Nom de Plume

Another egg from the buttercup this evening.

So … what should I name her? Please don’t suggest Buttercup …

• I can’t deal with all this dog hair–even with a furminator. Anyone ever shave a pug? #
• To clarify that blog title: I am not unemployed. That’s Steve. It’s a hard life. He’s taken up fishing. #
• My brain hurts. #

roosters one or both hen needs divorce
I have 2 roosters, this is their second year now, they are not aggressive, more tame, used to dogs and horses. They are vocal as roosters should be. The hen is frigid and tired of rooster noodles. I need sleep, the hen needs her feathers back. They are her sons and they dont care. Help please.

Went down to Julie’s this morning, had breakfast, and then we headed over to the chicken auction. My neighbor and fellow crazy chicken lady Carrie–who, by the way, steadfastly maintains that my rooster to hen ratio may not be as dire as I think-met us there.

The auction is a totally unique experience. The auctioneer is this wizened little man with a big voice. You don’t always understand what he’s saying–or how much you’re bidding–so it’s a good thing that there’s also a woman who unceremoniously yanks the animal or animals out of a cardboard box to show them to everyone. It’s amazing; she can hold three roosters by the crook of their wings in one hand with legs dangling and their bellies facing the crowd. Not terribly dignified, but hey, it gets the job done. The best moment was when she pulled out the two cutest baby bunnies you have ever seen. Every single woman in the audience took that deep breath that comes before “OOOOOHHHHH!” It was this great collective noise–and then we all burst into laughter.

So I ended up with five hens: four welsummers (welsumers, if you want to be proper, but let’s face it–no one spells it that way) and one buttercup. It’s a lot. The coop looks like a chicken tenement, though the outside run will be done tomorrow, and I’m probably not going to keep them all anyway.

In they went with the chickiepoos, who promptly scattered. The king roosterlet bravely went up to one hen, took one peck … and then went running for his life the moment she fixed a beady little eye on him and leaned over to take a peck of her own. Yep, she may be a girl, but she will kick your tailfeathers.

I should have gotten better pictures, but didn’t really get around to it until this evening. All the girls were chilling in the henhouse. Here are the welsummers:

And here’s the buttercup:

And then I noticed … could it be? Is it … really? Yes. An egg. Even though I wasn’t expecting any for a couple of weeks at least. Must be from the buttercup, because it’s small and white.

All these people were telling me that you can’t keep roosters in Seattle. I kept insisting you can because there’s nothing in Seattle Municipal Code for the keeping of animals (including domestic fowl) that prohibits it. It says you can’t have a farm animal if you have fewer than 10,000 square feet, and that you can’t have a miniature goat if it’s not neutered or dehorned — but at no point does it say you can’t keep roosters.

After the guy at McClendon’s who helped me get chicken wire and fence posts informed me that it’s against the law to keep roosters in Seattle, I broke down and called the city clerk’s office. The answer? Yes, you can keep roosters–but be aware that your neighbors may hate your guts and there are noise ordinances they can complain about.

Which is a good thing. Because I am positive at least five of mine are boys–and probably more like seven.

Out of nine.

Headed off to the chicken auction in enumclaw today to get some layers. Adios!

Believe it or not, but he’s actually happy with the results–particularly as he now doesn’t have to get a haircut.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t get a job interview in the next week.

I would post pix, but Harry’s in tears under the dining room table and threatening to kill his hairdresser.

I came home from bellydance class to find this note:

Food in oven. I slaved all day and waited for hours … Pork loin w/apple pear chutney. I overdid it on the allspice and salt from my own tears. I’m fishing.

Really, the chicks are just starting to ignore him. Which doesn’t bother Harry in the slightest.