Mona and her miracle eye

Something happened to Mona’s eye and it hurts me to think about it, so it’s taken a while to write this.

We don’t know exactly why, but Mona had a serious eye issue. It could have been that she got pushed up against a sharp piece of the fence and didn’t see where she was because of her floppy crown, and Bill is quietly beating himself up over that. Or, she could have gotten an infection. We don’t know.

One morning I said, “Mona’s gotten into something wet or greasy because her neck is all gooey.” I didn’t figure it out until later in the day when I caught a glimpse of her eye. It was awful. She’d been rubbing her face on her neck.

We caught her to observe the injury. Without a degree in Chickenology, we weren’t sure of our next step. Bill said, “Well, do you want to take her to the vet?” I knew this would cost more than $200; we just took our ferret to the vet for a routine this and that and it was $143.
Mona cost $18.

We decided we would monitor the situation. It got worse, and that’s when we decided to lance her eye, with the help of some advice from the folks at the feed store and some medications. We sent up a prayer to Robbie, our good friend and our family Grandpa who passed away last year. He was a practicing veterinarian for many years and gave Bill the most amazing garage tools, but he also gave him his remaining vet utensils. We loved the little boxes and labels, but we never imagined we would use any of them.

Bill sterilized a #10 scalpel, and we assembled our items: latex gloves, saline solution, the antibiotic ointment, and a soft bath towel. Then we had a drink. The idea of cutting open an eye, our moaning Mona’s eye, was just a little unnerving.

We chose the end of the day, Bill’s idea, so that there would be no chickeny distractions (food, another chicken, more food, something she’s missing). I set up the operating room—two lawn chairs, one a little lower than the other, and went to visit Mona. My son was concerned. He was thinking this kind of thing must be against the law and just couldn't watch, but couldn't leave us alone, either. He was all over the operation, flailing his arms and adding commentary. This was not the best scenario for a doctor's steady hand. Or even an airplane mechanic pretending to be a doctor.

As soon as Bill touched her eye, the area opened up and revealed a nasty, marble-sized hard piece of hurt that popped out, followed by what I thought was a lot of blood, for a chicken. Then Bill cut away some tissue and what we thought for certain was her eye.

We cleaned the area and pumped it full of our medication. She no longer moved her feet or tried to get out of my grip. I dabbed and waited. After a few minutes, I moved her back up to her roost and even though she was a little wobbly, she was able to wrap her toes around the pole.
We talked a lot about Mona that night, and sure hoped to see her in the yard the next morning.

We did! We watched the eye area closely and to our amazement, her eyelid opened after a few days to reveal her eye! She can’t see out of it and misses out on a treat if she’s facing the wrong way, but we are thankful that she’s still with us. She gives us a petite egg almost every day.

The New Girl

Meet Cori. She’s the new girl. When she moved, they told her everything would be fine and she’ll make new friends. We’ve all been told that and we know how “not fine” it can be.

Friday was her first day. The other girls didn’t like her and wouldn’t let her into their little clique. “She’s so different," they moaned. “Not at all like us.”

Cori IS different. Her head and feet are bigger than her body. She nervously picks at herself, a habit, I think, from living in close quarters in a cage. Somehow all of her tail feathers are gone. She looks like the cab of a semi with no trailer behind.

Cori is an Americana and will lay bluish green eggs. Americanas are sometimes called Easter Eggers. We thought Bunny would be a good name, but she’s not the type. She is a dozen autumn colors all mixed into a pattern. She’s a scrappy tomboy. She’s coriander.

Cori spent her first two days looking at herself in the mirror, missing her friends, and stayed behind the coop and close to the wall.

The first two nights Cori nonchalantly headed into the coop early and arranged herself on the roost. Maybe she’s thinking she’ll blend in. Or maybe she’s exhausted. Being the new girl will do that. The first night she put up a good argument as to why she should be there, but teenage girls can be mean. A Lizard Twin moved her out. She tried to roost on the water jug, on the light, and finally on a tiny window ledge. She just wanted to be in there somewhere with the other girls. Bill said “she’ll figure it out.” (I set up camp in the back shed and carry her in there.)

She doesn’t know how to drink from the automatic water feeder and on her first day, she panted all day. Bill said she would figure that out. (I set out a pie pan of water.)

The Lizard Twins wouldn’t let her get close to the treats we give them, like strawberry tops and apple cores. She’ll figure it out, Bill said. (I gave her a serving by the pan of water.)

This morning I looked outside and saw Mona sitting close to her at the mirror. Mona is not the most popular girl or the prettiest, but she has a big heart and she made the first move to include Cori in the group.

