The circle of Life and Death

Today our six pullets (young chickens) were introduced to the side yard. They been in several cages as they have grown, today with some temporary fencing and netting a safe habitat in the side yard was setup. It took only a few seconds before they started scratching in the short grass and exploring the new environment.

As we were setting up the temp cage for them I needed to check the light in the coop, the wife had reported it was not working. She had tried a new bulb however it was still intermittent.  Using a flash light to see into the coop we found one of our existing grown chickens dead in the coop. She had been acting a bit funny the last few days. She had stopped laying some time ago and had lived out her remaining years free ranging with the other grow chickens in the side yard. I buried here under a large tree where her sisters have been buried over the years.

We didn’t start out to make pets of the chickens; however with time their personalities become know. Each is very different from the rest; each has her own way, her own favorite dust hole. Occasionally they make it up onto the back deck, we’ll be sitting watching TV and one, then another, then another chicken will pass the back sliding door as they look over the deck for any scrapes the dog may have missed. All I can say is ‘good luck’ as the one thing our old dog does well is get every last crumb. Heck, she watches the blue jays and squirrels hide peanuts in the yard, she then digs them up and eats them.

We’ve had as many as a dozen layers, now we are down to five old hens, all beyond their egg producing prime.

The pullets will add 5 hens and a rooster to the mix once we feel they are big enough to hold their own against Bertha, the head hen. I suspect a new pecking order will be established with the introduction of new blood and a rooster, we’ll have to wait and see.

One of the pullet hens seems to have splay feet; her feet don’t curl down, they curl out to the sides. Her feet are very symmetrical. She’s every bit as big as the two other hens of the same breed. Based on these two observations I’m convinced this is genetics and not a nutritional issue. She currently manages to roost; we’ll wait to see if she can once she’s full grown.

Today we saw the circle of life, the old die to make room for the young, it is as it’s always been and should always be. Personally living forever isn’t something I would wish on anyone.

Lucky the Parakeet

This afternoon the three ducks we keep in our garden were making their typical racket, each day for us is filled with various duck calls. The female in the groups makes it very well know she is hungry and wants some feed. We have the ducks to deal with the slug problem; living in the Pacific Northwest we have more than our share of slugs.

Early afternoon today the female duck started calling loudly, it was a mix of her “I want something” and “I’m distressed” calls. My wife went out to investigate. All three ducks had managed to get inside the small fence around the greenhouse at the center of the garden. The small fence is there to keep them out of the herbs and flowers. The female was calling for extraction from the hot zone, much like commandos might call for extraction after a raid.

As my wife worked to get the ducks on the right side of the fence she noticed two crows diving into a nearby bush; this caught her attention. In the bush a flash of color was seen that didn’t seem to fit, blue against the green of the bush.

In the bush was a blue male parakeet, both of his feet were gummed in tree sap. He was hanging by one leg upside down, his other foot covered in sap, unusable. My wife shushed the crows away and started to rescue the poor parakeet. Our chickens came to investigate and had to be locked in the run outside their coop. The little frightened parakeet fought back as my wife worked to free him, biting her several times.

Once she had him freed she noticed his wings were clipped, there was more tree sap on his tail. A quick phone call to the local vet provided my wife a game plan to remove the sap. The vet was afraid of the parakeet getting it inside his beak if he tried to remove the sap himself. A few minutes with Goo-Gone, a solvent used to remove label glue freed his feet. A foot soak in diluted vinegar neutralized the solvent. She picked the remaining spots of sap from his tail.

We have several cages on our property, a suitable cage was found, and perches installed, feeder and waterier bought.

The vet mentioned that if he was outdoors last night he will most likely die from pneumonia within a day.  There is nothing she can do to prevent this. Morning will tell if he will live or not.

I would guess by now you’ve figured out why he was quickly named Lucky, the ducks getting into the herb bed lead to his rescue. Hopefully his luck will hold out and he will live past tomorrow.

