How To Hypnotize A Chicken

How are your peeps coming along?

The winner of our Puffy (and Poopless) Peeps Give Away is Mike!

For the rest of you who received a box of real chicks in the mail, here’s a few more things you may want to ruminate on.

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Blondes (Leghorns) and redheads (Rhode Island Reds) are the usual backyard choices for laying hens.

They will start laying small “pullet” eggs around six months old, unless they start crowing, which sounds like a dying carburetor or maybe a moose with the hiccups.

Separate those. They are turning into roosters. Roosters are boys. Boys don’t lay eggs. Boys have cooties and attitudes. They must go.

I once had a hen that crowed though, so pay attention.

She laid an egg in the morning and crowed in the afternoon and the other hens decided she could stick around, but she had to be the one in charge of crossing the road.

Your hen will lay an egg a day for the next three years or so. You will protect it, feed it, water it, admire it, and clean the coop. You will tend the nest boxes every day and remove the eggs as fast as they’re laid so that when the hen returns to the nest and wonders, “That’s weird. I’m pretty sure it was here a minute ago,” she will shrug, go outside to play, and lay a new one in the morning.

Over and over and over.

Unless she’s a naughty hen, or maybe another breed like a Light Brahma or Polish, and decides to get “broody”. Then you have to crowbar her butt off the nest and steal the egg without getting your hand removed by the angry mama.

Who're you calling broody?

Who’re you calling broody?

This hen may get so broody that she decides to start her own nest somewhere you can’t find it, like our Bantams did once – on the roof.

You may discover how Easter Egg Hunts were invented and why.

You may discover, all by yourself because you’re very clever, your own special collection of rotten eggs, in case of emergencies.

Like a zombie attack.

You’re ready.

So when the nest boxes are suddenly empty every day, you have to ask yourself: “Are eggs about to roll off the roof onto my head and cause a zombie apocalypse or are my biddies turning the corner to henopause?”

This is important because you have been getting some amazing eggs. They have more nutrients and better flavor and brighter yolks and sometimes TWO yolks because you have some seriously happy hens. They get to run around and eat bugs. They get to poop on your patio. They like to roost on the swing set and take dust baths in the side yard.

Maybe all the ladies need is a nice massage, maybe a nap.

Yes.

It’s time to learn how to properly hypnotize a chicken.

If Clark Gable can do it*, so can you.

Our model today is a bearded Araucana rooster named Blackbeard. This tough guy keeps his harem on the straight and narrow.

  • Find your chicken. Lure it over with a bread crust. Say “chick, chick, chick”
  • Pick it up like a big cuddly feathery teddy bear
Blackbeard demonstrates how to hold a chicken: by the legs.

Blackbeard demonstrates how to hold a chicken who has attitude: by the legs.

  • It will wiggle. That’s okay. It doesn’t know how much fun it’s about to have
  • Gently lay it on its side, on the ground, like it’s nap time for chickys
  • With your finger, draw a line in the dust, from the chicken’s beak out and away, along it’s line of vision

Wait….what’s that?

  • When the chicken focusses on this line, it will go quiet and limp
Ooooh...it's so pretty....

Ooooh…it’s so pretty….

  • Time the time-outs with your buddies to see whose chook takes the longest nap
  • This, my friends, is how they make boneless chickens

The hens are laughing at me….aren’t they?

*Clark Gable made a black and white movie in 1945, “Adventure”, that was pretty much a bomb. Not even the love scenes were any good. But the man had chicken skills, and I will never see Rhett Butler the same way again.

A Puffy Peep Give Away

Welcome to “Chick Days” and my Puffy Peeps Give Away Drawing!

I’m not discussing my girlfriends, people, I’m discussing the fluffy chicken nuggets that everyone is about to rush out and buy because spring is springing and, darn it all, they’re adorable.

When I was little, my parents kept giant multi-level incubators from which hatched every chick imaginable. I would watch an egg the size of my thumbnail crack open and a tiny button quail puff would wobble around waiting to be rescued from between the egg turners.

So I understand the tractor-beam adorability going on. Been there, done that.

But frankly, I’d stick to the marshmallow variety if I were you.

These little mallows are just as cute and squeezy, but they won’t grow up and poop in the house.

Fine.

Before you go down to the feed store and buy peeps for your peeps, you need to have a brooder and a box ready.

Don’t go crazy and get more than six hens. That’s a heap of hens. My favorite number is three.

Regardless, have a very large box with shavings in the bottom, water and chick mash available, and a Metal Mama brooder.

I’m glad you asked.

