The tree brings me my dead father...I return to chess, and a rooster

Martyn brought in the little tree he's been watching all year. I have to say this is the most non Charlie Brown tree so far since we've been cutting our own out of The Wood. I just love  her. We decorated right after turkey day and our outdoor ball tree is all lit too. It brings such warmth into the dark of winter days. I always think of my father on Christmas, he loved Christmas. My mother was more of the Thanksgiving guru. We always had festive Christmases and I still have my father's mother's vintage ornaments-they are 80 years or so. I don't put them on the tree anymore they are so fragile, but think I will hang them high up in a threshway. We have all fruit and birds on our tree, and some red roses, a few llamas and pigs are in there too.

I was telling someone that when I think of my father now on Christmas, it is more like he is right there, hovering, it is not a mourning feeling. He's been gone since 2008 and it shows the path through loss and grief evolves. My mother is the same way, she died in 2013. But I do wish I could speak to her, on the phone, hear her voice again, talk about all the stuff going on. 

We've had some additions to the barnyard. A nearby local had a roo that he had to rehome. I initially said, "No" but when I heard it was a Barred Rock...well....at the same time, I knew I was about to take on three needy hens from a woman that had to leave the country. I like having my front barn hens around me, and Henneth the blind chicken and old Victoria live in the front barn with the goats and the Goose. I knew the roo could be an issue, but decided to risk it. I gave him my rooster talk -"I'll respect your boundaries if you respect mine and treat the ladies okay". So far, he has lived up to his part of the bargain. We've probably had 15 or so roos in our days, and only about 5 of them went bad. I personally think some are just wired that way. And in my experience, over handling at a young age can do it too [I learned this the hard way starting out].

But he's a beauty. The new hens are very sweet, easy to catch and are doing just fine. The transition has been smooth. The little tiny hen came with the name "Marta". Marta was named after a circus performer who was a bit of a runt herself, and the other circus people were sort of hard on her, teasing her and such, but Marta just put her head down and kept going. And I liked that story so kept her name intact. And she is the funniest little hen. The other day, true to her name sake, she was letting one of the large working hens know she was no push over, through the chicken wire fence, banging and flapping her wings at her. It was funny.

 I've been in computer hell. Literally. First email crashed, and for me, that is the worst. All my sales and clients are all tied into email. Then my Photoshop started acting weird. One thing after another. So I ended up getting a new Mac, was due anyway, and you know how that goes, transferring files, getting passwords up and running. I hope to be back in studio next week. My year has been, like many of yours, distracting. And my art took a back seat. I got some things done. But it is time to refocus. Less news, thank god, and more thinking time. I'm done thinking about the person who has thrown grenades into every news cycle. It's over. No more rent in my head...you are fired.

I've also started playing chess again. My father taught me when I was a little girl. He had this beautiful hand carved set, the horse looked real and all the pieces were real people. I also remember at some point, I beat my father at a game, and I remember he was pleased but surprised, but it was a right of passage and I remember I felt a bit bad for him. I play online and it is good for my brain. In time I want to buy a nice set.

Birthday...which means something might die, and did

Her little body was just like a beautiful figurine

Tomorrow is my birthday. I've told the story of my birth many times, so won't share the long version. But the day I was born, my father's mother died, and it is how I got her name, Katherine. My mother also shared the family story over and over as I grew up-the part of the story that she herself almost bled to death birthing me. She wondered why I never had children [I never had children for many reasons, but I can say I could never watch human birth scenes in movies, still don't].

So it dawned on me as I was lying in bed thinking about my birthday that it makes perfect sense my birthday is entwined with death somehow. Back out West at the old farm, Martyn and I always seemed to encounter death during our two week birthday celebration–it was lambing season so something was always happening. Last year, we were in the thick of trying to save Birdie. I don't mean to sound glib, but it just seems death comes at my birthday.

So this morning when I fed the chickens, there she was, my smallest and sweet little The Golden Child, sitting up on a perch, dead. She had rested her head upwards, leaning into the wall, so her stiff body was like a beautiful little statue when I found her. Chosen One came along in a magical way. We had adopted a Bantie rooster, a Seabright and they are about 1#, very small. My hens are normal sized. I had a Buff Orpington that went broody on me [this means she was sitting on eggs to get them to hatch] and had a secret spot for a while. By the time I discovered it, I let her continue to set. And one day, I heard a tiny sound, and under the hen was this sweet little chick. I named it The Golden Child, and hoped it would be a hen, and it was.

