Little Big Man proves me wrong-surprise!

So...it all started out innocently enough. One of The Secret Sisters went broody on me, sitting on a clutch of three eggs.

"I really don't think there are babies in your eggs, I told her," she stared at me, intently. "I have watched Little Big Man, and even though he surely believes he can get the job done, I don't think he can." More staring.

You see, Little Big Man is the Seabright rooster we brought home after he was left at a local shelter. He is tiny, about a pound. He is way shorter than the girls. I have watched him get on their backs and do his thing, but it's like watching a toy on top of one of the mechanical ponies you see at grocery stores. I could not imagine how he was even close to impact. But I should know better. Where there is a penis there is always a hole. So I decided to let the hen ride out her broodiness with her clutch. I marked the eggs and threw her grain each day. She had found herself the perfect spot, right behind Sir Tripod Goat's cubby bed, tucked under the stairs.

Yesterday after a very long day of work, I was doing front barn chores and noticed that Henneth the blind chicken was very interested in the broody hen. Then I heard it. That distinctive little chirp. And there it was.

I have to tell you my heart skipped a beat.

"You were right," I told her, "I apologize for not believing you," to which she stared at me again.

I gathered up mother and chick, and the remaining eggs and put her in a little stall created just for such occasions.

This morning, I congratulated Little Big Man. I have no idea what his child will look like, and let's all pray it is a girl. Girl Power! A Seabrite mixed with a Buff Orpington should be interesting.

I forgot how wonderful it is to discover these little surprises. Now that we don't breed, ahem, Earnest are you listening, it is up to Nature to delight me with her charms.bI just hope the sound of a baby doesn't give Earnest any ideas.

Little Big Man, on the right, clearly go the job done

Conversation with Chickens

"She has her camera! Out of my way!" said one of The Secret Sisters.

"You are such a gluten for photo ops, as always!" said another hen.

"The wind will catch my feathers just right, if you would get out of my way so I can run!" said the first hen.

"Oh Lord, you are just too much to behold," said the second hen, and she got out of the way.

After they were done voguing for the camera, they came upon the blind chicken, Henneth, who was hearing all the commotion. She stood at attention, catching what was going on by intuition.

"Watch this," said one of The Secret Sisters, and she quietly snuck up behind Henneth and looked up her underpants.

"That's mean, she can't reciprocate," said the other Secret Sister.

"I don't mind," said Henneth, "I do have beautiful underpants."

Conversation of The Secret Sisters...chicken speak

The Secret Sisters are the clan of Buff Orps that live at Apifera. They have separated themselves out from the Barred Rocks who are under the domain of Father, the Rooster. The Secret Sisters now live with Opie in the front of the barn, away from the constant demands of Father. 

"No, really?" the hen said.

"I kid you not," said the other hen.

"He really said that?" said the first hen.

"Quiet, here she comes," said the third hen.

"She does't speak hen," a chicken said.

"Oh, yes she does, I converse with her all the time."

Silence.

By the time I walked by the hens, they had repositioned themselves near Opie, sprawled out on his lawn chair as if he had just worked a six day week. I went onto the barn.

"So tell me again, what did he say?" I heard a hen ask.

Conversation with chickens

I was minding my own business, doing chores in the front barn, and was kept company by a chicken conversation. They were in their coop while I was attending feedings, manure cleanup and water bucket cleaning. Their clucks and whirs kept me company, and amused.

"Move over," one of the Secret Sisters said.

"I was here first," another hen replied.

"Na-uh," I heard.

A series of clucks in varying degree of irritation erupted.

"Can you speed it up, my egg is killing me!" the intruder exclaimed.

"I can not rush perfection," the hen replied.

"My eggs are much larger," intruding hen said.

"Na-uh," was the response.

It went on like this for sometime, until I finally came upon them in their preferred hen laying box. You give a bunch of chickens a lovely array of nesting boxes and they prefer to squish into one.

By the time I left, they were still at it.

"Good Lord! I hope there isn't a fire today or you will be fried," said the intruder.

"How crass," said the laying hen. "Go lay somewhere else-you are disturbing by peace and it will effect the taste of my egg."

I swear I could hear the eye roll.

Conversation of chickens: The Secret Sisters big surprise

"Did it come out yet?" asked one of the hens, in a whisper, to her fellow Secret Sister.

"Thankfully," answered the smaller of the hens.

"What the hell was it?" asked another of the ladies.

"I have no idea, but it felt like a large rock."

The five hens and Francis the rooster all gathered around what had just come out of one of the Sister's bottoms.

"It's very firm and strong looking," said Francis. "Shall we do anything special at this point?" he asked.

Silence.

"I am not sure," said a hen, and with that The Secret Sisters stood silently, waiting for some kind of motivation to move from the oval shape.

"Shouldn't we hide it?" asked one of the hens.

And before an answer could come to one of them, footsteps were heard coming to the barn.

"She's coming, look casual!" said Francis, as they all stood around and pecked here and there at dust balls falling from the spider webs.

As the woman did chores, the chickens proceed to fall into their routine-scatter from their hut to forage in the pig paddock for fallen grain bits.

Within minutes they heard expressions of contentment from the woman.

"She's found it," said the laying hen.

"She seems to be happy with it," Francis said and they heard the woman walking away.

"Do my pantaloons look okay?" asked the laying hen, bending over for inspection.

"Perfectly fine," said another Sister.

The Secret Sisters and Francis

I have been meaning to write about the chickens. In June, I was chicken less, having left my flock at the old farm with the new owners. I was sad to do that, but taking them on a six day journey would have been risky in the heat, and each one would have had to have an ID implant-which all the animals had to have for travel. I had names for every one of them, and know they were better off staying there. But...I had my favorites, and think of their faces a lot.

