July 21st, 2011 §
A few weeks ago I ordered a HenPals chicken nest box for my hens. They were rapidly approaching laying age, and I wanted to be prepared. Other projects got in the way, though, and it was just last weekend that I could clean out the coop and install the nest box. I figured that since my hens turned twenty weeks old—pretty much the earliest they could start laying—on July 17, they had plenty of time to get used to the box before biology kicked in.
I am really pleased with this box. I ordered it online from a Georgia farmer who makes them by hand, and whose wife writes a great blog: Life on a Southern Farm. The nest box is well made and an incredibly good value compared with the commercially manufactured metal boxes. And I am proud to support an American farmer instead of a Chinese factory.
Anyway, I hung the box up last Saturday, and I know the hens were checking it out. And then last night I went in the coop, and this is what I found—on the floor of the coop, not in the box!
I first picked up that very dark egg, and I thought, hmmm…this doesn’t look like a guinea egg. So I rooted around the pine shavings and came up with four eggs! I had been getting two guinea eggs a day (on the far left above). Something was definitely up! Either both hens started laying on the same day, which would be amazing but not impossible, or I missed an egg that had already been laid.
The poor things picked a inopportune time for this development—we are stuck in a miserable heat wave with temps around 100 degrees. Despite the fan I have running on high through the coop 24-hours a day, all the birds are showing signs of stress. Some stress-induced feather picking is happening on some of the guineas and the hens, just like it did during the hottest days last summer.
I compared my first chicken eggs with mature chicken eggs (the three on the left above). I am really impressed that my girls didn’t start with little “peewee” eggs but produced some pretty good-size eggs on their first try. I am so proud of my little hens. Now if they will just realize they are not guineas and start laying in the nest box instead of the floor of the coop. All in good time, I suppose…Now I’m off to add some ice cubes to their waterer!
July 16th, 2011 §
Last night’s full moon is nicknamed the Full Hay Moon.
Fitting, then, that I came home to find a neighboring farmer had cut the back pasture for hay. It made for great vole hunting for the pup this morning!
Who’s a big farm dog now? Tucker looks right at home in the hayfield—just like his greatgrandfather and greatgrandmother. Now if I only had some cows or sheep to complete the picture!
June 14th, 2011 §
Was woken at 3:00 a.m. last night by a rodeo in my bedroom. Sadly it’s not what you think—there were no cowboys.
But there was one very proud kitty who laid her still-warm, bloodless kill at the foot of my bed and then pranced and purred around me as I praised her.
I really need to finish building my house and seal up all these open areas under the eaves and around the porches. That’d probably put an end to middle-of-the-night rodeos, but then again I know Kitty is loving her new job.
May 29th, 2011 §
I cleaned the coop today, and as it was airing out before I dumped in fresh shavings, the pullets snuck in to try out the big-kid roosts:
They seemed so happy. Because the pullets are about 75% the size of the guineas now, and because everyone appears to be getting along when they’re all outside together, I let them stay.
Iris took to the hanging feeder right away!
When I checked on the birds a few hours after closing guineas and pullets up together, all seemed well (plus I found two still-warm guinea eggs). So unless something starts to go wrong, I say the flock is now officially integrated. Just in the nick of time too, because as we head into 90-degree days, the bigger side of the coop is better ventilated and stays much cooler than the annex where the pullets had been living. In fact, it’s getting to be about time to set the box fan up to help with additional cooling during hot days.
May 22nd, 2011 §
Tonight I went for a short lap around the yard, and in less than five minutes this is what I saw:
“Pat Austin” rose still blooming like crazy
“Black Beauty” Elderberry also putting on a show
Persimmon planted last year, blooming and setting fruit
Cherries! Too high to pick from the ground—enjoyed by birds, not me.
“Celeste” fig, which I thought died of winter cold, is actually regrowing!
Peaches on the recently lopped peach tree
I closed up the bluebird box just yesterday, and since then Mr. Bluebird has been busy with Home Construction 2.0.
Inherited grapevine…a gigantic mess that I finally chopped to the ground this spring. I hope to train a new central vine from this sprout. I worked today to pull out, by hand, the poison ivy surrounding this vine. I await repercussions.
Unmowed hayfied reverting back to wild pasture. It’s so pretty like this—even full of berries and all—that I wonder why mow at all?
Inherited iris growing in the drainage ditch by the road.
And finally, two eggs a day appearing, as if by magic, from the guineas. I have it on good authority from egg-eating family members that they are delicious!