She was of course much smaller than the hens, and while the broody hen protected her until she grew up, in time, she was always sort of on her own in the flock, and she liked to perch away from them. They weren't mean, but I always felt for her.

But she was one of the best layers, and her egg was about 1/3 of the size of other eggs. It was such an intimate gift to see her little egg nestled amongst the larger eggs. They were bite size, and Martyn liked to pickle them. I ate the last one today and I will miss her little eggs.

I was sad to find her dead. She was only two. Who knows what takes a chicken. As an old farmer told me years ago when we first got hens, "Sometimes they just die." And it is true.

So there, I've had my death now for my birthday. And we can move on again. And, let's not forget it is also Moose's birthday tomorrow and there was a time two weeks ago I wasn't sure if he'd be with us to celebrate, so I'm grateful for that. He is a different goat than before the polio struck, still blind, and just not quite the old Moose, but he's eating, and getting outside, so I'm happy about that. I hope he can live on now without it happening again.

I was thinking too that I'm basically on the last quarter of my life, if I live to 80. That's okay with me. I don't really want to live longer than that. When you read a really long book, and you really are enjoying it, relishing it...and you get to a point where you are coming to the end, and then, you finsih the last page–you don't mourn it, you just think what a great read it was. I think of life like that I guess.

Her sweet little egg

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

A love story: tall blind lady and a short man

I can't make this stuff up.

There seems to be a new couple in the barnyard. On Thursday, I brought home two cats, as well as, a Bantie rooster who had been left at the shelter. Banties are a small type of chicken, and we had many out West, including Papa Roo, our very first rooster who lived well past ten.

But Seabrights are really small, about 1# each full grown. I decided to give him a home here, as our old rooster, a beautiful Barred Rock, was so aggressive with the hens, and me, that he had to be culled [and many of you know the lengths I went to to try to make it work out]. I felt a Bantie would not be as aggressive, and actually I worried the hens might beat him up because he is so small.

Well, it appears that Misfits find each other. On his first night, I had him secure in a hutch, amongst the hens so they could meet each other, but safe from overzealous introductions. The next morning, I let him out, and when I checked on the hens later that morning, I found him shadowing Henneth, the blind chicken. I thought that was sweet, but each time I check on the hens, there he is with Henneth. They eat together, and spend their days together. I suppose this might change, but for now, I think it is a wonderful love story, and a story of friendship.

"Don't let those other hens bug you, they are a bit full of themselves," Henneth told the new rooster.

"Yes, that one is very sassy," the rooster said. "I think you are beautiful."

"Thank you, are my feathers looking in order?" she asked.

"Very much so," he said.

One of the Buff Orpingtons saw the odd couple conversing.

"You'll need a ladder with her," she laughed.

Henneth walked away from them, and the little roo followed.

"They know not what they speak," she said.

"My intentions are honorable," the rooster said.

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.

Opie's blind chicken-the pig names her Henneth but Opie calls her Pickles

A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Apr 24, 2018 at 2:25pm PDT

Our latest Apiferian is a one eyed blind chicken. Opie immediately seemed to understand the chicken was unique. When she first arrived, I kept her in a bunny hutch on the floor of the barn where Opie, and his other pet chicken, and some Buffs, could get to know said blind chicken. Now Opie is feeling pretty full of himself these days, with Spring air, and the fact that he now seems to have not one, but two pet chickens. He made it clear in this video not to bother his new blind chicken!

He had not even named the first pet chicken, one of the four Buff Orpingtons who I took out of the flock to be away from Father, the Barred Rock rooster who is very rough on the girls. The Buffs don't tolerate him, but this poor hen would cower for hours in a corner, so I took her out. Then the other Buffs began separating out from the Barred Rock girls. The Buffs were here first and were grown when the Barred rock hens arrived as chicks. So be it, the Buffs now live with Opie, Sir Tripod and Else in the front barn, and the Barred Rocks live with Father in the other side of the barn. You gotta go with the flow.