So when we got here and were chickenless, I could hardly stand it. A farm without chickens is not a farm in my book. I had to buy eggs and it nearly killed me-I'd wonder,

Were they happy chickens who laid the eggs? 

I decided to get some adult hens since it was already June and brought home some 5 week old Buff Orpingtons, one of my favorite breeds for their personality. Since we weren't totally settled, I opted to only bring 5 hens home, and a rooster.

Upon arrival, the new flock had to live with Rosie in a stall we had created for her majesty. I learned it is best to keep the chickens in an area for a long time, until they lay, so they know to come back to the roost after a day of free ranging. And since there was no adult mamas to guide them, it was the best way. Eventually, to the delight of both chickens and grumpy pig, Rosie moved out to the new barn, leaving the chickens on their own. Every morning I'd come in and there was not a chicken sound to be heard. They were the least chatty chickens I'd ever had.

"Are you there? Are you dead" I would ask upon arriving. No answer.

At some point, I thought they were dying, or just not right. And then I thought they were depressed. Even though they were not laying yet, I let them out for a day. But it's complicated. The set up made it hard to get them into the front barnyard with the pigs where all the good worms were.

So, I devised my scheme. Feed and slop the pigs, and open their door wide so the chickens could come in. At first, it took forever being the chicken patrol guard, but Francis the rooster and I have it down now. He is turning into a fine roo, protective, but not aggressive with me, even tolerating being held. And he's a real looker too. The two piglets were a bit perturbed with the hens, and went after them. Since they are carnivores, I did spend time to make sure I wouldn't find a headless chicken. But it all calmed down, and now we have our chicken routine down.

I call them  The Secret Sisters because they are not like the Buffs I had in the past, they are quite secretive {I also happen to love the girl band of the same name}. They have not shared a lot with me, and maybe that is okay. There will be more chickens to come next spring. For now, I think it is jut fine they are a clutch, with their own stories held closely to the vest. In this day where everyone seems to share everything manically online, I felt it was nice to have chickens with such tight boundaries.

Chickens with secrets...there must be some good stories there.

Every day now, I wait for the first egg. And yes, the cold is coming, but I would assume there will be a few popping out even in winter. We shall see.

New suite for her royal highness

By the weekend, The World's Grumpiest But I Am Fine As I Am Pig aka Rosie will have a new private suite, without chickens. When we arrived in Maine, we had to simply jump in and make due with the layout of the existing barn. There were no fenced fields, or even paddocks. Rosie is beyond being able to live with anyone. I am not sure what happened to her a couple years ago, but she went from being grumpy, to being extremely grumpy and adamant that she wanted her own room. At this stage I am the only person who can work on her-and even that is like working with a crocodile.

Who can argue with her royal highness? I am not capitalizing royal highness because I in no way mean to infer anything negative about the many lovely people Queens and princesses in the world, both past and present.

Rosie is currently in a makeshift suite we put up in the center of the existing barn. I then had to scramble because I wanted to get some chicks in summer before winter because I can't stand not having fresh eggs. And, I can't stand being chickenless. So we netted the Rosie suite, and in they went. All was well for some time, but soon the chicks started pecking at Rosie's dry skin flakes. Not viciously, but enough I have to clean her and put Destin on her chafed skin-many of you know that since day one I have been nursemaid to the dear pig's skin. As a fair skinned lass myself, I commiserate with her.

The stall has suited our and her needs since May, but it is problematic. Her royal highness piddle collects on the wood floor, and she insists on dumping her water bucket-despite my efforts to hold the bowl for her twice a day with fresh water so she can drink, which she does, but she gets very grumpy if she is watched while drinking. I can relate to this too.

So, we have been working hard on the new barn, including getting the equine and sheep interior stalls up and ready for lift off! That also meant painting the wood stalls with No Chew-I hate the stuff, it is horrid but after the donkeys almost chewed down my brand new fencing in the old farm, it had to be done. Today we made Rosie's private suite. She'll have access to a private outside paddock too, which she currently doesn't have. In fact, at the old farm, when she decided she wanted to live on her own and took it upon herself to move to Old Barn, she never went outside again. This saddened me, because she liked a sun nap, as hard as it was on me since I had to lather her grumpy body in sunscreen everyday. I even tried to get her out, but she wouldn't go. I suspect that when Eleanor arrived, she maybe had had enough. She wanted to be the Queen Pig. So with her new suite, I hope she can have some sun days without worry.

I don't know how long Rosie will live. She will be nine in the spring which isn't that old. Martyn thinks she will never die. I have considered this–and I fear for anyone that might have to take her on if I die. She is a difficult royal highness, for sure. Not graceful like Grace Kelley, not pragmatic and stoic like Queen Elizabeth-she is her own pig for sure. I sometimes wonder why I tolerate it. To be honest, I have had blunt discussions with my former vets in Oregon, on and off over the years. Only one of my vets would work on her, and I can't blame them. We considered she might be in pain, but other things don't indicate that. We considered it might be best to let her take one long, final nap instead of hauling her to Maine. Oddly, what I thought would be hard on her-the actual 6 day journey-was not. She had her own traveling suite in the back of the truck and was not grumpy much the whole trip. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps she needs to live in the car-maybe the driving soothes her as it does many babies.

So, let us all hang a prayer flag for Rosie. Let us ask that she find pleasure, if not for minutes, even seconds, after she arrives at her new suite this weekend. And by the way, getting her to walk to the suite will be a challenge in and of itself. Stay tuned.