Hens and other Layers of my life. October 11, 2009
The Story, by request, of the death of Jason Mitchell II...

One of the problems of naming animals and cars after people is that the association is always there and what happens to one seems to tie itself to the other. This isn't uncomfortable enough to make me stop borrowing other people's names but it does make me jump sometimes. Like the first time my little white hen layed an egg I ran back to the house saying, "Mother Theresa just layed an egg!" What with the original Mother Theresa being so close to beatification and all it seemed a little disrespectful. But haven't we all layed an egg at one time or another? My yellow hen, Dolly Parton, has a very large breast, and Madeline Albright is not what you would call a pretty hen but she is my most endearing and runs to meet me when I step out of the house. I don't actually know the diplomat, Madeline Albright, but I always thought she seemed nice, humble even, and probably wouldn't mind that there is a chicken named after her. Madame Curie is picky about her food and holds herself aloof from the other hens in a very, bien sur, French way. Mother Theresa spends a lot of time lying in the dirt and seems always hungry. The hens names were proving so apt that when my rooster took it upon his shoulders as his duty to bring the sun up in the morning, then began to strut around, stepping high and throwing his shoulders back like a drum major I named him after my daughter's ex-boyfriend, Jason Mitchell.

We love the original Jason Mitchell and while he was part of our family we didn't let him get away with much either though, God knows, he tried. Jason, the boyfriend, used to call "shotgun" as the family walked from the house to the car. "Hey!" we would say, "You need to get in line behind the other eight people whose name is Nuxoll before you get the front seat." He was undaunted by the rebuke and having been forced into giving up the front seat, leg-wrestled the boys to get the seat by the window. It is the kind of arrogance I love -- so brazen its charming -- so we put up with Jason happily. Giving my rooster Jason's name probably bought him three weeks of time, too. In the end I struggled some with sending such a dear friend to the stew pot but send him I did.

At first the rooster and I got along fine. My job was to keep him fed and housed and his job was to take care of his hens. Every morning he would lead them from the coop to the horse pasture; he walking proudly in front of their single-file line, never looking back to see if they were following him but assuming their obedience. The hens, like tourists in a strange city, seemed grateful for the leadership and kept their place in line until they reached the spilled grain in the pasture. I, too, felt better knowing Jason was in charge.

Once last spring I stepped outside and heard a cacophony of squawking and crowing coming from the forest. When I walked to where I could see what was going on I saw that a hawk was on a low branch looking down on one of the hens who was huddled under the brush. Jason was near her, making a huge fuss and obviously trying to scare the hawk away. His noise and his threatening demeanor were proving to be enough to keep the hawk in the tree but not quite enough to scare him away. When I stepped in and scared the hawk away I saw Jason taking credit for the save and escorting the hen back to the coop. I must have earned points with him as a co-guardian, though, because a couple weeks later I opened my front door to find Jason standing on the welcome mat looking at me plaintively. I figured this was as close as a rooster gets to Lassie saying, "Timmy is trapped under the tractor" so I ran towards the woods --Jason behind me, and, sure enough, the hawk was back and had three hens cornered under the brush. Once again Jason took credit for the save but I didn't mind since I thought this incident was proof of our partnership.

The trauma of the near-tragedy must have been too much for him, though, because soon after that he turned. His protective demeanor was now directed at me and anyone else who happened to be walking through his territory. Having seen my great power which I used to scare the hawk away he must have been a little daunted to take me on directly so his tactic was to wait until my back was turned and then fly at me pummeling me in the back with the thump of his body. It didn't hurt to be hit by a rooster's body but it startled me and always got what was probably a satisfying scream out of me. All my efforts to scold him and put him in his place did nothing but egg (you should pardon the pun) him on. Soon he was pummeling other family members in the back, and then guests. No one was too big for Jason. He even got my son who happened to be cutting brush with a chain saw at the time and those of us watching the ensuing footrace thought Jason was soon to be instant chicken salad but he flew up into a tree and saved himself.

That was his M.O.: catch someone in an unguarded moment, launch a back-pummel, then escape before his victim could get revenge. I began carrying a stick with me when I walked outside. This only served to cement his determination. He would hide behind the corner of the garage and, even though I was obviously carrying a stick with his name on it, he would then wait until I passed by, jump out and thump me, then run back behind the garage flying into the air to dodge my swing of the stick.

I tried turning the tables on him and playing nice. I brought him out fresh corn from the kitchen and spread it on the ground in front of him. He gobbled it appreciatively then when I turned to walk away he would launch himself at my back and run. This was war and he would not be bribed. I became edgy and took to sprinting from my car to the house when I came home from work. I would wait at the front door until I could spot Jason in the horse pasture, then run out to empty the garbage and dash back to the house. Once when the kitty made a noise behind me near the garage I jumped and pressed my back to the wall. Jason had me right where he wanted me. I began to fantasize about catching him by the throat and scaring him into submission. Then one day I went out to change the water in the chicken coop. Jason was nowhere to be seen so I propped my stick in the corner and, unarmed, carried the bucket to the faucet. As soon as I filled the bucket I turned and there he was, the giant angry rooster, standing directly in front of me, looking me squarely in the eye. No more sneaky behind-the-back thumps. This rooster had clearly taken off the gloves. I used the only weapon I had. I threw the bucket of water at him. He was fast, though; he flew into the air and dodged all but a few drops. Then he flew right at me. I threw my arms up to protect myself but he aimed for my chest and drug his two rooster claws down my forearms. I took off after that bird with murder as my mission. He must have known he had crossed the line because he high-tailed it out of there squawking in fear. I marched into the house and called my husband at work. "Which one of these guns is a shotgun?" I demanded as I shuffled through the collection in his gun cupboard. "Joan," he said like he was talking someone off the window ledge, "Who are you shooting?" I then called the rooster a vulgar name and said Jason had just reserved himself a place in a stew pot. Max spoke calmly and slowly and made a deal with me that he would get someone up there to kill the rooster if I promised to step away from the gun cabinet. I said I was setting the timer for 30 minutes.

