building, and live-trapping tribes of maraudering squirrels that persistently attack our gardens. This past summer he diligently captured 38 of those smarmy rodents, and stealthily returned them to freedom across the river. Squirrels have a strong homing instinct, but can’t swim, so it should all work out. Yes, the glass is indeed half full.

 We did a fair amount of biking this summer, including a chunk of the quite hilly Gitchi Gami Trail along Lake Superior. We also biked to Sauk Centre (into the wind), spent the night, and biked back the next day (also into the wind). We must have looked pretty bedraggled when we got to the hotel, because the desk clerk upgraded us to a jacuzzi suite. For once it paid off to be stinky and sweaty.

 Elizabeth is thriving in Minneapolis. She claims that she now loves winter, even after the 17 inches of snow that just fell. Of course, not owning a car in a world covered in ice and snow certainly helps. Lucille, her gracefully aging cat, has lost the last of her teeth, which along with having no claws, renders her to be pretty much useless as an animal of prey. But her role as an ornamental companion is quite secure. We would guess that a steaming bowl of oatmeal would suit them both just fine.

 Miss Nora, The Princess of Portland, is now 3½. She gathers eggs from their chickens daily, but has been dismayed recently because Colonel Sanders (yes, the Colonel is a hen), who lays blue eggs, is temporarily not laying. But when Nora can’t have blue eggs for breakfast, she enjoys a big bowl of oatmeal. That’s our girl! A few days ago Nora proclaimed that when she grows up she wants to marry Santa. Mrs. Santa might have a thing or two to say about that.

 Ben and Sue continue to live an oatmeal-worthy life of contentment in Portland. Ben has been taking some amazing photographs with the last rolls of Kodachrome color slide film that are available. He also just finished custom building a bicycle for cruising around America’s most bike-friendly city. Sue, with a sharp pencil and sharper wit, writes a blog called Mommy’s Pen. She also has had several magazine articles published on parenting and chicken care. On her blog, she describes herself as “a business systems analyst, freelance writer, mother, wife, gardener, knitter, spinner, and chicken keeper.” But never too busy for oatmeal.

 So all in all, our life is good. Our financial advisor urged us to celebrate our retirements by going on a cruise. Nope. That’s just not our style. We went to the Dairy Queen instead. Now if they only made Oatmeal Blizzards, then we could really celebrate.

 Have a Merry Christmas, and be sure to make time for a little oatmeal in your life.

The Campbells

Henny Penny & the Limited Power of Coupons

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 We’ve been keeping a close eye on Henny Penny.  Andre, her friend and protector, has been gone for nearly a week.  Chickens are social creatures with a strict pecking order.  We were concerned that the older hens would pick on her and she would be lonely.  While she’s definitely on the bottom rung of the poultry ladder, she is hanging on to the group most of the time.  She gets chased off now and then, but seems to be forming an alliance with Sally Turtle, our gentlest chicken.  Sally will forage next to her without bullying and even eat from my hand at the same time. 

 On Saturday night, Nora was having a terrible time falling asleep.  After a short period of quiet, we heard crying coming from her room.  I went in to check on her.  I sat next to her and she looked up at me and choked, “I’m sad that Andre died!  I’m sad that Andre died!”  I said I was sad, too.  Ben came in and we cried together until she fell asleep. 

 Last night, Nora was scribbling in a notebook my father-in-law made by hand.  She started to tear out a page, at which point, Ben and I protested, as it’s not that kind of notebook.  She burst into sobs. 

“But I made a coupon!”

“Hey, hey, let’s talk this out, we probably don’t need to cry, we can just talk and see what we can agree on,” I said.

 She inhaled deeply. 

“I made a coupon for Andre!”

Ben and I looked at each other. 

“What does the coupon say?” we asked simultaneously.

“We had Andre and she maybe she ate some fertilizer and got really sick and we tried to make her feel better and took her to the vet but it didn’t work and she died. So I made this coupon to get her back and I need to tear it out.”

 We all took a deep breath.

“Honey, that is so sweet of you.  That is exactly what happened, but Andre can’t come back.  When an animal or a person dies, they can’t come back.  Andre can’t eat or see or play or anything.  And he can’t come back.”

“She,” Nora corrected me.  Then I was left to explain that the vet looked at Andre and found she was a rooster, but we didn’t know it.  Blank stare. 

“It’s confusing, I know,” Ben said.

 We all talked a bit more about Andre; what we liked about her (him), how funny it was to watch her (him) run.  We agreed that she could tear the coupon out, but if she wanted to make more coupons, we’d find some different paper.

 I took her to the kitchen for a glass of water and noticed a half-dried tear at the corner of her left eye.  It matched my own.

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Andre

Andre

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I came home around 9:00am to bring Andre to the avian vet. She was laying inert in her pen inside the coop. Henny Penny was standing just outside her pen.

I wrapped her in an old towel and felt her crop. It was smaller than earlier in the morning, another sign of hope, but she was certainly wasn’t showing any signs of feeling better. She closed her eyes for the ride. I held her in my lap while my friend drove.  Sandi grew up on a farm.  Her brothers raised chickens.  This was the first time she had taken a chicken to the vet.  In her day, chickens were livestock.  They were fifty cents a piece.  We talked a bit about how urban chicken keeping is a different kind of venture.  One that often hits harder in the pocketbook.  And the heart.