Now Cori is in the middle of the yard with Mona. She’s figuring it out.

Meet the Lizard Twins.

Our pullet Rhode Island Reds are almost six months old and will be laying big, brown eggs soon.
When we were on the way to get them last December, I thought of really cute coppery names for them, but the ones we picked are identical twins. We waited and waited to find something – anything – that would help us tell them apart, so we could call them by name. It took three months and this photo captures it. One of them has a habit of standing on one leg. And her legs are a brighter shade of yellow. She’s also the one who chases the doves out of the yard, that pecking order thing again. Didn’t matter – it was too late. They are one name. Lizzard twins. A closer inspection reveals a creature from prehistoric times.

Good readers, these chickens are creepy, but our beautiful buffs don’t seem to notice. Now that everyone’s all grown up in size, this little group gets along very well. You can see one of the buffs and the other Lizard Twin having a morning at the dirt spa in the photo.

It's too soon to say goodbye.

I went out to feed the chickens this morning and they were quiet, nobody seemed interested in me.

Blackie was dead in the chicken coop. She was laying in the hay underneath her roost.

When I came inside the collect myself and the things I would need to take care of her, I watched the chickens go back into the coop and approach her. The red twins were confused and scared and Baby stood over her until I came back out.

Our lovely Hen Noir.

What's In a Name?

Before I became a mother, I sat across the isle from a man on an airplane once who was an expert on the behaviors of children in relationship to birth order. He had a captive audience of anyone within ear shot for an hour, and fellow passengers asked questions to get some free advice. The topic turned to naming children. He talked about research that shows a correlation between people with strong names in great careers, and people with soft, quiet names often times being overlooked for big, corporate jobs.

In his speeches, he warned parents about setting an expection or requirement within a child's name. He used Precious, as an example, Treasure, and Tomorrow. And Candy, who, even as Candace, might not become CEO. And Reed, the boy who doesn't play sports. And Thor, the boy who does. And Jane, who's plain. And Dick. I've worked for him before. I chose names carefully for my boys.

I was given the job of naming our chickens. It's a big responsibility. The names should fit the chicken's personality. How can I name them when I've just met them? I was under some pressure, because I hesitated with our Blackie, and now she's just Blackie.

Our third Minorca chicken was almost identical to Mona, but prettier. She was timid and stayed close to her sister/friends. I named her Baby. This name has proven to be the worst choice I could have made. Apparently she's never heard of the expert's reasoning. She is not a baby. She is a bully. When the new red pullets arrived, she's the chicken who demonstrated "pecking order." She pecked on their heads, trying to peck their eyes out. She refused to allow them in the yard at all. She chased them down and kept them from the food. She ran them out of the coop. We had to create a makeshift loft in a shed until they were bigger. Their breed is larger than Minorcas, and now they are bigger than Baby, but they are still afraid of her. She is a barnyard thug. She's defient and always a little pissy.

I'm changing her name to Bully.

Hen Noir

Our black Minorca chicken came along in the box when we originally went to pick out two chickens. She was an afterthought, creating the all-important odd number.

I went about the task of naming the chickens. Mona was easy. She moans. At the time, Baby seemed quiet and a little hesitant. Our black chicken deserved a very special name, but before I could come up with it, Blackie was pinned on her like a curse. I did not like the name Blackie! “It sounds like a name given to a puppy by a little boy,” I said. “It’s an old horse’s name.” Not creative. Basic black. Blackie started to stick. I did not like it at all. I decided to call her Hen Noir to help her feel more sophisticated. I say 'Hen Noir' when she follows me.

She is really something special. Her features are classic. She is black except for the white spot around her ear which indicates the color of her eggs. Her legs and feet are the color of charcoal and they look like the smooth leather of an expensive purse. She is so black, that in the sun, some of her feathers look green. I’ve seen a Harley-Davidson motorcycle that is so dark green, it looks black, except in the sun. If she were in the military, she'd be Special Ops. Other chickens keep just a little distance, although she has never had a bad day.

She talks in an aloof, soft voice, always asking a question. Puh puh puh? Puh puh puh?

She’s a wanderer. Even though we trimmed one wing on each, our hens were lopsidedly flapping over the little fence, so we added filament to the top. One little string keeps everyone in place, except our Houdini. She lets herself out daily – we have never seen her do it – but she doesn’t seem to know how to get back over the fence. We’ll find her milling around the gate and one of us will open it for her. One night after dark, she gave up waiting on us to let her go home and roosted on the handlebar of my bicycle.