So when my friend asked if I might be able to take her one eyed blind chicken, how could I say 'no'. Blind, one eyed? It's right up the Apifera alley. I had met the chicken formally at my friends home, where she was working hard to get the chicken back in good enough health to return to the flock. We don't know what happened, but she thinks a predator, perhaps a hawk, freaked out the flock and this hen damaged her eye. Whatever happened, she was in my friend's care in her studio for weeks, so she was really personable and used to being handled since her eye was being cleaned daily. But her land is different than ours, and she feared the hen was a sitting...er, duck...to prey, and I suspect she was right.

When I first took her out of the crate on arrival, I thought,

This chicken is not long for this world.

But as you know well, I am often wrong.

I knew she had been in a cage for many weeks, so it was clear she was a bit wobbly. Her beak was long, as were her toes. But she just seemed off. She would lay down and tuck her head down. I know that could have been a defense too, but she was thin and you know once a chicken, in my experience, and I am not a chicken guru, but once a chicken gets really sick it seems to take a lot of them. Her 'good' eye was also goopy, and her wounded eye was like a Marty Feldman eye and really weird looking. After about for days of cleaning it, I noticed a piece of straw stuck there in the ooze, pulled it out, and magic, the eye just exploded with liquid. Sorry for the graphics, but not only did the chicken seemed relieved, so was I. Now that eye is sort of there, but dark. She is definitely blind, as she runs into any objects that are new. but she knows her area now.

In fact she was laying an egg every now and then-a beautiful brown one. I put her in her bunny hut at night but each morning she comes out and free ranges. She knows my voice and comes to me, and I still hold her and clean her eyes. I love that I can do this. I have missed personable chickens, which I had many of out West. For some reasons, my hens here have been less personable. But the Buffs, free from Father, are warming up.

Well, it was time to name that chicken.

"Pickles," said Opie.

"One Blind Mouse," yelled out Wilbur the Acrobatic Goat.

"I've been called her Henneth," said Earnest the pig, as he napped.

Well, the pig is often right, so her name is Henneth. But Opie still calls her Pickles. It is after all, his chicken.

Opie and Henneth, er, Pickles

On arrival, I put a harness on her, thinking the hens might peck her eye

Old else, with Henneth

Her right eye now deflated

Saying goodbye to a chicken, hello to the lupine

I lost one of the hens last night. She was only a year or so and one day ago she took to laying about, not eating. I suspected a bound egg, from her appearance and behavior. I tried the usual olive oil drip and lubricating the vent, and I made her a scrambled egg-yes, I give scrambled eggs to my hens on certain occasions for protein, they love it. Ad no, I do not think it is canabalistic.

So last night I decided to put her back in the coop with the girls. She wasn't horribly weak and was walking a little, I thought she might work through it. But I could feel crunches when I gently massaged her sides.

She was gone this morning. The hens had been busy scratching for bugs and had partially covered her body. I became very brave and tried to do an autopsy of sorts, curious if I would find egg shells. But it got messy, and I buried her.

I hate losing chickens. But as an old farmer told me years ago,

"Chickens just...die sometime."

Or another,

"If you want chickens, you will lose chickens."

 I had named her Gracie because she was the only Sexlink of the Buff Orpingtons flock, The Secret Sisters. Gracie was much more personal than the flock of Buffs. My old Buffs were so friendly, this group, stand offish and a bit flighty for Buffs. So I was sad to say goodbye to Gracie.

To juxtapose the death of a friend who gave us beautiful food-the world's most perfect food,eggs-I enjoyed the Lupine on the drive. One must always look for a juxtaposition to a sad event to survive the human condition.

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.

Chicken Named Dog on the loose

There was a small break out from the chicken coop this week. I have been keeping my hens, along with Franklin the lead rooster and Uno the subsidiary rooster locked in their chicken run. This is because of the sneaky Banties that lay their eggs in highly sophisticated secret areas, setting on them just long enough to bring us surprise chicks.We have already had two surprise clutches this past spring and are overrun with hens. Along comes three more roosters that I agreed to take on for the neighbor's daughter after her father died as she is cleaning out the place, and I have chick making testosterone raptors all over the place. The three rogue roosters live in the barns and have been, so far, agreeable. Bu they want one thing.