At the vet, I had the conversation about the types of measures I wanted to take. The technician was concerned by how sleepy she was. She suggested oxygen might give her a needed boost. Without it, she may not survive the ordeal of a tube down her throat. I consented to oxygen and nutrients, a fecal exam and any necessary antibiotics. Ben and I had talked on the phone beforehand, we were worried that if Andre died, Henny Penny would really struggle to survive with the rest of the flock who despised the two younger birds as interlopers. 

Some may call me crazy to give oxygen to a three month old chicken. I’m not going to try to convince you I’m not. But I take stewardship of animals seriously. I don’t want creatures dying due to my inexperience if a hundred bucks could save them. 

I went back to work, made a presentation, went to my exercise class and returned to my desk to find two missed phone calls from the vet. No message.

When I called back, the technician told me that Andre had been given oxygen, but it hadn’t helped.  She had died peacefully around 1:00pm.

The vet always recommends a necropsy to determine cause of death, to see if the rest of the flock is in jeopardy.  I shelled out for this as well.

My thoughts turned to telling Ben and then, Nora.  Nora was well aware that Andre had been sick.  When she came home from school, Andre would be gone.  Ben and I discussed our approach over the phone.  I found a few articles to verify what was age appropriate.  I coached myself on keeping things simple and remembering not to make references to death being like sleep.

I sat at my desk suddenly exhausted.  The rims of my eyes burned.

Once we got home, I took Nora into the backyard.  She asked, “Do you think Andre is feeling better?”

“Well, I need to talk to you about that.”  I motioned to Ben to join us on the patio, he was in the coop, checking on Henny Penny.

“Why do you need to talk to me?”

“Well, today I came home from work to take Andre to the vet, the animal doctor, because she still wasn’t feeling good.  The vet tried to help her feel better, but her body stopped working and she’s gone now.  She can’t come back.”

“Why she can’t come back?”

“Her body wouldn’t work.  She can’t eat or walk or play.  She died.  She can’t come back.  And it’s sad.  And it’s okay for you to be sad.  And Henny Penny will be sad.”

We went over this several times.  I explained all the things we had tried to make Andre feel better, but that they didn’t work.  Ben said he was sad, too. 

I took Nora over to talk to Henny Penny.  The little black hen gave me that look again.  I told her that I tried everything I could but her friend couldn’t come back.  I said I was sorry.

I reminded Nora that she had said she was thirsty in the car, would she like me to take her in for a drink of water?  No, she wanted to talk to Henny Penny again.  I repeated my speech to Henny Penny.  Ginger, the Welsummer chased her away before I could finish.

Thoughts turned to dinner.  Ben scrubbed the kitchen, which had been left in a state of neglect the night before during our ministrations for Andre.  I made nachos.

I wait for the vet to call, to tell me why this happened.

We are discovering where we are the spectrum between pets and livestock with our chickens.  If Hoover, the world’s best labrador retriever was being cut open on a table somewhere, I would be a wreck.  I know I will grieve for him for many, many days.  I am sad for my chicken.  I feel guilt.  I want to do better.  I don’t want to think in terms of fifty cent chickens.  They are living beings who bring me joy and make me food.  I will do what I can.

Best Laid Plans

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Ben and I took this week off to build a fence and put in the vegetable garden.  It has poured down rain every day.  The soil was perfect for tilling a week and a half ago; now it is a soggy mess.

Monday was the only day the forecast didn’t guarantee rain, so we took Nora to the zoo.  We saw:

  • a male black bear named “Tough” get the bejeezus scared out of him by an intimating, glossy black female (all she did was approach him quickly);
  • a really big frog;
  • a cougar who took a particular interest in Nora and kept looking from her to me, as if asking me for permission to let her in to play (or be eaten);
  • a baby elephant messing with a huge log in the swimming hole (I kept thinking of my mother-in-law who has a weakness for baby elephants —  she would have been a puddle);
  • two otters who thought very highly of themselves, displaying back-flip skills against the aquarium glass;
  • some primates, who make one question the whole concept of a zoo, so human and forlorn do they appear;
  • and a pride of lions casually lounging on some rocks.  They looked like they could jump the ravine and pick off a few middle schoolers any time they felt like it. 

Farmer wanna-be that I am, my favorite exhibit was the family farm, with miniature cows, goats, chickens and a raised bed garden.  I now want raised beds.  This would be advantage in a number of ways, the biggest one being there would be no annual argument about if we should till and when we should till.  You build the bed, put great soil in it and leave it the hell alone.  The soil doesn’t get trampled by dogs and toddlers and it warms faster in the spring, so early planting can begin without concern about the tiller wrecking early crops come May.  And they look cool.

It’s ten years since we moved to Portland, the webs between our toes have fully formed — so we forged ahead on constructing the fence around our garden, it is nearly complete.  Putting in the garden beds will have to wait for a few weeks of dry weather.  I’m trying to roll with it, but sometimes I get a bit uptight about gardening.  I strive for Martha Stewart like tidyness in the garden which is not realistic without a staff of dozens and oodles of cash.  And she doesn’t have a toddler to contend with.  Nora’s garden enthusiasm is strong, but she’s a soil tromper and will tear open a seed packet and fling seeds every which way.  My only hope of keeping her as my garden companion is to chill out. 

In the meantime, I can catch-up on laundry, because if Martha Stewart saw my basement right now, she’d be appalled.  Do I care what she thinks?  Not really.  But Nora’s almost out of clean underwear.