Now that spring has sprung, I’m more willing to do outdoor guard duty while the chickens have some walkabout time at the edges of the woods and in the yard.
They have the run of the place for at least a couple of hours most days. But when I open their outdoor run, the first thing all the chickens do is run, run, run for a spot between the back of the house and my Miss Kim lilac. This is where they bathe.
For chickens, a bath doesn’t involve water and bubbles. It involves loose dirt or dust.
The chickens dig and scratch with their sharp nails until there is a nice, soft patch of loose soil. Then each hen nestles down into the spot that she has prepared and wallows around, scratching and kicking the soil onto her back, opening her wings and rolling around. It looks like chicken heaven. You should be so happy in the bath.
This little ritual serves a useful purpose for the chickens. In hot weather it helps to cool them off as the soil particles work their way into the feathers. It also goes a long way toward avoiding mites, lice and other parasites. So the dirt bath is serious chicken hygiene.
For me, the chickens have also done me a favor. They have completely eradicated some invasive morning glories that no amount of weeding could control. In the years BC (Before Chickens), the morning glories would often wind their way into the lilac bush.
“Hey, wait!” you say. “Where is the big man while all these hens are bathing?”
Well, T. Boone Chickens usually takes a very abbreviated bath and then standards guard to ensure that the hens are protected and have their privacy.
He’s such a gentleman.
P.S. This is not really a chicken blog. But I do have a chicken section in my photo album. Have you visited it?
That’s right. Chickens play games. And they have toys.
Now that spring is here, I have a nearly endless supply of chickweed I can pull out of the lawn. Sure, I could toss it into the chicken run for them to feast on—and I often do. But it’s much more fun to fill their bell toy and watch them jump up to get it. As they grab the chickweed, the bell rings.
Meredith, pictured below, adores chickweed. Can you see her airborne to get a bite?
Of course, as the head of the household, T. Boone Chickens figures it’s his job to make sure his hens have a fair supply of treats. When they’re on walkabout in the yard, he often finds tasty little morsels. But rather than eating them himself, he makes a wonderful and excited “chuck, chuck, chuck” sound to call over the hens so they can eat the treat.
In the chicken run, he’s so tall compared to the hens he just reaches up and pulls down the chickweed for the hens to eat.
In his own roosterly way, he loves his hens, I think.
If you’re not scratching for food or running from predators intent on having chicken for dinner, you’re stuck in a coop or enduring the elements.
During a ferocious downpour just a while ago, the poor chickens had to take what little cover they could get from the ramp that leads into their coop. Yes, they could have gone into the coop, but only one hen chose the easy way out.
Until just before I snapped this photo, T. Boone Chickens, my fearless rooster, was standing in the downpour at the edge of the run guarding both flocks—the older hens you see here and the six baby chicks that are in a parallel run. T. Boone spends the better part of his days eyeballing the two groups of girls.
He takes his job very seriously. Really, it’s rather endearing. Even Harry and Ben, who usually only have mean things to say about T. Boone because of his, uh, technique with the hens, grudgingly admit that he is making an effort to be useful.
The baby chicks are growing quickly. I’ll be doing another photo shoot of the glamour girls soon to show how their fancy head feathers are coming in. Until then…
Calm down. No one’s in distress here by the Chesapeake Bay. It’s just May 1—May Day!
A little trip over to Wikipedia enlightened me about this very special day. Apparently (although I did not pull out my calendar to fact check), May 1 is exactly half a year from November 1. (*head slap*) Wikipedia did not say that May 2 is exactly half a year from November 2, so I wondered why this was really relevant or even interesting. Well, turns out that both May 1 and November 1 are raucous pagan holidays. Where are the silly string and funny hats?
And right there in the first paragraph of the Wikipedia article it says, “May 1 is…usually a public holiday.”
Seriously? Cause no one told my boss (aka me). No one told my husband’s boss (aka Uncle Sam). I bet your boss didn’t tell you either. Surely there is a conspiracy afoot.
So, since we’re all working on a holiday—because Wikipedia says it’s so—let’s get some cupcakes and go sit in the garden, okay?
First, the chicken flock is very put out that I decided not to indulge their daily afternoon walkabout routine. They complained loudly when I went out to the coop to explain to them that I did not feel like walking around behind seven naughty chickens dislodging newly planted seedlings and poking said seedlings back into their designated holes.
Second, our antique cat, Miss P, was very put out that I decided to vacuum up copious amounts of dog hair for the third time in about seven days, thereby disrupting a perfectly good 23.75-hour nap.
And third, the little dogs are running around like rabid squirrels because I haven’t yet fed them their “special dinner” and am instead sitting here typing about how the other animals are all put out with me.
Today I am grateful that in this country I have the opportunity to voice my opinion without fear of being imprisoned, tortured or having my house burned down and family beaten.
I am grateful for the opportunity yesterday to work with a very kind and gentle photographer who didn’t dismiss my opinions and ideas and who worked with me as a partner on a new book photo shoot.
I am also happy and grateful for yet another beautiful day in Southern Maryland. You should come and visit.
My heart has had a roller coaster ride the past couple of weeks. People and pets I love have gone through major surgery and are, happily, recovering. My pet I will tell you about…
Sophie is the older of my two Papillons. She has always had a bit of a breathing problem, but as the years and middle-aged weight gain have crept up on her, breathing has become a major issue.
We visited a veterinary surgeon a couple of weeks ago. Sophie was operated on for an elongated soft palate and a collapsed pharynx. The surgeon could not repair her collapsed trachea, a condition that will require a different veterinarian at a different hospital far away.
We wake at night and listen to her breathe. A couple of nights after surgery, at about 3 in the morning, she seemed to stop breathing. Yes, I was listening to every single rasping breath. I snaked my hand out from under the covers to touch her and ensure she was alive. I found my husband’s hand doing the exact same thing as our hands met in the dark.
Sophie was alive. And she’s not in this alone. She is much loved.
Garden and food writer Robin Ripley is co-author of Grocery Gardening and has a cookbook in development. Bumblebee is about her life in rural Maryland, her garden, cooking, dogs and pet chickens. She also blogs about food and chickens at Eggs & Chickens.
She is on Twitter @robinripley Welcome! Thank you for visiting.