But somebody, "Not I, said the Pig", left the roost door open, and some of the hens escaped, seeking the company of one of the rogue roosters-he is quite handsome, I can't blame them.

One of those was Chicken Named Dog, who is pretty old now, but she still has wanderlust in her feet. I must say she looked lovely with the backdrop here in this photo op that day.

"Get back to your hut, or I will leave you to Nature," I told her.

With that, she flew, squawked, and ran back to her flock. It took a bit of sneaky chicken grabbing to catch the other two hens-young ones, not real bright yet, and I waited until rogue rooster was, well, having sex with them and took advantage of their locked down position and was able to grab them easily.

Never dull with chickens.

The Chicken Named After a Pirate is blossoming

The homely little hen that came to Apifera last December is blossoming. While she is still a very plain chicken, she is filling out and is as busy as ever.

I took her and two other hens, along with three roosters-just what we need-after the neighbor died and his daughter asked me if I could take them for her. I must say that Grace O'Malley is very pirate like-she takes no gruff from anyone even though she is much smaller than many of the other hens. I have seen her in the roosting box so she is laying too, although there are so many new hens I haven't discerned who is laying what. This is one of the subtle aspects of raising layers that I love-knowing which egg belongs to which hen. I used to know that. But after two surprise clutches last spring, and the new hens, I have lost track.

I don't think it will be wise to haul my chickens out to Maine. It saddens me, but I need to be practical as it is a long trip and its not like we don't have a full load already. I know I will find good homes for my hens, but I am attached to many of them, and yes, Grace O'Malley is one of them. Perhaps she can ride in the car with me, which has AC in case it is warmer. I've never traveled with a Chicken Named After a Pirate, and a Blind Pug in one car-and add the gas of the two labs and it will be a great ride.

On a practical note, I want to make sure I have a solid hen house in Maine before bringing chickens in. Some of the places will have a hen house, but I want mine to be insulated. Martyn will kill me, but it's not hard to do and why not? They pop food out of their bottoms for us so I should prepare a warm place for them. There is a craze of chicken sweaters, but this will not happen. I know chickens. As sweet as they all look running around in their colorful knit items, thy poop, a lot, on anything, anywhere. They walk and poop, run and poop and fly and poop. Martha Stewart probably has chickens that do not poop, or only in a certain room in a clean barn. But my chickens are free poopers, so even though I do intend to get back to knitting, there will be no chicken sweaters.

But perhaps there will be a sweater for Earnest or Cornelia.

Let's sing The Chicken Underpants Song!

{To be sung to the tune of "I've a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts"}

I have a lovely pair of underpants

A lovely pair of underpants have I

They blow in the breeze

They come to my knees

I have a lovely pair of underpants

A patriarch is gone-we lose Papa Roo to nature

Papa Roo was our very first rooster. In fact, he was the very first rooster I had ever known. He came to Apifera from a local farm, along with our first hens, including some of the sneaky Banties that are such expert nest hiders producing many surprise clutches over the years which brought delight, more hens...and more roosters.

But Papa was always the number one man and I did my best to protect that.

But a couple years ago, he had taken to roosting up high in Old Barn, rather than returning to the hen house at night. This came after a series of encounters with one of the roosters, Chicken Jack, born out of a surprise clutch. I had made a deal with Chicken Jack due to the magical timing of his birth–you might remember the situation–the old donkey, Giacomo had to be put down, a very sad occasion as he had only arrived 19 days earlier. He was a very special donkey, my first elder equine, but it was obvious he was not well, and blood work proved how bad his condition was, and he was suffering. The day after he died, we heard chirping in the hay loft, and there was a brood of chicks. One of them turned out to be a rooster, a lovely fellow and I named him Chicken Jack, in honor of Giacomo.

I made a deal with Chicken Jack,

"Treat our Papa Roo with respect and you stay, otherwise, you leave one way or another."

He abided by that request for about 6 months, but as is often the case with 6 month old roosters, he started feeling too big for his underpants, and I began to find Papa in corners, wounded. Papa was a Bantie rooster, much smaller and less agile than Chicken Jack, an Aracuana mix.


