We’ve had our chickens for 3 months and I’ve loved every minute of it. They are docile and entertaining, easy to care for (they require less poop cleaning than the cats), and Avery LOVES them. She feeds them treats from the garden through the fence.
Now that they’ve all matured (not enough to lay eggs yet though), poor Henrietta has revealed herself to be a Henry. This morning I heard the crowing from the kitchen as I was preparing breakfast. It pierced the thick, insulated walls of the chicken coop, and the brick of our house. He is as loud as he is big. Roosters are not permitted in my town, so he is destined for the roasting pan. The person who sold him to me is going to pick him up and take him to slaughter, and will hopefully have a replacement hen for me.
Here he is when he was 6 weeks old:
I shouldn’t have looked up a chick pic of him… Now I’m really not going to want to send him to slaughter. But it has to be done. And I can’t really afford to be feeding a huge breed like him all winter if he’s not going to give me any eggs.
Anyway, despite that sad news, the flock is doing great. I’ve been keeping the nest boxes lined with fresh aromatic herbs like lemon balm and mint to make them welcoming and safe places for my girls to go when they are ready to lay. I’m ever hopeful that I might get a couple of eggs before the winter darkness puts them in hibernation mode.
And here’s my favourite hen, Olive. With chickens, it’s ok to play favourites.