A BAD DOG TRIES, BUT FAILS, TO BE GOOD

Autumn Leaves

IT'S COOL AND OVERCAST IN BIRDLAND. In short, a perfect Autumn day. The Hackberry trees in our yard shed brown leaves that gather in the driveway, and soon I will rake them up for the deep litter bedding in the chicken coop. So far, not much color in our yard or in the woods beyond the fields—just the green is not so brilliantly emerald as it was in summer. I did see a sugar maple in town yesterday that had half turned a bright pink-orange. That is, one side of the tree had turned, the other side was still green.

Cullen, the good dog.

I sit on the porch to enjoy the breeze, bundled up as I am. The cat just came out from under the ornamental quince to join me. Ursula barks from the line on the other side of the house. She, the bad dog, is on probation, but I will let her off in a minute. She is sneaky, that one. She knows she is not to go into the chicken coop and steal food, so she waits patiently on the walk up to the kitchen door until we go inside. We watch from a window—sometimes the window in the kitchen door, sometimes over the kitchen sink. She watches the window until we go away. She even waits there a minute more, steadily gazing at the window.

I am but an innocent dog.

When she thinks she is in the clear, she v-e-r-y c-a-s-u-a-l-l-y moseys toward the coop. She takes a circuitous route, behind the garage. But sometimes we are still watching from the window with our coffee, and when I see her come around the other side to go into the door of the coop, I will knock loudly on the window. Then she will run back to her station on the cobblestone walkway and scrutinize again the kitchen door. "Who me?" she asks with her innocent gaze? "I was just, you know, visiting with my little feathered friends."

This morning, though, the knock did not call her back because I had just put out a pile of compost for the chickens to scratch and gather. Is there anything tastier than orange peels, apple cores, egg shells and coffee grounds? All that deliciousness is just too much for a bad dog trying to be good. I had to run out yelling, "No, No No!" And still she gobbled as fast as she could. What could I do but catch her (easy to do when she stands with her head down, gorging as fast as she can) and put her on the line for a while.

She is getting used to the line. Cullen doesn't mind it, and we put him there after his meals for a while, so he doesn't run off following the deer and come back full of prickles and cockleburs. He takes it in stride and lies in the driveway watching for whatever comes around the corner and down the hill. But Ursula used to fret quite a lot. So mournful was her cry that we would not leave her on the line too long. So anxious was she that we could not leave her unattended or she would tangle herself in the bushes. But now she takes it in stride. Her barking this morning is just because Jim has come out in his white truck to check the soybeans. Are they dry enough to harvest? We both watch him, I from the porch, Ursula from the driveway. He walks down the grass waterway a bit and over to the beans and bends over them, feeling, I suppose for dryness. Then he hops back in his truck and drives away. Will he be back today with the combine? Will the rain that seems to be gathering in the low clouds to the west hold off? (And will I gamble, and hang my laundry out anyway despite the lack of sunshine and warmth? Probably. It should be done with the wash cycle by now.)

Ursula has settled back down, and I can see her in my mind’s eye, lifting her nose to the breeze, letting the wind lift her black fur a little. I'll go in a minute and let her loose from the line, but for now I'm going to sit here just a little longer, looking off into the bronzed fields and enjoy the morning.

Sit in Beauty; Lie in Peace; Blessed Be

Mary Lucille Hays lives in Birdland near White Heath. If you’re missing your weekly dose of Birdland Letters in the News Gazette, you can still read them every week in the Piatt County Journal Republican and at www.letterfrombirdland.blogspot.com. Consider subscribing to support your small-town newspaper. You can follow Birdland on Instagram and Twitter @BirdlandLetters. Mary can be reached at letterfrombirdland@gmail.com or via snail mail care of this newspaper.

