I had a great question from a reader after I posted my last update on Cora, the maimed pullet who’s managed to survive despite losing all the skin on her neck and skull. My reader wanted to know if I’d managed to integrate Cora into the flock.

Cora and Calabrese, her young rooster husband, had been living for several weeks in a dog crate surrounded by chicken wire within the coop, which created an attack-safe zone that kept them away from the angry beak of my older hen Lilac, who seemed bent on destroying them. But I worried about the effects of confinement on my growing young birds. And, eventually, Calabrese was going to have to man up and be the flock cock, even though he’d also been bloodied in the same attack that almost killed Cora.

I had hoped that the Wheatens, which are almost as large as the other birds, had grown enough to hold their own, and I reasoned that forcing all to live in protected proximity might smooth the path of integrating the birds, which is a notoriously hard process and one at which I’d already failed earlier this summer. So a week ago Friday night I took the plunge. At dusk, as the birds were starting to get ready for bed, I released Cora and Calabrese into the coop.

And Lilac made a beeline for them, hell bent for murder. She got a couple of savage pecks in on the pair before I scooped her up. And tossed her in the dog crate. If she can’t behave, she’ll live in prison.

I set Cora and Calabrese up on the top roost. They tottered and bobbed, never having roosted on something so high off the ground. By then it was night, so I shut up the coop and left, hoping that the old farmer’s trick of introducing new birds under cover of dark would work. But I was in and out of a light sleep all night, worried that I’d open the coop in the morning to bloodied and possibly dead birds. I even set my alarm for sunrise so I could check on them when they awoke, which I did in my pajamas and slippers Saturday morning.

All seemed well. But I set an alarm to check the birds every hour. And I did.

Miracle of miracles, Cora and Calabrese were accepted in to the flock. They even took to landing a few jabs on their new flockmates, just to establish themselves in the pecking order. And now more than a week later, they’re still doing fine.

I find it interesting to note, though, that Cora and Calabrese tend to stick close together and don’t really pal around with the rest of the flock. The photo above is a pretty good illustration of the usual dynamic. I have also noticed that my older hen Iris also keeps to herself or prefers to hang out with her sister Lilac—who is still living in jail except when I bring her out to forage in the garden. Not ideal, as I’d had hopes for all nine birds to live in harmony.

My observations make me wonder if chickens have a concept similar to friendship or companionship in their social dynamic. Has anyone else noticed similar behavior, particularly amongst groups of birds that were separately raised and then combined in one flock?

After a day’s worth of thunderstorms finally tracked away, I stood outside while the fog crept up from the foothills and over my back field. By the time the light had totally faded, I was enfolded in a cloud.

May you have pollinators in your flower garden, a smiling dog on your front porch, and beautiful early fall sunsets wherever you are. Enjoy your weekend!

Rising over Buck Mountain. This was the first full moon, in early August, not the blue moon of last week.

Far away in the field, during a downpour last Sunday. The rain and distance and window screen between us made for very lovely images. They were perfectly posed.

This guy in the middle is shaking off the rain. I’ve never seen a wet deer shake before. First time for everything. Reminded me of this Scientific American video that was making the online rounds last week. Totally worth watching if just to see a sheep dance.

As of today all of Cora’s scabs have disappeared leaving nice pink new skin in their place. Her feathers are even starting to grow out of her new skin. I think she’s looking pretty great!

Never ceases to inspire me.

Photos from late May, 2012.

I never finished the story begun in early June, in which broody Iris got her wish to sit upon a clutch of eggs.

That they were guinea eggs was no matter. She settled herself into her cardboard nestbox inside Tucker’s old puppy crate and hardly moved for almost a month. I’d lift her off the nest to get her to eat a few seeds. She’d take an occasional drink. Her comb and wattles grew pale from dehydration and lack of food. She sat tight.

And then on June 23 I went into the garage and saw this:

A wee little guinea keet, still wet from the egg! And there were more!

And one was still hatching. I set up vigil in the garage along with Tucker and my mom and we waited for hours, watching this keet being born.

Neither my mom nor I had ever watched a bird hatch, and it was one of the neatest things I’ve ever seen. Iris and even the sibling keets pecked at the shell, helping to free the baby. And did you know that birds have umbilical cords? They do—little tiny dark threads that look like a piece of hair.

It soon became clear that the keets were too small to be contained in the dog crate. I placed an emergency call to Dad, and he delivered a couple of wonderful ready-made coops from Tractor Supply. Thanks, Dad! I am very grateful that this event happened on a Saturday when I was home. Otherwise I would have missed the show but more importantly the baby keets would have fled the dog crate and no doubt met an unfortunate end in the garage.

Here you can see the egg tooth on the upper beak of this keet. The egg tooth helps a baby bird break out of the shell, and it disappears soon after birth.

When it seemed as though all hatching was complete, I moved the family into their new coop, under watchful supervision.

And Mama Iris got to work teaching her babies how to eat and drink.

Ten out of the thirteen eggs I’d placed under Iris hatched. The last keet to hatch had something wrong with it, and it was never able to properly stand. After a day of watching it suffer and slowly starve, I euthanized it. So I had nine baby keets—not bad for rather unscientifically collecting eggs and storing them in my guest room closet for a week! Next, the keets grow up!

Last Saturday Tuck and I climbed a mountain. We hiked ten and a half miles up the north fork of the Moorman’s River in Shenandoah National Park, starting in Sugar Hollow and ending up on the Blue Ridge Parkway at the Blackrock Gap trailhead. It’s a hike I’ve done parts of all my life, but I’ve never gone all the way to the top of the mountain and always wanted to. It was a beautiful day, especially for the middle of August in Virginia, and Tuck was a model trail dog, running ahead but always staying within sight and frequently waiting or trotting back to check on me. He nicely greeted the friendly dogs we came across on the hike, and studiously ignored the neurotic yappers that could barely be contained by their owners.

And, he got to swim and chase sticks in the water at every hole we came across. A good day for both dog and me.

Isn’t this scene the start of some fairytale?  Or paperback romance about a wayfaring stranger tempted off the trail by the scent of home-baked pie?

I’ll let you know how it turns out!

(the stranger, not the pie, which I already know will be good!)