But Papa always pulled through. And he eventually took some hens, and relocated to Old Barn. He spent days and nights there, and if he did venture out, he stayed out of the barnyard where Chicken Jack was.

Well one day, there was another fight, Chicken Jack wanted some of Papa's hens, and those hens had no interest in Chicken Jack. Papa got the worst of it, but he pulled through again. And Chicken Jack got a new home, a nice place with his own little flock. I see him all the time because I ride up there. I call out to him and I swear he runs for cover, thinking I might rehome him again.

After Chicken Jack left, I tried to entice Papa back to the hen house for night time safety. But it was futile. He and some of his girls had high roosts in the barn, and I let go of controlling it. If they made it, they made it. I can't control every incident of nature, nor can you. One morning I found Papa's feathers everywhere, clearly there had been a fight with a raccoon, and I followed the path of destruction to the back woods. I was sure he was dead. But I found him in the barn, a little worse for wear, but he was okay. He had managed to fight off death one more time, defending his girls.

Over time, Papa's hens began to wander back to the coop, because another rooster had come along, in yet another surprise clutch by one of the those rascal Banties! Papa was probably 12 years old at this point, and the hens, although loyal to him, understood who now had the strength. It was sort of sad to watch, but it is survival of the fittest. It took a lot of under cover work on my part but I managed to get all the hens back in the coop, and they were all put in lock down because I couldn't handle one more surprise clutch.

But Papa remained in Old Barn. I felt badly about it, and had planned to put him in a stall with one hen, so I could watch the eggs so as not to have more chicks. But in a few weeks, he had adopted himself to our front porch, where he would show up every morning and crow and crow, and then eat cat food with Little Orange and Plum. He spent time in the front garden dusting and he had an entire little area he roamed, free from the hassle of White Dogs or other roosters. While he had no hens, he seemed happy, and he always returned to Old Barn to sleep. He had the company, if you can call it that, of the World's Grumpiest Pig, Rosie, and the donkeys, and sheep. Sometimes I'd go to feed Rosie and there would be Papa, waiting by her side for some grain to fall.

So when I fed the cats this morning, and he wasn't there, I sensed it. Sometimes he wouldn't show up at the porch in the morning, but this day it just felt wrong. When I entered Old Barn to feed Rosie, I could see his perch area, feathers strewn all over.

"Papa?" I said quietly. But I knew.

I followed the trail of feathers about 300 feet to the edge of the fence line and could see where they entered the woods with him. I tried to see if his body was still around, or his wings, but couldn't see through the bramble. I managed to pick up some of the remaining feathers, but non of his beautiful cackles were there. He was well over twelve years old and had had a good run as a rooster. He went out feeding nature and no doubt was killed fast, at least I hope for that-he is gone now.

I returned to Old Barn and leaned into her side and cried. He was one of the original Apiferians. I was crying for a lot more than Papa though. I will share that in weeks to come.

World's homeliest chicken becomes a pirate

A couple weeks ago, I agreed to help someone out by taking some chickens from her father's property-her father was a nice man and he had died recently. The last thing I needed was more chickens, but as all chicken lovers know, can you really have too many chickens? {The answer is yes, by the way}.

So Martyn and I went over there one day and wrangled up three of the seven chickens, returning later to catch three very rogue roosters and another hen.

When I got a good look at this tiny little thing, I asked her,

"Are you sure you're a chicken?"

"I think I am, yes, as a matter fo fact, I am!" she said.

But as I got to know her this past week, her size does not represent the determination of this fine waif. She may be small and raggedy, but she is the first one in the feed line for breakfast and does not let anyone, even the big girls, scare her off.

I was waiting to find a perfect name for her. I don't name all my chickens anymore, only the ones that really speak to me. Someone suggested Grace O'Malley who was a pirate in the 16th century. I began calling her that, and it fits her like a glove. Not "Grace", but "Grace O'Malley".

"Good morning, Grace O'Malley!" I say each morning.

I think this name of a strong woman role model, who died a noblewoman by the way, will balance out her rather homely appearance. But we all know looks aren't what we leave behind in this life. Such will be the case for Grace O'Malley the chicken.

A man who will work side by side with a pig

A good man is hard to find, but when you find one that will also work side by side with a pig, you definitely have a keeper.

Earnest was somewhat enamoured with Martyn's hammering as we worked last weekend getting the chicken yard extension completed.

The Great Chicken Relocation Project of 2015 is underway. I have all the hens back in the main coop, including the overzealous Bantie hens that refuse to give up on hatching eggs. The dominant rooster is Franklin and he rules the roost, but so far he is tolerating Uno, who is very submissive to Franklin and stays out of the way. But now I have the problem of Papa Roo, our eldest and original rooster.

I feel for Papa. I took his last remaining hen away-the foxy Bantie that has given us two surprise clutches in less than three months. Enough! I had to do it. But I have been unable to catch Papa, for a variety of reasons. One being he is very wary of Franklin, who ran him out of the main coop some months ago. After that, Papa took five hens and moved to the old barn. They stayed safe there for a long time, but I couldn't keep track of rogue egg layers. So now I have no idea where Papa has been roosting at night, or even in the day. We think it is near the house porch. I am trying to get him back to Old Barn at night, with food, so I can go out after dusk and nab him. It's very easy to grab a chicken at night. He is probably the hardest chicken I've ever had to catch, but that might explain why he somehow escaped a raccoon last week.

Francis will eventually kill him, there is no doubt in my mind. And while papa Roo is pretty old for a rooster and has had a long, good life, I guess he'd rather go out by another form of Nature, or naturally while sleeping. I feel loyal to Papa as he arrived first and has always been a gentleman to so many. So now that the extension is done, I am going to cover the other side of the coop yard with a chicken wire, so I can have Papa in there with one hen. I have a separate stairway that goes into the chick nursery, ample room for Papa and two hens. That way they can't fly out and I can find their eggs to prevent more chicks. Unless of course that clever Bantie finds a way to make her eggs invisible, which is possible.

I just hope I can capture him in time. And then of course, I will have more roosters from the hatch to deal with. I know there are two in the first group, and we will have to wait to see how many show up in the second younger clan.

Florence, we celebrate your wonderful life!

I have stayed away from the mobs of anger on social media in the past week. Fight fire with flowers is written on the wall in front of me, so I have been quietly creating, not partaking online.

I figured if I present this story now, its likely nobody will read it. Oh another death at Apifera, can't read that right now. But they are missing out...on light. I do suppose people get weary of these stories of death here. I considered not sharing it. But like I've always said, this is a blog I started to first and foremost record my days here, and that includes death.

Florence was one of my three original Buff Orpingtons. I just love Buffs. Clara and Golda passed in the last year or so, but Florence continued on.

She had a perfect death.

About two months ago, Florence separated herself from the flock. Once in awhile I'd see her with Uno, low rooster on the totem pole, but usually she was alone. She was puffed up a lot, like chickens do when they are protecting an egg or chick. I began to worry she was egg bound but she continued on, and was eating and drinking. Every night, instead of returning to the main hut, she would go to Stevie's hut-gentle Stevie, the crippled goat that has been the safe harbor for so many creatures.

Within time, she was getting very light weight, moving less, and I knew she was checking out. So I put her in with Eleanor and the piglets. I have heard stories that a pig will eat a live chicken, but Eleanor was getting so much food that I felt it was safe and I've never had a pig eat a chicken [although I don't doubt the story, if a pig is really hungry, it will do such things]. One morning, she didn't get up, and when I urged her too, she had little balance.

So on Wednesday, I carried her into the hay barn. I knew she was dying. But she was still alert and responded to me each time I came in. I'd find her with her head tucked, looking pretty dead, but I'd say her name, tentatively,

"Florence, are you there?"

and she'd cluck, cluck...slowly.

It's been horribly hot again. I bathed her twice a day with cool water. Normally my chickens aren't crazy about this, but she seemed to really appreciate it, and when it's 104, it was a relief for her.

I got to spend a lot of time with her, holding her, and talking about her next journey. We talked about all the eggs she'd given us, and just how special she was, because she was the final Buff, and because she was Florence.