SMALL PACKAGES

HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE I'VE SET EGGS IN AN INCUBATOR AND TURNED THEM PATIENTLY FOR THREE WEEKS? Many years. We did it in the early days a few times, but mostly bought day old chicks by mail—a different kind of patience, a different kind of waiting. When you order chicks by mail, you get a range of dates they might arrive. Expect an early call. Our postmistress usually calls before 7 to tell me that a suspicious package has arrived in my name—full of cheeping! I drive the mile and a half to town and she cheerfully hands me a box. She tells me she likes this kind of package, but last week someone ordered bees! She was afraid of the buzzing and didn't want to get too close even though it was tightly wrapped. I don't tell her that I aspire to someday receive a mail order package of bees.

How can they send chicks through the mail? They have to put enough chicks into the box to keep them warm through body heat to make the trip, Some places will send “warmer chicks” if you order only a few They are cushioned in straw. Before they hatch, chicks absorb all the rest of the yolk through the umbilicus (Yes, chickens have umbilical cords!) and that gives them all the food and water they need for the next 24 hours. After hatching, they need time to dry off and learn to walk. No time for eating until those important tasks are finished. They make the trip overnight and I get to open the box of peeping chicks. I used to order the bargain mix, which really just means the leftovers from the hatchery. Opening the box for me was even more exciting, since I got to see what kinds of chicks I had. They're not all yellow. Look at a hatchery catalog sometime to see the colorful assortment of chicks. We always had fun transferring them from the box to the brooder, counting them carefully. The hatchery often throws in one or two extra, in case some don't make the trip. When I put them in the brooder, the first task is to show them each, one by one, where the food and water are. I dip their beaks in the water, and set them down, so they know where to find it again when they are thirsty.

Well, that was how we used to do it, but this spring I got a hankering to hatch out some Serama chicks. Seramas are sometimes called "the teacup chicken" because they are so tiny. A full-grown rooster is about the size of a 6-week-old kitten rolled up in a ball. Before I could talk myself out of it, I ordered a dozen Serama eggs. I set up an incubator and marked the eggs with an X on one side so I could tell that I was giving each egg a full turn. I realized later I should have put an O on the other side. 

My memory of hatching is pretty foggy. You need to turn them 3 times a day (or 5 or any odd number). If you let them lie on the same side for 21 days (or even for most of that time) the chicks will develop unevenly--one side of their body bigger than the other. I did faithfully turn them, but I forgot the part about leaving them still for the last 3 days. In fact, I didn't remember that until yesterday, when I went to turn them and heard peeping! 

At first I thought it was my imagination, or that a bird had flown into the vent fan again and made a nest. I had read that you could hear chicks peeping from inside the eggs, but I had never heard it myself. Oh my! Time to get a brooder ready. Three eggs had tiny chips. When I exclaimed the peeping grew louder. They were responding to my voice. I kept checking, but the cracks didn't seem to get any bigger. I checked the humidity. If it's too high, the chicks can drown in their shells. The humidity was in the right range. I had to go to town, and when I returned I found 2 sets of eggshell halves and 2 tiny, wet chicks peeping and trying to stand. The chick uses its egg tooth to cut the shell in a perfect circle, all the way around, so the top of the egg comes off like a little hat. The chicks went into the brooder (a box with a light bulb), but I didn't hear any more peeping. The next morning, one more wet chick was in the incubator, and he joined his nest mates. Will more eggs hatch? The adventure begins.

Wait in Beauty; Hatch in Peace; Blessed Be.

URSULA AND THE GOLDEN EGGS

IN BIRDLAND THE SAGA CONTINUES. We thought we hit upon a method, if not the perfect solution, then at least a stop gap measure to keep Ursula from eating all the eggs my chickens lay. My dog recently discovered the treasure trove of golden deliciousness hiding in the nesting boxes in the coop. Instead of finding eggs in the coop, I'd find empty shells near the kitchen door, just taunting me. In the morning, after letting the chickens out, we decided to lure them into the garden coop with a big scoop of pellets. They ran happily in and began scratching at what I spilled there, and I went out and shut the door. We originally built the garden coop to protect the garden from the chickens' beaks. It works well for tomatoes, cucumbers and greens, but after the frost, we encourage the chickens to spend some time there to cultivate the soil, eating grubs and bugs and scratching up any weeds that come after the last harvest. It's a great way to get a jump start on preparing the ground for spring planting, and to fertilize the soil. Well, I figured if we put the chickens in the garden coop for the day, they would lay their eggs in there, safe from the dog.