May 17th, 2011 §
May 15th, 2011 §
I realize that in my last post I mentioned some mysterious pullets without ever giving them a proper introduction. Please meet the newest Bonafide lifestock: Lilac and Iris.
I got Lilac and Iris Easter weekend at the Xions Crossroads Chicken Swap. I’ve been haunting these informal parking lot gatherings a lot since Tucker arrived, as they’re good places to socialize him among a bunch of animal-loving adults and children…as well as ducks, goats, noisy roosters and all sorts of new-to-him experiences.
I set out that morning determined to add something to my flock that would produce eggs. Little did I know that the very next day, on Easter, my guineas would present me with their first egg! I can still hear the universe laughing at my impatience.
Anyway, the vendors at these swaps are usually a mix of hardscrabble hill folk—die hard poultry fanatics all—and urban yuppies jumping on the pet chicken bandwagon. Just the chance to eavesdrop on the dialogue between the two groups is worth the trip, as the city folk struggle to decipher avian wisdom dispensed in an inscrutable dialect.
The Xions Crossroads swap took place tucked behind a lumber mill in the parking lot of a small hardware store next to the most depressing flea market I’d ever poked about. Old ladies creakily pivoted in chicken wire stalls, setting out second-hand rooster statues and chipped Jesus figurines. Next to the flea market was a gun shop comprised of a few shelves of ammunition and a couple of used shotguns on the wall. The owner hovered behind a counter with a hopeful smile as if the sale of that $249 Mossburg 500 meant the difference between dinner and going without. I almost bought the gun just to give him something to do with his hands, which he kept planted on the counter in front of him as if his weight could keep the whole place from blowing away.
I escaped back into the light and wandered amongst the poultry offerings spread out before me on the tailgates of pickups and in blanket-swaddled plastic tubs. I was looking for the perfect combination of breed, age and temperament. I knew I wanted to collect certain breeds, so that ruled out some offerings. And as much as I love raising baby chicks, with all the other spring farm chores as well as raising a puppy I knew I didn’t have time to monitor brooder temperatures and alleviate pasting up. Plus, I wanted a shot at getting my own eggs this summer instead of having young chicks mature in the fall and winter when they wouldn’t lay. And finally, I was looking for relatively docile birds. After dealing with mostly wild guineas for the past year, I was ready for a nice little bird that came when I called it, ate from my hand, and went in the coop when asked.
I’d almost given up and was ready to head home when a late arrival pulled into the parking lot. A woman got out of her truck and opened the back to reveal a dog crate full of gorgeous, glossy black birds. They clustered near the door of their cage as she spoke to them, and ate from her hand when she offered scratch. I could tell they were well-loved and very tame. And they were gorgeous—bright eyed, clean feathered, with violet and green iridescence to their feathers. I asked the woman what they were and she told me they were a mix of mottled javas and black australorps, two heavy breeds known for their docility. At eight weeks old I figured their size would give them a fighting chance when combined with the guinea flock, and as they were fully feathered and eating adult food, I could skip the nursery stage. I picked out two birds with the smallest combs, hoping they were both pullets, put them into a cat carrier, handed over $14 in cash and was on my way.
Lilac and Iris spent their first night in a cardboard box in the laundry room, much to the amusement of Tucker and the kitty. They stunk to high heaven, so the next day I moved them into the “Annex,” the feed storage area of the guinea coop. It’s fully protected but separate from the guineas—I figured I’d give the pullets a chance to put on some more weight before having to go up against the bigger birds.
And that’s where they’ve lived for almost a month. I am loving being able to let them out in the evenings to free range while I feed and water all the birds. It’s very cute to see them poke around, and also wonderful to know that I can get them back in the coop whenever I want. With the addition of Lilac and Iris, and the guineas now reliably laying one to two eggs a day and even seeming tamer themselves now that there are fewer, my enjoyment of my birds has exponentially increased.
May 10th, 2011 §
Lately I can’t seem to work a full time job and also find the hours to mow and weedwhack my couple acres of overgrown lawn, nor can I finish my deer fence, hoe the garden, plan the garden plantings, plant the garden, rake up the maple helicopters, or even remember that Monday night is trash night until the sound of the truck wakes me up at five Tuesday morning.
But tonight I’m working on a freelance job on the computer with Tucker lying at my feet, and kitty hanging out on the armchair right next to us. I’ve just come in from feeding and watering the guineas while the pullets pecked around the coop. All five baby bluebirds are wide-eyed and alert and quadrupled in size, stuffed in their nest box and waiting for worms. Nobody’s missing, sick, bleeding, dying, whining, inappropriately peeing, misbehaving or unaccounted for. And that makes it a very good night on the farm.