At first we thought she was getting out to enjoy the “dirt spa”, a patch of dirt where she and her sister/friends would roll around and take a dirt bath. “They need a dirt spa,” Bill said. Yes, their needs are instantly met. He’s partial to the chickens. The boys who live in our house are jeolous of the girls who live in the coop.

Even with the dirt spa, extra space in the compound and fresh alfalfa weekly in their coop, Blackie still lets herself to do a little roaming. We think when she’s fully grown we’ll take our traveler to the State Fair.

After I wrote this, I went to the kitchen to make dinner. A pointy black tail slowly cruised by the back door like an airline jet on a taxi way. Ugh. Someone had to go put Blackie back in the fence. Mark went out and came right back in. “What's the problem? She’s inside the fence," he said. Hen Noir Houdini. She is the smartest chicken in the yard.

Don't be a Chicken

When danger is lurking – or simply when a shadow creeps over the grass, or the wind rustles some leaves -- the chickens do not scream THE SKY IS FALLING and become cartoon actresses. They stand still. If they can make it, they’ll sprint for home, but if they’re in a vulnerable spot in the compound, they stop. It’s nature’s way of keeping them alive.

Recently I looked out the window and saw all the chickens in a freeze-frame. The new pullets were in a corner of the coop. If there’d been a bed, they would have been under it. Our pretty buffs were statues along the wall and our black beauty was out of eyesight. What the heck? I flung open the door and walked to the fence. Nobody moved. This was not right.

We saw a hawk circling in the sky a few weeks before. A year ago we would have marveled at it in the bird bath outside my office window. Now, anything larger than chickens is a threat. When we first saw him, our chickens were enjoying a free-range stroll and they sequestered themselves under some thorny bushes. They didn’t come out for hours and I couldn’t go in. So that’s why a shadow spooks them. It’s danger in the sky.

There he was, sitting on the block wall fence, right above the chicken coop, blending in with the gray speckle of the block! I didn't see him at first, because he was perfectly still. For a few seconds, I froze, like—like a chicken.

He slowly turned his head and looked at me, then he dropped down on the other side of the wall, accompanied by the tiny sound of a rustling sheet. Perhaps he wasn't after our little reds after all, but the new kittens in the neighborhood.

Now those Rhode Island Reds are bigger than the other hens…too big to be carried off by a predator. Our neighbor was concerned, because his cat likes to patrol at night, but by that hour the girls are all tucked up in their roost.

I am surprised at how quiet and still danger can be. We sometimes say, hey, don’t be a chicken. Well, hey, sometimes be one.

Meet Mona. Mona moans.

Each of our hens has a unique personality. From the day we brought her and the other buff and black chickens home in a cardboard box, Mona was different.

We read in children’s books what sounds animals make. Some storytellers get it right. Some dogs really do sound like a woof! Some cats have been caught on film saying “I love you” and singing “Rock a bye, baby” but many do put out a meow. Birds tweet most of the time and now, so do millions of humans. Chickens do not say cluck cluck.

We can’t say what the NORM is for our chickens; each is unique, but Mona moans. It’s more like a scolding nag while jogging. One might interpret is as,
“Where-have-you-been-I-could-have-fainted-waiting-for-this-treat.” Sometimes she sounds like a car transmission going out, other times just the starter turning over.

Mona tells us if she’s laid an egg, if anyone else has laid an egg, how late we are to feed, how desperate she is for attention, if it’s hot out, cold or windy, and that another chicken got more at dinner than she did. But she does not cluck. She’s a moaner. She is so loud that I am afraid our neighbors will secretly throw a mean tomcat into the yard.

I wanted to return her but we would have only had two chickens, and even numbers in the chicken coop are not good. (Please refer to the intro blog.) She is so needy that she rushes the human leg in the coop and does the best cat impression I’ve ever seen—when the cat keeps you from taking a step. Realizing that she doesn’t know which way we are going to step, she stops. Hunkers down. We started reaching down and patting her. Pat, pat, moan. Pat, pat, moan. I think we’ve trained her that if she gets down, we’ll scratch her neck and pat her. Other hens look at her, then cock their head up and look at us, then down again. They wonder what in the world is wrong with her.

There’s one more thing. Her crown doesn’t stand up, it flops over to one side, making her look a little disheveled. A loud, needy, clumsy, busybody on a bad hair day. She would use a cell phone in a crowded waiting room and have 22 grocery items in the express line. But she has a good heart, she was tolerant of the younger additions when they moved in, she’s a good companion to her sisters, she’s a hard worker (she lays an egg almost every day) and she stops whatever she is doing to say hello.

And in this world you don't often find these attributes.