Each night I asked her if she was ready. Each morning she was still here. Until yesterday. She had died in the spot I'd left her, on the cool cement of the barn floor, in the shadows of the barn that must have been echoing the many familiar sounds she had known all her life.

And while the cyber mobs are fuming and spewing hate for mankind, they are missing out on this beautiful photo of Florence, bathed in the light of the barn that must have greeted her yesterday as she flew off. I'm just grateful my chicken, and Aldo, had a great life, and died in places of light, not hate.

Chicken mystery, chicken complexities

This morning I found many rooster feathers scattered and floating out behind Old Barn. I immediately assumed that Uno had been killed, as they were either his feathers or Papa Roo's, and I had just seen Papa. Francis is an Aracuana so I knew they weren't his feathers.

I felt horribly. I have been in a chicken transition for awhile now, which you know if you follow along-surprise clutches, new chicks, another surprise hatching last week-and then there is the shifting forces of the three roosters Francis, Uno and Papa Roo.

I feel great loyalty to Papa since he was here first and has always been a gentleman. He is a Bantie and is well over ten. When Francis came on the scene, there was not a lot of fighting, but within about a year or two, it was clear that some scuffles had occurred, and Papa was ousted out from the hen house, or chose to be. He took five hens with him and they began roosting on a ledge in Old Barn, near Rosie. One of these hens was the black Bantie who has been a master at hiding eggs and creating her own mini chicken factory.

I have been putting Uno in with the Francis gang in the coop, along with the new chicks. It's been working out okay. In the meantime, my last remaining Buff Orpington has taken to the goat barn, alone, staying there all by herself for the last four weeks. I assumed she was on her way out, but she keeps on greeting me every morning.

So there is a bit of chicken chaos at Apifera right now.

And then this morning, the rooster feathers. Clearly something had fought a rooster and appeared to have won, since the feathers stretched for about 40 feet and ended up going out a fence into the woods.

So, like I said, I felt horribly about Uno. I failed him. But, didn't I put him in the coop last night, I'm sure of it.

I went to the coop, and there was Uno, alive as I was.

I returned to look over Papa Roo and noticed that he only had one hen with him, another black bantie. But there was no Chicken Named Dog-a large white hen who has been here some time. She is not a setter so I started feeling she must have been killed. And there below their roost spot was a dead Aracuana, who had been dead for some time, clearly from a natural death. I hadn't seen her body because she was lying under a board.

I noticed Papa seemed a bit off, 'with a coma look'. then I realized his tail feathers were really plucked, and under his comb was some blood.

He must have been in a very big scuffle, or was dragged out by something, but fought it off. This is intriguing. A raccoon could easily kill him, even though Papa has big talons. I begin to wonder if he was defending Chicken Named Dog, but, there was not one white hen feather to be found. I will wait a day before I know she is clearly gone, she might be hiding due to stress, but...doubtful.

I am also missing Ida, or Crazy Ida as I call her.

Marcella did not bark last night and if it had been a bobcat she would have. A raccoon could have come through Old Barn first, but from all the feathers, it seems it must have been a good struggle.

Even though papa has been surviving in Old Barn for months now, I am going to put him and his Bantie hen in Eleanor's stall tonight. He will have a job to do-eat the maggots on the poop to help keep flies down. Then when we get the new wing of the chicken hut done, he can live there, free from the other roosters.

It's eerie though. Just seems strange he could fight off a predator. Especially one that could have taken Chicken Named Dog, since she is a big, healthy hen. But as The Head Troll once said,

Papa will never die.

Footnote {6:00 post meridian} Chicken Named Dog appeared again, unscathed. After revisiting the feather trail tonight, I found racoon droppings near the final clump of Papa's feathers. Perhaps it was a youngster inexperienced with making a kill. It seems remarkable his feather trail was that long, and he got out alive. To be continued.

Sometimes you get pecked on

Well, I still have a husband...although he is contemplating pulling up his tomato plants and leaving. See, I was truly minding my own business last night and was on my way to the veggie garden to put up yet more chicken wire around the now blossoming tomato plants-because occasionally we still have a chicken or two go in there and peck the ripe tomatoes. It drives us nuts but especially Martyn. I have tried to Fort Knox it, but with each chicken intruder, Martyn gets more desperate. So, back to last night, my plan to help the tomatoes was sidetracked by a ....chirp.