Dad has been in the business, as I implied, since always. He makes every animal container you could dream up, and most of his construction is custom.

Think kennels, aviaries, tortoise homes, coops.

He calls it a “Metal Mama” and you need to put it in a corner of your box, not the middle. Chicks regulate their body temperature on their own, so give them options. They stay under the mama’s wings to get warm, and wander out exploring to cool off.

The bulbs used inside the Mama resemble the heat of a 60 watt incandescent, similar to heating elements from a reptile store, and are much cooler than the 150 watt naked bulbs that people mistakenly hang over their poor hot chicks. And there are two, in case one burns out in the middle of the night.

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See?

Your peeps start growing.

During week one, they stick close to their metal mama.

Your kids hang out next to the box 24/7 and name the chickees.

During week two, the chicks pace the entire limits of their box and start having thoughts.

Your kids start thinking about Minecraft and wander off.

Sometime in the middle of week three, you will walk in and find chicks perched on the edge of your cardboard box, pooping on the WRONG side of it and wondering how to break into the fridge.

You holler at the kids, wondering why the chicks are out of water again, and remove the metal mama because these chicks are giving her the stink eye.

It feels familiar.

Week four is liberation time. The fuzz is now feathers. They are becoming tweenagers.

Hopefully you’ve built them a poultry palace with multiple canopy beds, because it’s time for them to move out and get a job.

They will be just fine in the wilds of your coop.

Oh. It’s snowing out there?

Guess they will just have to live at home with you then, leaving dishes in the sink and watching Netflix till all hours.

You should have seen this coming, people.

Let’s stick with marshmallow peeps for today’s drawing, though adorability and my genetics demand otherwise.

Kindly subscribe to my blog or comment in the box below about anything ‘spring chicken’ and I will put you into the drawing for a package of oozy gooey sticky smushy marshmallow peeps.

I think the Postman is the only natural predator for this variety of peep; apparently they send treats to “Singapore”.

So we’ll do our best.

Nine, Ten, a Big Fat Hen

It’s weird. You never see a poster tacked up on a light pole with:

“MISSING! Large Hen. Black and white stripes.
Answers to “Lucky”. Owners heartbroken. REWARD!”

Although I grew up with dogs and rabbits and birds and turtles and guinea pigs, chickens are just obviously the pet of choice.

They are self grooming, cuddly, colorful, and they eat your kitchen scraps and leftovers.

They roost at night. All by themselves.

And they give you eggs for breakfast.

Many times, we’ve had hens in our large backyard, and they roamed free during the day, gobbling up bugs and visiting with the neighbors through the fence. They came running when we called them and followed us around like puppies, begging for treats.

They never went rogue and so long as we remembered to close the henhouse every evening, things were fine.

Our phone did ring at 2am once. The little old lady next door was calling to report that one of our hens was being eaten by a fox…right under her bedroom window.

This was a new one. We’ve had possums and skunks and raccoons and coyotes and weasels in town before. It was almost worth losing a hen to see a fox.

One afternoon I watched out the window as a huge red-tailed hawk swooped down at the hens. It pulled up at the last minute and landed on the ground next to them. The hens and the hawk were the same size, and the hawk realized after several minutes of deep and desperate thought that he would never be able to carry one away.

The stare-down ended when the hawk flew off.

Our hens always did have a little attitude after that.

Cheeky things.

Once in a while, the kids were allowed to dabble in other pets.

We had hamsters that escaped regularly. I didn’t really grudge them their freedom. Less things I had to clean. They would eventually return after a couple of days to their little hamster palaces.

Except the one who set up shop sandwiched between the kitchen countertop and the dishwasher.

It’s startling when you reach to open the dishwasher door and whiskers are sticking out over the handle.

You scream, leap backwards and drop your fine china.

Not pretty.

And exactly why a pet reptile or tarantula will never happen.

My sister was having the same issues with her children; small pets that were fun for a week, then just one more thing to take care of once the kids were bored.

She came by for a visit once and disappeared for ten minutes.

Blending back into the house of kids and chaos with a sneaky smile on her face, she mentioned that they no longer had the two tiny pet mice her kids had picked out a month ago.

“Oh really?” I asked, “Did they escape? You should check your dishwasher.”

She frowned a little as she poured coffee.

“Well,” she replied, “I’m pretty sure we won’t be able to find them.”

She sipped cheerfully then. “On the other hand, you have some really high protein eggs coming in this week.”

Yeah. Eew. Chickens are carnivores.

Glad she didn’t need to get rid of a turtle.