Marek's Revisited

What better time than Mercury retrograde to revisit old problems (as Californians, we have the obligation of referencing astrological happenings with every possible opportunity) and as long time readers of this blog well know, one of our biggest problems on the farm has been Marek's. What an appropriate time for one of our hens to fall ill.

The other morning when I opened the coop door for the ladies, Ruby, our Black Australorp, hopped to the ground and just kind of stayed there, crouched and unable to fully stand. Crap! No need to consult the experts on this one. I knew. But just to confirm, I picked her up and pressed a finger into the center pad of a foot. Nothing. Paralysis was setting in. This was definitely Marek's. But all our birds had been vaccinated, which is 95-98% effective! Pretty much sums up my luck with chickens.

I should have known that she might not have been right since she hadn't been on the roosting bar for a couple months and had stopped laying. However, it's winter so I figured that she had stopped laying due to dwindling daylight. The roosting thing I chalked up to her being low on the pecking order. But I guess in retrospect that didn't make much sense since she had been one big ass bird back in September.

As always , it was my little Googlebear to the rescue. But this time it had nothing to do with a cure and everything to do with a practical solution: compost pile or dinner table. Don't cringe, my dears. We've lost so many birds to this disease that it seemed like such a waste to bury another.

Well kiddos, it seems that it is perfectly fine to eat a bird with Marek's. In fact, you probably already have at some point as almost all birds have been exposed to it. An infected bird most often develops lesions or tumors on the nervous system in the legs and neck. Like cancer in animals, the disease doesn't transfer to humans.

I culled Ruby within a few hours of determining that she was ill. The poor thing had become very thin, her skin so loose that only the sharpest of knives would do the deed. There was barely any food in her crop, save for a few greens, and almost nothing in her intestines. I cradled her in my arms before I sent her to the big sleep. She was a good, sweet bird who laid a few giant eggs in her short strut upon this stage. I was sad to have her go.

I know a lot of you out there are thinking "Gross!". Yeah, that's what I thought last year. This time around I'm thinking stew pot and tamales. Waste not, want not.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Catching Up with the Farm

My dearest, loyal IBFITC readers (I guess I'm talking to you mom and dad), I profusely apologize for the posting desertification. All I can say is that it was tax time, my busiest time of the year. I believe I've mentioned here before that I am a die-hard procrastinator. I don't just wait until the last minute to do the taxes, I wait until three weeks before taxes are due to start entering last year's books for our businesses. What can I say, I'm highly motivated by deadlines. So I guess I'll just give you all a run down on what's been happening around here over the last three weeks.

Here Comes the Sun

We've been approved! For our solar project that is. I know I never even mentioned it before, but it was one of those things I was meaning to get around to. The gray water system was supposed to come first, but then I found out about this great deal.

I've dreamed of living in a solar powered home since my college days, which was *cough cough* 20 years ago or there abouts (Yeah, I may be middle-aged, but I still have the butt of a 20 year old, so there!). With the $17 grand price tag being the cheapest deal I could find, I figured I'd be waiting another 20 years to realize my dream. But then I ran into this guy at a local Meetup for chicken owners in the Bay Area who works for 1 Block Off the Grid and he told me that I could get the whole thing financed through this company called SunRun, all for the low low start up cost of $3 grand. In a nut shell, the dealio is that you pay this up front cost for installation, SunRun purchases and owns the panels, and then you buy back the power your panels produce from SunRun for a monthly flat fee, which is pretty much the same as your current electric bill. The super awesome perks are that it's an 18 year contract where SunRun is 100% liable for the maintenance and upkeep of your system, including any damage that might incur to other people's property (you know, just in case those gargantuan panels blew off your roof and landed on your neighbor's). And your bill will not go up unless you are using more energy than you are producing with your panels so you avoid the yearly rate increases saving a ton of money in the end. Not to mention that all that guilty pleasure Facebook time won't be powered by dirty coal. Although it will cost more than buying the panels outright, we love the flexibility of not being responsible for them and that we can choose to buy the panels at the end of our contract or just let SunRun take them back. Who knew chickens could lead us directly to solar power?