He’s spent the day in our bedroom, exploring his new cage. He’s played with the bell and even perched on my wife’s finger a few times. He seems healthy and happy so far. His feet seem fine. All toes work, he perches fine and moves around the cage like a pro.

We’ll watch the neighborhood for signs, the local paper for lost ads. We live in the country and are fairly isolated from our neighbors. The one neighbor we were able to contact reported no missing parakeets.

If he lives and isn’t claimed by his owners he’ll have a happy life here. For friends he’ll have three crazy ducks, a dozen chickens; half of which are old enough they no longer lay. We let them live out their senior years free ranging and enjoying cracked corn as a treat. Lucky will also need to get to know two rabbits, a dog and our cat. It’s a zoo but honestly we wouldn’t have it any other way.

A quick update – Lucky is doing well. He’s healthy and happy having joined our family.

Another update – Lucky has been with us for over a year now, he’s healthy, happy and noisy.

The frogs of spring in five acts

Little did we know when we bought our small house in Maple Valley, Washington that we would experience the frogs each spring.

We knew we were a bit off the beaten path, this was very deliberate. We have about one and one-half acres: mostly wooded, pristine, and beautiful. Across the country street we live on is a working horse farm, there is a smallish pond in the field directly across from us. To the west towards the back of our property a small creek meanders into another pond, this one bigger, perhaps big enough to be a swimming hole.

My wife has always loved frogs; she collects frog stuff, from dish towels to Christmas tree ornaments, its needless to say we have a lot of frog stuff in our home.

Our first spring was amazing, we noticed there were more and more frogs appearing in the yard, on the house, in the trees, little tree frogs were everywhere if you took the time to look. Then one evening a large bull frog started calling, buuurrrriiiipppp, buuurrrriiiipppp, from across the street. He was soon joined by a chorus of low rumbling calls coming from both ponds. We enjoyed them, not knowing they were only the first act.

Within a few nights the calls of the smaller frogs joined in, act two had started. Tens, then hundreds of little voices added their sound to the still night air – ribbit, ribbit. Each night the symphony grew louder, until it reached such a frenzy of sound it was almost too loud to listen too. If you cross the street you can get to within 20 feet of the little pond, the sound is so intense it makes your ears rings, you can almost feel the air buzzing around you.

One night I was out in the yard, probably waiting for the pizza delivery guy to arrive, they often need help finding us; I’ve found waiting by the road with a flashlight in hand helps. A car shot past, the roar of the frogs was replaced with silence, silence so profound it was shocking. More seconds passed, then one little voice appeared, ribbit. His voice was tiny, not like the large bull frogs. Seconds passed, and then I heard ribbit again. I thought he must be the bravest frog of the bunch and imagined the other frogs waiting to hear him again before they found the courage to call out. Ribbit, Ribbit – like a stereo having the volume slowly turned up the sound grew, two voices, five, ten, hundreds. I counted off the seconds in my head; it took fully fifteen seconds before my ears started to ring again. I had been there for the intermission, followed by act three. Act four was waiting, waiting to be discovered.

The pond behind the house is much further away, and much larger. Even with the trees between the pond and the rear deck the chorus from that pond is just as loud, I suspect a larger pond means more voices, more frogs. This sound is not quite as intense, still considering how far away it is I’m impressed by it. The frogs in this pond own act four; their call is constant as it’s not interrupted by passing cars.

Our driveway is directly between the two ponds, and this leads to act five. One evening I was standing in the driveway, doing driveway things.  As I moved around I found a spot where you could hear both ponds clearly if you turn such that one ear faces each pond. Hearing the two together is odd, the sound seems out of phase, it almost sets up a rattle in your brain, like two trumpets slightly out of tune blasting in each ear. This is act five, each pond trying to outcall the other.

I’m not sure if it’s the males calling the females or the other way around, still I wonder how, from all the voices I hear what differentiates one voice from the others to a prospective mate. I guess only the frogs know what differentiates a Barry White frog voice from a Pee Wee Herman frog voice.