The first day everything was fine. They laid their eggs in the corner and Ursula looked sadly from the yard as I collected them in the afternoon and then let the chickens out to wander a little before chicken dark. The next day, I led them out there again, and all was well when I left, but when I arrived home after work, I was met with 2 half eggshells on the front walk, and another next to the walnut tree. How did Ursula get the eggs out of the garden coop? I went around the house to find the garden coop door was open, the chickens scratching in the spinney of woods nearby. Did Ellis open the door and let them out? He said no, maybe I forgot to latch the door.

The next day I arrived home to a repeat of the previous day—empty eggshells on the ground, garden coop open, chickens at large, dog fat and happy in the sun. Ursula had figured out how to open the door by pulling with her claws, despite a latch. Well, played, puppy. Well played; but the game is not over yet. We needed a new plan. I thought about making a dog excluder in the regular chicken coop. She can get into the coop through the door, so Michael screwed a bar across the opening, cutting the space in half. Still big enough for the chickens to get in and out, but too small for a silly black dog to squeeze through, especially one who has grown fat on rich egg yolks.

I got 3 brown eggs and a tan one that day. All was well. Problem solved. Or so we thought. Next morning was Saturday, and I slept in a little. I let Ursula out and went to make my coffee. When I stepped outside with a scoop of food to let the chickens out, I couldn't believe my eyes. They were about a hundred feet off, scratching in the beanfield. Did I forget to shut them up the night before? No. the door was still shut. I investigated to find that the whole back end of the coop had been peeled away, 2 layers of chicken wire and some fencewire. Did coyotes come in the night? No. They would have eaten not just the eggs, but the chickens. The chickens were all still with us. We stapled back the chicken wire and got out the big guns—our behavior modification system. We have a little device we call the “bad dog egg.” It is how we got Ursula to stop chasing the chickens. It emits a high pitched sound that we can't hear, but is apparently very unpleasant to Ursula. One beep from the bad dog egg and she stops whatever it is she is doing. The drawback is that it requires someone to constantly monitor her behavior. Luckily, it was the weekend, so we could devote some energy and attention to making sure Ursa stayed away from the coop. For now, it seems to be working out. Yesterday's egg count was Mary—3, Ursula—0.

Walk in Beauty; Work in Peace; Blessed Be

 

FOR JEFF, WHO SAYS THAT BIRDLAND IS "TOO HAPPY"

TODAY IN BIRDLAND THE SKY WAS CLOUDY AND THE YARD WAS FULL OF MUD. I knew it was going to be a difficult day when I woke up before my alarm. Now, I like to sleep in as much as anyone, but this whole “fall back” business comes on rather suddenly. The sun had already been rising later and later, and it's been hard to get up in the dark, but now the sun comes in and wakes me before I have to get up. I stood up, blinking. The first thing that happened when I got out of bed was that I tripped over Ursula. My dog likes to lie right in everyone's path, with no consideration whatsoever for anyone. She was lying right at the foot of my bed. I could have broken my neck.

 Of course as soon as I'm up she wants to eat, and Shiva joins in with the nagging. I haven't even put on my glasses yet and I'm stumbling in my robe toward the basement with the cat twining herself between my feet, and Ursula nipping at the cat, like she can hurry us all up toward the only thing she cares about: food. Ursula and Shiva act like they're starving and I can't scoop out the food fast enough to please them. I scoop food for the cat first, then Ursula. She is barking, waking the house, and blistering my eardrum. I tell her to wait, and she does. Then I go back upstairs to get the big galvanized scoop for the chicken's food which I keep on the landing shelf. You'd think that one of these days I'd remember to grab it before I go down, but every morning it's the same thing. I remember when I'm scooping the dog's food and have to go back up and then down to where I keep the chicken pellets in the basement. I scoop the pellets and then tell Ursa “okay” as I go out the door while she's wolfing down her food. I want to get outside without her because even though she's stopped chasing the chickens, she still jumps up on the coop when I open it and snaps at the closest tail feathers she can find. Just one snap, and a mouthful of feathers and one startled hen jumps out of the way. Every Dang Morning.