In seventeen minutes my husband's friend, Frank, roared in the driveway. He jumped out of his pickup with a gunny sack and a fishing net in his hands and said he was here to catch my rooster. At this point Jason tried to save himself by standing calmly among the hens, looking as innocent as possible and sending eye messages to the man with the net that it was the lady who was crazy, not he, and perhaps he might want to use that fishing net on her, hmmmm? Thankfully, Frank was familiar with roosters both on the hoof and in the pot. He wasn't fooled by this one and he already had visions of Jason surrounded by dumplings and carrots. Swoosh, the net caught Jason over the head, and swoosh again, the gunny sack captured him. The last I saw of Jason he was headed down the driveway in the front seat of Frank's pickup. As the dust settled I turned and looked at the flock of hens. Five pair of beady eyes were focused on me with a mixture of awe and fear. "Any of you ladies want a piece of that action?" I challenged. No one moved. We are much happier now, the hens and I.

Hens and other Layers of my life, Sept. 14, 2009

So it looks like I am (finally) going to get some goats. I have been threatening to get goats, reading about raising goats, stomping off the dimensions of a little house I want to build to keep goats, and putting up with listening to all the reasons why I will be sorry I got goats for over a year. Now I am getting goats. I found an ad on Craig's list and began a lovely email correspondence with the nice lady who owns them now. She lives outside of Portland. She and I are plotting together to put two little miniature Lamancha does into dog carriers on Oct. 2 and making them endure a seven-hour car ride back to Idaho. They will eventually forgive me.

Just now I have two borrowed horses who live in my pasture and love me mainly for the apples I feed them in the fall, and the homemade treats I give them in the winter. I have had more shallow relationships in my life than that so I'm satisfied with the cupboard-love from the horses in trade for their presence on my place. I like it that they whinny to me when I get out of my car, and I like the smell of horses. I think I may like to become a horse-rider but I have promised them I won't do that until I lose 50 pounds, just out of kindness to them and for fear someone might be moved to take our picture when I get up on the horse for the first time. I really don't want that gem framed and sitting on the mantle for the next ten years.

I also have twelve hens and three roosters of my own. A year ago I went to a farmer's market to buy pumpkins and ended up buying a chicken and a rooster. I knew we had a dog kennel (with a large wooden dog house inside) on our place so I asked him if that would work to keep chickens. The owner of the poultry -- obviously hoping for a sale-- assured me that arrangement would satisfy any chicken since they aren't too picky. He did suggest that perhaps I should buy a few more chickens since that one poor hen would have trouble holding up taking care of a rooster on her own. I agreed, since I myself have been in the position of taking care of one "rooster" on my own for 35 years. I sensed a sisterhood between us. I bought from him two more chickens, black Orpingtons, and named them after the three women who were making political headlines at the moment: Hillary, Sarah, and Michelle. I settled them in to the kennel and introduced them to the dog house, promoting it to them as a "fine home." They looked at me skeptically. Even my husband who has no love nor appreciation for any animal except trout could see the dog house was not going over very well. He offered to build me a chicken coop. Max, the husband, has a generous heart that occasionally moves him to do nice things but usually for friends, not family, and never for animals. I was suspicious of his offer but accepted gratefully and watched with fascination as he planned and dug and nailed and and leveled a lovely chicken coop attached to the end of the dog kennel. I was uneasy with this digression from his usual moaning and complaining about my animals until he was almost finished with the kennel and demonstrated to me that he could drive his four-wheeler right into the chicken coop and it fit perfectly as a garage. Ah ha! The ulterior motive. I was at peace now and moved my chickens into such a luxurious chicken coop that the kids nicknamed it the Taj MaCoop. The hens and rooster survived the winter beautifully in their heated digs and the hens returned the favor by giving us one brown egg every day. Unfortunately, two of my chickens (Hillary and Sarah -- I get the unfortunate metaphor...) met with an untimely end by what we think was a coyote. That left only poor Michelle and that one growingly arrogant rooster. He was getting on both our nerves. I went for reinforcements and brought home four beautiful pullets who I named after other women I admired: Madame Curie, Mother Theresa, Dolly Parton, and Madeline Albright. It made a lovely family. Soon after that we put out a contract on the bad-tempered rooster who was killed and eaten by our neighbor and none of us were sorry. I should have left well enough alone, but my grandkids were coming for a visit in June and I thought it would be fun to have a whole box full of baby chicks for them. I ordered a dozen baby hens and, ever hopeful, one baby rooster.

Evidently sexing chickens is not an exact science because they accidentally sent me ten hens and three roosters. Of course one can't tell the difference for several weeks but gradually it became obvious that of the survivors (I am learning that sudden death is going to be part of life on the ranch) three of them had big red combs on their heads and a decided strut to their gait. So far we are living together peacefully. The younger hens are content to be herded around by the three roosters who are quite protective of them. Once in awhile the biggest of the roosters will take a run at bossing one of my older hens but she just turns and gives him stink-eye and he shuffles away. I collect five eggs a day now and soon I should be getting eggs from my new hens. What I am going to do with a daily gift of a dozen eggs I am not sure but it will work itself out. That is pretty much my motto anyway, and the mantra I am operating under for bringing home my goats. No shelter yet, no fence, no plan for the winter but it will work itself out.