vituperation

Note: There is a semi-graphic picture below, showing numerous cocks in the most flaccid state there is.

Sometime last week, I realized that the chicks we got back in November were feathered enough to make it without the heat lamps, and that it was time to transition them from the little coop they grew up in to the big coop where they’d spend the rest of their days.

Damn. I never dreamed I’d refer to the big fancy 10×12 coop as “the little coop.”

On Tuesday, I unplugged the heat lamps before it got dark, to let the chicks start getting used to their new lifestyle. Turning the lamps off always freaks out the little ones, because until that point they’ve lived their whole lives without ever seeing darkness. I’m pretty sure it scares them, because they immediately switch from lining up on the little roost to sleep to huddling together in the corner in a big cheeping mass. The first time it happened I thought it was for warmth, but they even do that in the middle of summer. I guess they have to learn what dark is.

Friday, once all the chickens were settled for the evening, I started moving the little ones out to the big coop. I put them in a cat carrier, three or four at a time, and carried them through the muddy yard (one more reason I hate winter: the ground is soggy from December to March, with standing water in the lower places, because there’s not enough heat to dry it up) to the big coop. At the big coop door, I unloaded each chick and let George and Gracie get a good sniff. I’ve read that a Pyrenees will never forget a person (based on smell), so I hoped this brief introduction would imprint on them that these new birds were part of the flock.

George and Gracie are some vigorous chicken sniffers.

Yesterday, the new chicks tended to hang out together, but they also spent plenty of time in and among the other chickens. There was the normal pecking and chasing from the big chickens if the little ones got too close, but that’s just pecking order stuff, nothing serious. There’s no intent to hurt, just chase them out of the bigger chicken’s space.

Moving the little chicken to the big house also meant something else: it was time to cull roosters from the Amish and flea market chicks. Those roosters were starting to crow, and with so many — plus our three main roosters — it was starting to get pretty noisy in the mornings. They weren’t fighting yet, but it was just a matter of time.

I set up the kill station in the little coop, because I’m planning to clean it out today or next weekend anyway so any spilled blood wouldn’t be a problem. Then I started catching roosters and cutting throats. Based on my observations, I thought I had seven or eight roosters to process.

I ended up doing FOURTEEN, and still left one of the flea market ones alive because it’s so pretty. I never realized there were so many young cocks in that batch. Doing them all at once was a pain, because it took four hours. Afterwards, speaking of pain, my heel ached from the standing, my elbow ached from the pulling, and my back ached from the stooping.

But you know what? I don’t have to do it again for 10 weeks or so, when it’s time to cull from the McMurray chicks we got in November.

Also, speaking of pains, trying to pluck chickens when it’s cold is HUGE pain in the ass, because of a couple of things. First, the chickens cool off quickly, which means they don’t release the feathers easily for long. Second, the hot water also cools off very quickly, which means the feathers don’t release in the first place. I got so annoyed on the third chicken that I just unplugged the plucker and skinned them all. I’ve about decided to sell the plucker, because we don’t eat the skin anyway.

(incidentally, it was the pulling off of the skin that flared up my elbow. getting old and wearing out is a bitch, especially when there are so many new things to do)

Some pictures:

Fourteen young cocks, all in a pile on my tailgate, which serves double duty as a table.
The rooster I left alive is of the same breed as the speckly ones to the left. Just gorgeous.
We think they’re Icelandic chickens.

When I bring a pile of carcasses into the house for evisceration,
it makes Robyn appreciate me that much more.

We filled up all the free space in one refrigerator…

…and spilled over into the backup.

We went to the flea market last weekend, and bought some eggs from a guy selling them. They’re from Golden Comet hens and a Rhode Island Red rooster.

The row of eggs across the top came from our chickens. The two little white eggs — which I’m pleased to announce have veins growing in them — came from our little puffy-head Polish chickens. The one in the middle, with the ‘S’ on it, came from Sassy, our sassy little Black Jersey Giant who goes over the fence every day, and makes her way to the smallest coop (where she was raised) to lay her egg.

Yep, it’s an addiction.

The flock enjoys a little scratch…

…while George, who takes his job very seriously, watches over.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re leaving to get some more pigs.

In my dreams: