Tag Archives: white leghorns

chicks taking off

They grow up so fast! Just a few days ago, they were in eggs that would have fit neatly into this box. (Now they’re really free-range.) Only six days old, the chicks are already stretching their wings. The brooder has become a runway: the girls take turns racing up and down the box lengthwise, seeing how many of their sisters they can clear in one fast-flapping leap.

Note to potential future chick owners: Don’t give the chicks sphegnum moss as bedding. A couple of books I read mentioned moss as an ideal chick litter, but as soon as I put it in the brooder, the little sillies started eating it. I did some lightning-quick Google research, and one website mentioned that moss can expand twentyfold when wet. (Picture this happening in chicks’ stomachs after a drink. BAD news.) I quickly pulled out the moss, put down some interim paper towels, and raced back to the hardware store (where I’d just purchased the moss) to buy some pine shaving bedding. The reason I didn’t buy the pine bedding in the first place: on the label, it clearly states not to use it in an enclosed living situation. But hoards of other online chick-owners swore by it, so I trusted them — sure enough, the chicks are doing just fine. Ah, I love the American fear of litigation that leads every company to overstate potential hazards…

The only real hazard, so far, with the chicks: they take up a ton of my time. Sure, some of this is necessary — I’ve had to pick poop off a few pasty butts, plus they’re constantly filling their waterer with pine shavings, and they’re always on a mission to drench the brooder that’s supposed to stay clean and dry — but some of it is pure pleasure. If you’ve never chick-watched, a word to the wise: it’s like Desperate Housewives, only cuter. They scratch in the bedding, quibble over kibble, fall asleep haphazardly — on the feeding trough, under the feeding trough, or in adorable little chick-carpets, all the sisters intertwined — and beat their tiny little stumpy wings so hard they almost outsmart Bernoulli and fly.

The funniest thing happened when Emmett and I were playing with them this evening. His cell phone rang. All of the chicks simultaneously jumped up, then went silent. The phone rang again. A second jump, higher this time; then they went immediately into a duck-and-cover drill. Three quarters of them went to one end of the brooder, a quarter went to the other.  Moving as one, they dropped to the ground, packed tightly together, and pretended to be asleep. A few happened to end up on Emmett’s hand; he lifted his hand, and like stubborn little opossums feigning death they refused to move. It was the strangest thing — some evolutionary adaptation, I’m guessing. Perhaps the ring happened to be the same note as a hawk’s cry?

Will post more tomorrow. After a long evening spent picking beans, I’m tired. Off to bed…

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the chicks cometh!

Farmflash:

  • American man can keep farm in Saskatchewan, after all — although his children won’t necessarily be able to inherit it.
  • Prince Charles called GM foods the world’s worst environmental disaster; echoes in India agree. (Sad fact of the day: in the past decade, 200,000 Indian farmers have taken their own lives.)

Foggy River News:

At 7:45 a.m., I received a call from the post office: “Lynda?”

“Yes.”

“Your birds are here.”

With that, Emmett and I took off for the post office — which isn’t technically open at 7:45 a.m. Per the postal worker’s instructions we went around back to the loading dock, where dozens of post office trucks lined up, their drivers just beginning to trickle in for the day’s deliveries. I found a friendly truck driver who bustled through the “Authorized Postal Workers Only” doors to locate my chicks. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself holding a rather unusual cardboard box — one festooned with breathing-holes and cheeping loudly.

As Emmett and I smiled over the noisy box, the helpful truck driver asked, “What kinds of chicks did you get?”

I rattled off the names: Rhode Island Reds, White Leghorns, Araucanas.

“Rhode Island Reds will eat you out of house and home,” the woman informed us. “White Leghorns will lay their hearts out for you. And Araucanas will be your friendliest, nicest birds.”

“I take it you’re a chicken fancier,” I said, a bit surprised by the deluge of advice.

“I used to be,” the lady responded. “Now I’m a truck driver.”

With that, we rushed the babies home, anxious and excited. Did they all survive the trip? Would they be healthy? Were there really thirty chicks in this small cardboard box — was the noise, which flowed intermittently from the trunk of my station wagon, really 30 chicks’ worth of peeping? We pulled into the garage for the moment of truth:

We slid the cardboard box out from between the harvesting coolers, gently put it on the garage floor and knifed through the tape.  Ta-da:  we were, indeed, hearing 30 chicks’ worth of peeping. Thanks to Belt Hatchery (a family-owned operation with an extremely friendly and helpful staff), we are now the proud owners of 30 happy little chicks: 12 Rhode Island Reds, 6 White Leghorns, 10 Araucanas, one mystery chick (which we think is a Buff Orpington), and one Rhode Island Red cockerel (helpfully marked with a daub of paint on his noggin.)

One by one, we moved the birds from the cardboard box into the brooder, dipping each chick’s beak into the waterer so it would know where to get a drink. We didn’t have to tell them where to find the food — they immediately starting attacking the miniature trough, pecking like their little lives depended on it. At first, none too shy, a few of them squeezed the greater part of their little bodies into the trough’s feeding holes like little burrowing chick-gophers. We quickly learned to fill the trough up to the very tip-top so they wouldn’t wriggle themselves in and get stuck.

We also checked each chick for pasty butt, a rather rude procedure that was met with more than a few disgruntled cheeps. (Note: if, five years ago, you’d have told me that one day I’d be parting the butt-feathers of baby chicks to see if poop was causing their vents to stick together, I would have laughed in your face. But today there’s irrevocable proof that I have, indeed, inspected chick-butts.)

Now some of the babies are sleeping, others are clambering on top of the sleeping ones, still others are eating or drinking or exploring the farthest reaches of the brooder. Already I can tell that the different breeds have slightly different personalities. The leghorn chicks (yellow) are pretty laid back. The Rhode Island Reds (ruddy) are feisty, sassy little things, prone to climbing right over the other chicks and/or trying to eat their sisters’ wingfeathers. (Within fifteen minutes, the chicks had managed to upset the waterer, forming a paper towel swamp and forcing me to transfer all the chicks to our back-up plastic tub. I blame the RIRs.) The Araucanas (black & brown beauties) are somewhere in the middle, and seem particularly content to be hand-held.

The little ones seemed a bit chilled after their journey from Fresno and huddled under the heat lamp for a while before spreading out across the brooder:

I’ll keep you updated on their progress over the next few weeks, and offer any tips or lessons learned in case you find yourself ordering some baby fuzzy butts in the near future. (Warning: they’re addictive. Watching chicks is kind of like watching TV, only better.) For now, I just hope they get big enough, soon enough to eat our surplus crop of chard and beans while the plants are still producing!

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