It finally happened.
Here’s the mixer Steve rented from Home Depot:
Mixing the concrete:
Steve built the molds more than a month ago:
The, um, vibrator. After you dump the concrete into the molds, you have to vibrate it to get it rid of all the air bubbles and make it even. This was my job.
Making it all smooth:
Now they have to sit for four days.
Or rather, Kiyoshi Saito meets crazy chicken lady meets crazy chicken lady’s unemployed boyfriend meets the alley-facing back of our garage.
But that wouldn’t fit in the title area. And it probably wouldn’t make a lot of sense. Not that the name Kiyoshi Saito necessarily makes a lot of sense either, unless you’re a fan of sosaku hanga.
Anyway, I have a Kiyoshi Saito woodblock print of two roosters called Competition for a Charm. I love it. There are other prints of his that I covet fiercely and can’t afford, but I remember this one from my childhood, when it hung in my parents room. It went with me to college and it has been with me in every place since.
And of course, now I have become a crazy chicken lady with a boyfriend that has too much time on his hands. Not, you understand, that I’m complaining. “We need some chicken art on the back of the garage,” he said the other day. “I know what I’ll do!”**
**Steve credits his inspiration to Joy Wants Eternity. If anyone should feel so inclined, he would love free tickets.
The welsummers haven’t laid a single egg. Now this could be normal because from everything I’ve read, it can take several weeks for them to get over the trauma of being moved. But again, you don’t know why they’ve been sold at auction. Perhaps they’re just old. “Check their vents,” one Web site urged. “If they are moist, they’re of egg bearing age. If dried and puckered, the hens have probably outlived their usefulness.”
(If the above grosses you out, read no further.)
So I checked their vents. This, for the unititated, basically means running around after chickens who don’t want to be caught, rounding them up and herding them into the coop, and lunging at their feet–at which point you dangle them upside down. The hens don’t like this, but at some point, they give up–and just kind of go stiff, like they’re dead. Which made life much easier.
And which made it much easier to see that they were crawling–CRAWLING–with lice. There were eggs crusted around their vents, creepy crawlies scurrying over their skin. It was gross, and those poor hens must have been miserable.
Now I had dusted them before they went into the coop in the first place, but obviously it didn’t work. So I dusted them again with diatomaceous earth (which, by the way, totally kills any chicken poo smell in the coop and I’ve started adding to their feed as a dewormer), and went down to Del’s to get a permethrin spray. I would like to be all natural and everything, but sometimes you just need to use chemicals. Came back, cleaned out the coop, sprayed it down. Caught ALL the chickens, sprayed them down too (though no one else seemed to have lice). This was Sunday; yesterday, they were clean and clear.
So what I think is that they just had a bad infestation and stopped producing–and that’s why they went at auction. Could be wrong, but it’s a working theory that allows me to the luxury of thinking that one day they will produce.
Oh, and I battened down the hatches of the run yesterday. The buttercup and Stubbs both gave me an egg. So there’s a clutch of eggs somewhere out there in the yard ….
Still no progress on the concrete countertops, but that’s really my fault because I’ve been too swamped with work to help. (Poor Steve. He feels neglected because every time he tries to talk to me during the day, I tell him to zip it.) But remember when he was doing his test run on working with concrete? The bbq table? The finished product’s pretty darn cool. And handy, too.
Steve has been complaining that I don’t post any of his pictures, to which I say, “Get your own blog.” However, to be fair, I will say that he was right and I was wrong about the height of the roost. Okay, Steve, does that make you feel better?
Which is what I am hoping is NOT the reason that the four Welsummers I bought aren’t laying yet. It’s been two weeks; supposedly, this should be enough time for the little stewpots to get over the trauma of moving. And really, there is NOTHING traumatic about their existence. Trust me. They have a nice comfy place to sleep, lots of yummy organic mash and daily treats, fresh water, and a carefree existence. A very carefree existence: Geoff and I like the idea of everyone free-ranging. I mean really free ranging, not just hanging out in their 150 square foot run.
(In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that today is the first time I’ve just opened the gate; the Houdini twins–two of the chickiepoo crosses–have been squeezing out the gate for eons.)
But have the Stewpots given me a single egg? Nope. Nothing. Nada. The only eggs we’re getting are from the buttercup, who is coming to be known as Old Faithful. She lays eggs more often than what I’ve read about buttercups. I think she’s just so happy not to have a rooster coming after her all the time that she’s laying eggs doubletime in gratitude
So the question is whether they’re going through henopause. It’s either that, or they’re molting. Such is the risk of getting chickens at auctions: Who knows why they were given up?
Another egg from the buttercup this evening.
So … what should I name her? Please don’t suggest Buttercup …
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!
