The Great Chicken Migration of '11

Gosh, they grow up so fast! One minute they're stinkin' up your house in a dusty flurry of cute fluffballness, the next they're establishing they're own fully-feathered flock outdoors.

And tantillizing your new dog with their smell.

Buddy stared up at their roost and wagged his tail. He drooled. I tried to explain to him that this was not the doggie equivalent of the Taco Cart, but I don't know if the pertinent facts were conveyed. Pretty sure that to him, it is just a boxy wooden structure that serves bite-sized chicken nuggets.

But as Brendon and I keep saying, it's Go Time. Sink or swim. Time to really let Darwin take the reins. Maybe Buddy will turn out to be a wonderful guard dog. Or maybe I'll come home one day to see him sitting outside with feathers in his mouth like Sylvester the cat. (Or did he never actually get Tweetie? I don't recall.)

Yes, those little dots are the tiny chickens in their huge coop.

Anyway, the chickens were definitely restless last Thursday as I dragged their bins to out to the patio. Brendon's mom was in town, and in order to give her a proper guest room it was kind of necessary to move the chickies outside. It was good timing, though; they're definitely big enough to survive the 70 degree temperatures of our nights now.

As I predicted, when Nancy saw the guest room--filled with chickens and chicken paraphanalia--she was quite motivating in helping Brendon to finish the area where the chickens could sleep comfortably outside. And they were putting the finishing touches on this when I arrived home from work Thursday evening.

So I began The Great Move. Nancy filled the box with pine shavings and the 3 of us transferred each chicken up into her new habitat.

Sweet little runt

Even Peepise. Ah, Peepsie, my little favorite. The total and unquestionable runt of the flock now, Peepsie was suffering on and off since the days of the Splayed Legs. After recovering from her permanent splits, she suddenly became weak again and pretty much sat on her little butt for 5 days. We were doubtful that she'd make it, but every morning and afternoon I'd find her alive, chirping and still clearly breathing.

She even pecked for food and would drink thirstily when I pushed her close to water (I know, I promised I wouldn't do this...but I kept thinking that if she got strong enough with proper nourishment, she might be able to pull through).

And then she did. As I transferred the chicks from bins to coop, I saw that she was again on both little legs, hobbling around to try to keep up with her little coopmates. Brendon was shocked, having not seen her make a recovery before.

Lemon, Gertie, and sweet Peepsie

Lord help me but I'm attached to that little chick. Just like I am to Lemon, her splayed-leg partner. Lemon regularly eats out of my hand now, and she likes to perch in it too. Just steps right onto my open palm like she belongs there. Probably because I man-handled her to change her leg band-aids so many times. Poor little thing. Now she's like a miniature mother hen, guarding Peepsie like it's her job.

Yarrr, Floss and Gertie walk the plank!

I just adore watching them run down the gangplank in the mornings as I fill their feeders with food. Brendon and Nancy did such a bang-up job of finishing of the coop that he and I started last time he was home!

Chicken coop beginnings: mixing concrete

Thank goodness Brendon notices details like...things being level

It's a coop!

Now we can step within the confines of the chicken wire and just watch them be silly chickens.

Clockwise from the yellow one: Gennie, Gertie, Flossie, and Ruby

Floss is the most adept at avoiding capture, with Fat Gertie about as elusive as she. Glendora continues to be the leader of them all, often the first to charge across the coop and fly to a new perch. I call these 3 The B*tches, pardon the crassness. They charge and bump their way around their space with little regard for the 3 smaller girls, and I love it. They are our Ameraucanas; we can expect the green/blue/pink eggs from these ladies.

Lovely little Ruby Lee, our resident redhead chickie

And then there are the Sweet Ones: Ruby, Lemon, and Peepsie. I think they're some kind of Wyandotte. Smaller and considerably more docile than The B's, they seem to watch out for one another and are less anti-human. Both Ruby and Lemon are often content to eat out of our hands, though Peepsie is still a bit mistrusting. I admit that, after all her special nursing, this kind of pisses me off, but still I'm happy to see her so healthy now. She even has a few little feathers sticking out of her tiny butt--the beginnings of a real tail! One day she'll catch up with the others.

She doesn't eat out of my hand, but she adores pecking my toes.  Not exactly brilliant, that little bird.

And really, that's quite enough. I've got to quit pining over these silly birds and address the bigger issues: how can I go on eating chicken when I have them as pets? Because let's be honest, they're clearly not livestock at this point. We almost shed a tear last night when they went back into their roost of their own accord at dusk. Instead of our circus-like routine of catching chickens to shut back into their box, they abruptly ran up the gangplank once we moved their food and water inside.

Speechless, we shut the box and enjoyed their sudden silence as they bedded down.

Holy cow. We're Pet Parents. I have real feelings for chickens now. What does this do to our relationship with the fried and breaded variety?