 I go out with my scoop of chicken feed and open the coop. We're down to 9 hens and 2 roosters. At least the predators are getting fed. We were getting 2 or 3 eggs on most days, starting about a month ago, but this morning, like the past week, nothing. Those blamed chickens might be hiding their eggs where I'll never find them, probably in the barn. They make a beeline there every morning. I go back inside and Ursula is jumping to get out, and I let her go and turn to my morning chores. I make coffee and a smoothy for my breakfast. I pull some little slider rolls out of the freezer for sandwiches. I make them ahead, cut them in half and freeze them. That way, when I thaw them out they still taste fresh, though they might be almost a week old. But today they are stuck together, probably because I put them in the freezer while they were still warm. Wouldn't you know it? I struggle to pry the rolls open and I hear Ellis getting up. My youngest pretty much takes care of himself, does his laundry and gets himself out of bed and checks his own homework, but I still make his sandwiches most days. I've got the sandwiches out on the counter and I'm searching for tupperware to put them in, but, of course, I can't find any lids to match. Just my luck.

 Well, you can probably guess how the rest of my morning went: Ellis missed the bus and I had to take him. AGAIN. And I left my coffee on the counter and my office keys on the dresser. I almost tripped over the cat as I was rushing to the car and there on the front walk was the worst sign of all. Half of an eggshell. That means that Ursula has found out where the hens have been laying their eggs. She brought one to the front walk and licked it clean there, just to taunt me. One more problem in Birdland. If I don't put a stop to this, I'll never get another egg.

Grump in Beauty;
Grouse in Peace;
Blessed Be.

SCATTER PEACE

She's not a bad dog.

THIS MORNING URSULA ATE MY SANDWICHES. YES SHE DID.  I try to be careful about leaving my dog alone with sandwiches, but these were in my lunch bag and pushed to the back of the counter. I left the room for only a moment to grab my backpack, and when I came back, I saw an apple rolling across the floor. What's that doing there? I wondered. Then I saw Ursula, lying with her head on her paws, just as if she had been lying there all morning. She looked up at me and actually yawned. Then stretched. My eyes traced a line from the apple to the dog, to my poor lunch bag lying on the floor, to my sandwich container hidden way back in her puppy corner. Circumstantial evidence, but I knew what happened.

Ursula is not a bad dog. In fact, she can make herself very useful. She is affectionate and kind. When I feed her and her cat-friend, Shiva, she will nudge Shiva with her nose and bark excitedly, telling her, “Come on down to the basement! Hurry up! She's scooping our food! It's time to eat!” She waits patiently until I tell her, “Okay,” and then she makes quick work of her breakfast. Ursula is very amusing and congenial. She will happily play fetch all day with a ball or frisbee or a stick. She's not particular. If you can throw it, she will go and get for you and drop it at your feet. Ursula is also very protective. She has kept the chickens mostly safe from varmints for several months now. If she sees a predation threat, she will do her best to put the whole yard on high alert—running and barking and charging, until that fox or possum or hawk thinks chicken dinner doesn't sound so tasty after all. Yes, Ursula is a very good dog, but she's programmed to eat whatever food she can find. If I'm foolish enough to leave my sandwiches on the counter, they're really fair game, even if she's already eaten. If I think I can leave a big pile of food for the chickens, I'm sadly mistaken if I think Ursula will leave a few morsels for them. No such thing as trickle down doggy-nomics in Birdland.

