Seven new little peepers joined the 14 Acre Wood flock last September. After a full dozen of incubated fertilized eggs produced only two chicks, we decided they needed some friends to join them. A local breeder had several chicks the same age as our two hatchlings, so we purchased five little ones of various breeds: a Golden Laced Orpington, a Gray Cochin, a white Bantam Silkie, a Lakenvelder, and a Black Copper Maran. Being a straight run purchase, meaning the sex of the chicks was unknown, we simply enjoyed watching them grow into whatever they were going to be.
Melissa and Snowball the Silkie
As beautiful as roosters are, you really only want one per flock. They’re great protectors of the hens and necessary for hatching new chicks. Not to mention, what’s a morning on the farm without the crow of a rooster? However, two or more roosters often turns into some pretty nasty fighting. We don’t raise game chickens here so having to get rid of a rooster is a tough situation we would rather avoid. Lucky for us only one of the seven chicks turned out to be…. a boy. Meet Happy.
Happy the Lakenvelder
Oh, I know. Rule number one in raising farm animals is to not name them. Well, that’s just not how Melissa (aka the chicken whisperer) rolls. Every one of those babies got a name as she took it upon herself to become the primary care giver and spoiler of the brood. Fresh paper, constant changes of food and water and a perfectly placed heat lamp. Within just a few weeks the tiny balls of fluff with beaks began to grow out actual feathers and grew right out of the plastic container brooder in my office into the big kids feeding trough in the garage (don’t knock raising chicks in your office until you try it).
Soon they were roosting on the waterer and flying across the trough. As adorable as baby chicks are, they always, always turn into chickens. With only a few weeks to go before their big debut to the great outdoors, something went wrong.
For all but Melissa, this wasn’t our first rodeo raising chicks, and sadly sometimes things do go wrong. She called us out to the garage to show us that one of the chicks was acting strange. The little yellow hen, Miss Dee wasn’t eating or drinking. Her head lay on the bedding as if she didn’t have the strength to pick it up.
Like I said, sometimes things just go wrong. I made one last check before bed only to find the poor girl laying on her side with one leg stuck straight out, talons curled. The sure sign that come morning there would be six.
While the rest of us went to bed trying to come up with a way to make it easier on Melissa, she spent that time researching every single chicken illness known to man.
Surprisingly, the hen was still barely alive come morning. Melissa was gone. You have to leave early if you want to be the first customer in the farm store.
The garage became a medical center. Syringes, medication, even a sick chick ICU box. We should have known better. A few days later, the little yellow hen was back to her old self.
We have two coops and two yards. One for the older chickens and one for the newbies.
Miss Dee
When the Chicken Whisperer goes into the newbie yard they all greet her. Miss Dee is right at her side wherever she goes. She lets her pet her, pick her up and carry her around. They all talk to Melissa in low murmurs and muttering gurgles, but only a Chicken Whisperer can know what they say.
Audrey L. Elder Fourteen Acre Wood
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