April 24th, 2011 §
Today, on Easter Sunday, with what couldn’t have been more perfect timing, I was thrilled to discover my first guinea egg.
Here’s how it went down in a rather magical way. This morning around eight I opened the guinea coop so the birds could come out. The first chore on my list was cleaning out the coop, a disgusting task that involves shoveling and scraping manure and pine shavings followed by blowing feather dust out of all the coop crannies with the air compressor. While I labored the birds roamed the entire property, sticking close together while enjoying the dew on the grass and all the fresh bugs. Since the massacre I’ve hardened myself to their fate, and I no longer go after them when they head into the woods or out of sight in the field. I figure that they all experienced the night when their flock mates were dragged shrieking into the woods, and if that didn’t teach them to stick around nothing will.
After finishing the coop, I carried on with other farm chores but left it open to air out. The guineas did their thing, which hopefully involved eating lots of ticks. Around three I dumped in fresh pine shavings, and added cool clean water and food to tempt the birds inside. I went in the house to shower off the guinea dust, and when I came back downstairs I noticed the birds were in the doorway of the coop—certainly a welcome sight after their recent deadly doorway skittishness. I headed out to shut them inside for the day.
I glanced in the coop as I was closing the door and did a double take. Sitting right on the fresh pine shavings was a perfect light brown egg. The guineas hadn’t been in their house for more than a few minutes, and when I picked up the egg it was still warm with a tiny bit of fresh blood on the shell. It actually was amazing, this thing so perfectly manifested out of what seemed like thin air. When I picked up the egg, the past year’s emotional and physical work of keeping these birds was totally worth it. And my mom will no longer need to say, “If you’re going to go to all this trouble you should at least get something that makes eggs!” Can you spot the egg below?
I took the egg in the house for a quick photo shoot, to show you what it looks like compared with some chicken eggs I got from a friend’s farm. The guinea egg is on the right. I think it’s pretty amazing that this hen—and I have no idea who she is—laid in the coop after a whole day of freedom. Guineas are known for laying outside under the cover of brush. And unlike chickens, they don’t use nest boxes.
I didn’t know what to do with the egg! At first I returned it to the coop thinking it may encourage the hen to continue laying, but when I checked on the birds a few hours later, the egg was buried and forgotten in the pine shavings. I didn’t want to accidentally step on it in the coop, so I found it and brought it in the house where I stuck it in the fridge. If anyone would like to sample a guinea egg, it’s all yours! They are supposed to be delicious.
And if that weren’t enough eggcitement, check out what’s in the bluebird box!
And that, my friends, is how we do an Easter egg hunt at Bonafide Farm.
April 8th, 2011 §
Cryin’. Sunday was a bad night to be a guinea at Bonafide Farm. I lost seven of my remaining thirteen birds to the foxes.
It all started a few weeks back when the entire flock was panicked while re-entering their coop for the night. Since then I’d had them out once, the night I lost two birds who wouldn’t go back in the coop at dark. I thought maybe they’d gotten over their fear, and let them out Sunday to enjoy the warming weather and booming tick population.
Come nightfall, the entire flock refused to go in the coop. As it grew dark they huddled in the weak pool created by the coop light, all thirteen birds in a tight knot. I kept going out throughout the evening, trying to round them in. They’d all get to right under the door of the coop and scatter without entering.
Near midnight I tried an emergency rescue. I shut off all lights on the farm so the birds couldn’t see, which made them freeze in place, and I entered the field with a flashlight hoping to physically grab each bird and return it to the coop. I managed to snag four. I had my hands on many others, and one of the sickest sensations I’ve experienced is desperately hanging onto the wing of a large, terrified bird, feeling its joints pop open under my fingers as it fought me but knowing that if I let go it would surely be killed. As whole handfuls of feathers tore away in my hands the birds chose their fates.
I closed up the coop on the rescued four and went to bed. I dreamed of dog attacks in the woods, and calling to my brother for a shotgun he never delivered.
In the morning a small group of birds were screaming near my back porch. Another was 50 feet high in my neighbor’s oak tree, so small I could barely make her out in the dawn light. I stepped outside and at the woodline saw a fox scramble back into the forest.
I had eight birds remaining. By lunch there were four. I walked the fields counting piles of feathers. Some had bloody flesh hanging on them, still moist. I found one pile—the only slate blue bird I’d had left—right up against my house near the fireplace. By nightfall two birds had emerged from hiding.
The flock of six entered the coop that night, and I shut the door behind them. That night there was a huge windy thunderstorm, and most of the feathers blew away.