Compost is another problem. The bucket fills quickly, and ideally I could just dump it in my outdoor compost pile. Chickens are omnivorous, and very happy to eat leftover crusts of bread, apple cores, wilted cabbage, all the while scratching and stirring the pile into a rich humus. But if Ursula sees me with the compost bucket, she will lie in wait and as soon as I turn my back, she is in the middle of the pile snapping up the best parts while the chickens wait from a hopeful circle for whatever she might leave. The problem is, she doesn't leave any, and doesn't do half so well at the real work of the compost pile, turning it over and letting the worms turn grass clippings, leaves and other debris left into soil. Ursula isn't really hungry; she just acts hungry because she is greedy, while the chickens spend their entire day with their tails in the air, scratching out a living, picking out bugs or greens to fill their bellies. 

Chickens do the real
work of the compost pile.

If I want to sit out in the yard on the Adirondack chair and toss treats to the chickens, I come prepared with doggy treats I can throw far away on one side to keep Ursula busy, while I lightly toss chicken treats on the other side of the chair. Even so, it doesn't work for long. Not only is my dog easily lured by what others seem to be enjoying even if she has plenty already, she is also intimidating. The chickens are nervous around her and run for the cover of the Jerusalem Artichokes as soon as she comes back looking for the next treat. Maybe tomorrow I'll just put her in the house first as I scatter the scraps of bread so that everybody gets some.  

Scatter Beauty
Vote for Peace
Blessed Be

THISTLE DROUGHT

WHITE, PUFFY CLOUDS SAIL OVERHEAD...

IN BIRDLAND WE'RE STILL IN A DROUGHT, BUT ONE MORE FLOWER IS BLOOMING ANYWAY. Thistle, of course. I always leave at least 3 of them wherever they care to pop up in the yard, because they are a favorite of butterflies when they bloom. This year one has come up, majestic and brave, as tall as I am, and prickly to match the weather, and has finally sent out tight, purple blossoms. Some are blooming and some have already gone to seed. I've been seeing more goldfinches this year than ever, and they are drawn to my thistle. Today one perches on top, its weight making the whole plant sway. The bird can't wait for the second bloom of the downy thistle, when the flower opens a sphere of ghostly snowflakes. My goldfinch digs into the still closed seed head. One by one shots of thistledown float on the hot breeze as the bird's head jerks and pulls at the down, extracting its lunch.

...BUT PROMISE NO RAIN.

White, puffy clouds sail overhead, but promise no rain. We did have a little yesterday evening. I was watering my poor garden, as I do every day, and noticed a dark embankment to the Northwest. We were on the sunny side of the storm, and it seemed as if the edge would pass just a few miles to the north. But then the wind changed course and before I finished my cycle of watering, the storm was heading for us full steam ahead. It was getting to be chicken dark and I put away my hose and turned to the chickens who perch on top of the coop every night as the sun gets low over the dying corn.

Earlier generations of chickens used to put themselves to bed at the appropriate time. All I had to do was remember to shut the door of the coop after them. This flock, like kids who try to delay bedtime, sits on top and I have to scoop them up one by one, and toss them through the door of the coop. Usually a few jump off and begin to circle the coop, but Ursula stands ready to help me herd them in. My dog hasn't always appreciated her role as chicken-herd, but now I think she understands. She actually taught herself to do this by watching me. One night I didn't remember to put the chickens to bed until way past twilight. It was a night of no moon, and pitch black. I was feeling for chickens in the dark and got most of them in, but sure enough, a few jumped off and had to be herded in. I was doing the best I could in the dark, when I heard a rushing rustle and Ursula was after one that I didn't see escape into the weeds. I heard her catch the chicken, heard its mournful cry. I shouted at Ursa to let loose of the chicken, and ran to feel around in the brush in the dark with no luck. Meanwhile I saw Ursula run back toward the coop. I finally decided to leave the probably wounded, possibly dead, chicken alone, and bring the dog in for the night. Next morning, I counted the chickens when I let them out, trying to figure out who was missing...but everyone was accounted for! When Ursula ran past me in the dark, she must have had that chicken in her mouth. She knew just where it belonged. Since then, I have let her help me herd them in at night, talking calmly to keep her relaxed.

