This shows up

When I started The Chicken Project, I knew that I wanted to not only make it fun for my daughter, but for our neighbors and community as well. I would keep it clean and smell-free and not have any roosters or complaints.

Since I started it, I've made many new friends who I just love - some who now have chickens. Kids visit. Soccer players from the field take a look. My daughter delivers eggs via her bike (she can fit two 6-packs in her basket) and gets to keep in touch with her 6th grade teacher, Mr. Kolden. And she's got a little business called Arrow Eggs - logo and everything. One dozen eggs only $1.50, delivered.

So, someone hung this sign up, and now, almost a year later, I still have no idea who did. But I like it.

Time to combine

It's time to move the chicks out with the five. Red and Peanut aren't ready, so they move up to the Loft. From what I've read, this upsets the whole balance of the flock - a new pecking order will be established, and it might be brutal.

But they have to move out sometime. I decide to divide the run in two, and put some wood in between the fencing for the day. That way they'll get the idea that there is something on the other side, and it will be a slow introduction.

But my plan fails when my husband and my daughter decide to do their own thing: throw the chicks in and let the chips fall where they may. Apparently, just because I told them the plan, that doesn't mean it registered. I'm not happy.

The introduction is chaos. There's lots of chasing and running. There's lot of flapping. There's lots of clucking - both the threatening kind and the surprise "What? You're picking on me?" kind of clucking. With a stick, I try to poke the more aggressive ones.

At the end of the day, it is the Sharks versus the Jets - with the five in one corner and the seven in the other. Tomorrow, I won't be surprised to see them in matching T-shirts and tennis shoes, breaking out in dance.

And another

She's not a chicken, she's a ham.

Photo opp

Blanche walks into another shot.

General Mills

Our friends from Northfield (which is the country) ask us if we (from Roseville, the city) know if we have any roosters yet. When we tell them we're not sure, they says we should know by now.

"But we're idiots." I tell them. "We have never been around a chicken that hasn't been on a plate before."


This one gives me reason for suspicion. He acts differently already from the others. I decide to name him General Mills. Plan A for roosters may have to go into affect soon.

She's got legs

It's Legs! She turns into our smallest and friendliest hen. When she lays eggs, she gets all red and puffs up to the size of a softball. Lucky for her, she lays only once a week or so.

What will she be when she gets older?

Guess what this one looks like when she (he?) grows up?

Combs

The chicks are getting these small combs on top of their heads. There are rose combs, sultan combs, funky combs, straight-forward combs. They're growing in like antlers or something. They're soft, and make me wonder even more what these little guys are going to turn into.

The five arrive

The day has come to pick up the five hens we're going to adopt! Thing is, I've never transported a chicken before. I collected five wine boxes, thinking I'd put one in each. But Lori says a big Rubbermaid bin will do the job. I bring the bin the chicks have abandoned, and we wrangle them all in there - not without a few (namely Stretchie) escapees. It feels a lot like trying to put the worms back into the trick can. We bring them to their new home, then sit around and watch them settle in. It's like watching fish in an aquarium.