Chickens

I would like to report that the chickens are grieving the absence of the goats, but alas, I think they're a touch relieved that they don't have to worry about being stepped on when the nutty goat antics start in. Every morning Pop Tart greets me with the "mount me" pose so I give her a back scratch and a little rub on the sides of her tail, a daily ritual as regular and scheduled as teeth brushing around here. But that's the best I'm going to do for her when it comes to beckoning to be bred. However, I did have to cross that line with Sweet Pea this week.

I found my darling bird straining one morning and was wondering if she had an egg stuck or something. I fear egg binding like a rooster fears the presence of a fox in the hen house. The removal procedure is beyond unappealing (***WARNING*** graphic discussion to follow.), as it entails sticking one's fingers as far up the chicken's backside as it will go, feeling for the egg, and trying to carefully guide the egg out without breaking it since that could cut up the intestines and cause death. You all know how I feel about more death. So I picked up Sweet Pea to get a gander at what was going on.

Well I found half a poo hanging out of her vent along with a bunch of her insides. "Damn it," I thought, "Another freakin' prolapse!"  Yes, this was not my first experience with cloaca prolapse. When Eggo laid her first egg, the shell was soft and rubbery so the poor little babe strained so hard that her insides came out. Think of it as a really bad chicken hemorrhoid, like the kind ladies get when they give birth (consider yourself beyond fortunate if you have no idea what I am talking about). Most of the advice on the intraweb recommended culling, mainly because chickens get all riled up about blood and will peck an injured bird to death. I thought culling sounded a bit harsh and was glad that wasn't the prognosis for me after I gave birth to my daughter. Damn, that was ugly. Then I found some other handy advice that suggested sugar, witch hazel / Preparation H, triple antibiotic ointment, or honey to reduce swelling by slathering some on the vent and popping the innards back in. I like to cover all bases and thus made a concoction including all the above indications, washed down Eggo's back end, put the mixture on the bird's butt, and removed her from the others for a few days. She hasn't had a problem since.

In Sweet Pea's case, I didn't bother with the bath or the cover-all-bases remedy. I just stuck my finger inside to see, or I guess feel (strange how the inside of a chicken feels just like a vagina) would be the appropriate verb, what was going on and it seemed like she had a big crap that was distending her intestines (at least I think chickens have intestines) at a weird angle, kind of like diverticulitis, making it hard for her to get the doodie out. So I did what any caretaker would do and removed it for her. The DF feigned tossing his cookies as I scooped out a finger full of crap and flicked it on the ground. He swore he would never eat my cooking again. After all poop was removed, I pushed the bulge back in, which was a bit bloody from all the man-handling, and prayed that she would be fine. I couldn't properly tend to her that day as I had a shitload of errands to run. I'm happy to announce that her butt is fine and that she started laying eggs again the day after her injury.

OROAR Update

That electric fencing is really doing its job keeping out all the undesirables. In fact, most of the garden is recovering nicely with some peas and favas returning from the dead. The Zimbabwe bucket method was not as promising as I had hoped. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I used a toilet paper roll core smothered in peanut butter instead of a corncob (where the hell would I find a dried corncob at this time of the year I'd like to know) and placed it on a wooden skewer instead of a metal one, which enabled the critters to knock the stick into the bucket, thus ruining the trap. Well the electric fence is working. It's actually working so well that when I tried to put in some transplants, I kept getting a jolt every time I touched the wires. It's only on at night, but I guess the system will continue to discharge during the day. I'll post some garden pics once things get a bit taller.

Goats

According to the breeder, Lucy has been successfully bred! And as I suspected, she got her love on the day after we dropped her off. I admire her efficiency with the whole endeavor. Since she hasn't shown any signs of estrus in the past four weeks, it's probably safe to pick her up. We plan to head up there the weekend of May 1st, which is of great relief to the CW as her teacher has informed me that she has been crying at school because she misses her goats so much. We all miss them. Even the DF has remarked that things just aren't the same without all the "maaaaaah"s echoing throughout the backyard.