There it was, a chick, at the donkey paddock gate.

Not again, I thought. I had been keeping my eyes peeled in the last few weeks for my missing Black Bantie hen, the same hen that gave me 7 new surprise chicks two months ago [after I'd brought home new chicks, like I said, she didn't get the memo].

I picked the chick up and went to a spot used by this bantie before to hide eggs-the same spot I had checked a few days earlier. There she was, sitting amongst broken egg shells. I ran to get a crate and flashlight and scooped mom and babies up. Except one little chick got out and I couldn't find her.

Martyn arrived home. Now, even though I didn't want, or need, more chicks, new life is always rather exciting. But I kept my lips sealed. I should point out I never keep secrets from Martyn. I let him get one beer in his belly and then told him the good news first:

"I found that darn Bantie hen!"

He took a sip of beer.

"...sitting on some chicks!"

He then went into a monologue about his tomatoes. I explained these chicks had not seen a tomato let alone pecked one. He pointed out I had to do something about having so many chicks-and I reminded him I am not a chicken and I did not lay the eggs, nor was I fertilized by a rooster.

Martyn never yells. I think he has lost his temper with me twice in our marriage. He might scream all the way down the driveway, but I can't say for sure.

I got some more beer in him and we talked about other stuff. But then I hear a 'peeping". It was not a baby bird. Chicks that are lost sound different. I crept back out to the spot where I had found the chicks, and there was the one little fluff ball that had gotten away from me. I scooped her up and introduced her to Martyn. He was pleasantly polite.

This morning Martyn got up early as usual and kissed me good-bye for work. I was relieved to see that the tomatoes were still planted in the vegetable garden.

I'm pretty sure he will come home tonight.

Surprises and inevitabilities

I was reminded, yet again, of the constant juxtaposition of life and death in our daily wanderings. Stella is fading, unable now to get up without assistance. Sometimes she can, but her front legs are now weakening too. I wanted to get through this weekend's book event, and Earnest's fevers, and hoped I could before making a final decision on her. It is the right thing to say goodbye to her soon. More and more, her face tells me and I suspect it will be next week sometime. In the meantime, I spend a lot of time with her, checking on her, helping her from the sun into shade at a certain time of day, holding her-she was always more affectionate than Stella. I have to grasp it all, that she'll be leaving us, one of our founding members, a muse, a friend, a clown. The dogs sense her condition. But they still romp around about her, making her life even more precarious as she will collapse from a light breeze it seems. I found them lying near her this morning, a sweet image to hold in my memory.

Martyn was up early as usual and out and about in the barnyard. He came in around seven and while I was still half asleep, said,

"You know that black hen in the old barn?"

"Is she dead?" I asked.

"No, she has about 10 chicks with her this morning in the donkey paddock."

Well, I can't say I was happy. But, there is always an excitement with new babies of any kind. Still, my mind percolated what to do–let the hen be-she is a Bantie, a fiercely protective mother-and run the risk of Nature taking some of them.

I opted to intervene and put the chicks and surrogate mother in the Nursery in the coop. Once I saw them-eight in total, I couldn't stand the thought of any getting taken by a hawk, and there were already hawks circling when I did feedings. Perhaps they already nabbed some, I found her sitting on them growling outside the old barn this morning.

Obviously the hen did not get the memo that I just bought 8 new chicks from the feed store. So now I have three batches in the nursery. It's so much fun though to have a hen in there, sitting on chicks, protecting them with her wings. The one month olds are definitely aware that Mama Hen means business and nobody is going to harm those chicks. I was tempted to open up the cage of the 4 one week old chicks, but I'm not sure mama hen would bond with them and then they might get run over by the older chicks. Problematic. It will be fine-so far everyone is doing well and I can tell some of the chicks are banties and some are Aracuana crosses. There are five hens that broke off of the flock and they live up in Old Barn with Papa Roo, our oldest and original rooster, a Bantie. So I know those are the mothers.

I'm sure there will be more roosters. Dang. I have three roosters. Perhaps this is why the universe took that one day old Buff Orpington rooster from us.