As we put the chickens to bed last night, the wind was whipping the trees into a frenzy, and fat, welcome raindrops were hitting us, dampening the dust. I shut the door and we ran for the house to watch the storm from inside. The storm hovered over us, raining furiously for about 15 minutes and then moved back north again. The gauge measured 2/10 of an inch. My rain barrel is ¼ full. They say it takes an inch a week just to keep the drought from getting worse, but at this point, anything is welcome. We'll just keep looking at the sky and praying for rain. 

RAIN IN BEAUTY;
DRINK IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE.

NEW ROOS IN BIRDLAND

IN BIRDLAND WE HAVEN'T MOWED SINCE MAY, AND THE GRASS IS STILL AS CLOSELY CROPPED AS IT WAS THE LAST TIME I HAD THE MOWER OUT.  Only now it's as dry and brown as shredded wheat. Everything in the yard is waiting for rain, including me. I generally have something blooming all summer, but the wild Day Lilies are all but gone—only a few bedraggled blossoms when I picked a bouquet for the table yesterday. The tame Day Lilies have mostly decided it isn't worth the bother, and the Asters and Sedum that should bloom next are all stunted, buds not even swollen with hope. I drag myself out in the yard to make sure the animals all have plenty of water, and then I go inside and wait for evening. I water the vegetables and the flowers, keeping them alive, but not thriving. The humid sky muffles the colors, and the atmosphere doesn't seem so friendly now.

Thank Goodness for
Queen Anne's Lace!

Thank goodness for Queen Anne's Lace. I mowed around a patch in the back yard a few years ago, and it has expanded to become a small oasis of green in the desert of my back yard. These wild carrots are not native to Illinois; they escaped from cultivation, but they do so well in the wild that I count them among the common weeds that I am encouraging to take over my yard, patch by patch. I'll bet their fat taproots keep them from the distress showing in all the rest of my flowers. I don't even water the Queen Anne's Lace, and it provides a landing pad for all kinds of butterflies and other pollinators. I watch a bumbling bee skate across the top one wide flower, then another. It is buzzing and rubbing its belly in what looks like ecstasy, pollen dust rising in the arid heat. It's a good thing I can supply a little island of green and pollen to tide these insects over until the rains come.

We have two new roosters in Birdland—a couple of Golden Sebrights. I named them Hopscotch and Roosevelt. The Mayor of Myra brought them to me. She read about the loss of my flock a while back, and offered them to me. I have such kind readers! She is Myra's only resident, so we decided she was the Mayor. She arrived in a charming dune buggy with her gift of two little roosters in a cat carrier. We had a nice visit, touring around Birdland. She told me about her barn and showed me pictures of her chicken coop. I showed her the aviary, and introduced her to the 4 parakeets, Rumpus, Cloudy, Frida, and Dandelion. She told me a story about how her mother lured a feral parakeet into a cage to bring inside out of the weather. He had been hanging out with the sparrows, and had developed a sparrow's song. She mentioned goats, and she shouldn't have done that, because one of these days I'm going to drive over to Myra, invite myself in, and have her tell me all about goats. I'll take notes.

New Roos in Birdland

 We transferred the roosters to my cat carrier to wait for dark. It's easier to integrate new chickens into the flock if you do it in the dark. They get used to each others' sounds and smells in the night and wake up in the morning and nobody can be sure who is supposed to be there and who is new. My chicks are starting to fill out and just beginning to look like chickens, not chicks, but they are the same size as the new roosters, who are banties. In the morning, I was a little worried, walking out to the coop to open the door. I was afraid they might have a few scuffles before figuring out the new pecking order, but everyone was quietly milling around the chicken yard, the waiting punctuated occasionally by some stimulating crows. I opened the door and they started their morning, busily scratching and searching in the grass. The new roos kept watch over the flock, one eye on the sky, looking for the rain.

Crow in Beauty;
Wait in Peace;
Blessed Be!