So, on Saturday we had to say good-by to our two roosters (Jellybean and Speedy). These two roosters were the chicks that were hatched in Noah’s class. So, to say the least, he was sad that both of his turned out to be roosters. But hey–we can drive 90 minutes out of town to go and visit (yeah, we aren’t going to do that).
I promised Noah that we would get two new pullets to replace the roosters. A weak parenting moment. But to be honest, I didn’t really want only 2 chickens and had already decided that 4 was a great number. So, I called a feed store and they had lots of pullets about the same age as the two remaining chickens. Yesterday we trekked out to get Noah some chickens. And because he is an emotional 7-year-old who believes the world often revolves around him, he insisted on having the same breed of chickens. I had to stifle my laugh as I told him that we would have to pick from what they had available.
Well, they did have a couple barred rocks and we needed one of those to be Speedy 2. They didn’t have a Jellybean, but Noah spotted an all white chicken that would work just fine. I couldn’t have been happier that the world yet again seemed to bow at the feet of my little man. So, we put our chickens in the big cat carried and went home.
So I will admit, I am new to chicken keeping and even though I did research and knew we should keep them separate until they got to know each other, I was motivated by how everything just worked out for Noah and so I through knowledge to the wind and asked the universe to make it all okay.
Well, screw the universe. It wasn’t 3 minutes before they were fighting and our poor new Jellybean was getting stood on. So, I tried to separate them (picture me crawling into the 2 foot high crawl space under the coop (I was literally crawling through crap). Jellybean decided she’d had enough of this and leap up and out of the run. The dog was ready to chase–but Bill got her inside as the chicken hid in the thick weeds and Noah screamed as though he was watching her be mauled by a bear.
She then ran into the garage–which is really just another word for death-trap junk pile for a 10-week-old chick who is literally scared out of her little pea-sized mind.
Finally we got her out and did what I should have done all along–separated the chickens. Then we covered the run (and stabbed ourselves several times with the hardware cloth) in the sweltering 95+ degree heat. Fun times.
I am putting the universe on notice.