Well that pretty much wraps up things for now. Look for future posts on low budget drip irrigation, self-watering containers, and my family's farming background. It's good to be back.

The Results Are In

Wow, that was fast. I wasn't expecting to hear back from the California Animal Health and Food Safety Lab for a couple more weeks. Glad to know that something in our great state is running efficiently. Arnold could take a tip.

This entire chicken ordeal has had me vacillating between various diagnosis, armed only with my online vet education. It's like the blog version of "Stump the Chumps" with the Magliozzi brothers, except I know way less about chicken diseases than they know about cars. Let's see, I started with Coccidiosis, an easily treatable disease so if any chickens had it, it was gone in a week. We could rule that out as my mysterious bird killer. Then I went on to Marek's since the cluckers all seemed to suffer from some kind of paralysis before they bit the dust. This seemed plausible, but since the ladies were supposedly vaccinated and most of the birds died after 17 weeks of age, I began to believe that they had Avian Leukosis, which is symptomatically similar to Marek's but has a 16 week incubation period.

Well somewhere along the line I was right and in typical Tom and Ray fashion, I'm going to blow the brass horns and claim victory. Gertrude died of Marek's, plain and simple. No Cocci, no Avian Influenza, no Leukosis. This was not my fault. Clearly, I was misled. The chicks had not been vaccinated and my hens died of one of the most common and virulent diseases that exists in the poultry world. This is fantastic news! I know you're wondering why I would make such an outrageous claim with 6 dead bodies on my hands. I'll tell you why; I'm not going to have to temporarily depopulate the farm, warn my neighbors, don a hazmat suit with NIOSH/MSHA approved respirator, and decontaminate my property with a turbo anti-pathogenic spray. Marek's is absolutely everywhere and the only proven effective method of controlling the disease is through vaccination. That in itself is a huge load off my mind. And it means I can get new chooks! That is as long as they've been vaccinated as Sweet Pea will remain a carrier for life.

Guess where I'll be this weekend? That's right. Out cruising chicks.

The Last Hen Standing

As I write this, Gertrude's stiff little body is on its way to the California Animal Health and Food Safety Laboratory at UC Davis. After 3 days of hobbling around the coop mostly paralyzed, using her wings, haunches, and beak to ambulate, my beautiful Brabanter finally passed. Ever since Violet and Petunia met their maker, I had planned to send the next chicken that died off to be tested. I found out that UC Davis provides this service for free to folks who own less than 500 birds. Since these tests can be quite pricey if performed by a private lab, I was more than relieved to find out my pocket book wasn't going to continue to take a beating when it came to the chickens. A few plastic bags, a cardboard box, some gel freezer packs and a Jackson to Fedex were all it took to get Gertrude on the way to her necropsy (animal autopsy).

A few folks have expressed concern about the method of shipment, particularly with the unpleasant possibility of leakage. To everyone who has been worried for the poor folks who deliver packages (and I'm sure they thank you for your concern), that's what the plastic bags were for. I, too, was a bit uneasy with shipping a corpse, but apparently people do this kind of thing all the time. According to the lady at CAHFS, "You can send it Fedex and don't worry, you don't have to tell them what you're shipping." Phew! Though just to be sure, I did double bag the bird with extra large plastic bags which wrapped around the chook's thin frame a couple times. In the end, it was more like a quadruple bagging.

The exchange with the man at Fedex was a touch... odd. He wanted me to change boxes. I told him it was impossible; the box was carefully packed. "It's fragile," I said. That's not really a lie. He then picked up the box and asked me if it was frozen. I felt my Operation Send Dead Animal was becoming less and less covert with every dreaded question. As soon as my money hit the table, I shot out the door like a shoplifter who had just finished stuffing loot down her pants.

So now we wait. Meanwhile, I can't bear to put poor Sweet Pea in the run by herself. Until we get the results back, she will be hanging with the goats. They seem to get along, though the goats insist on eating the chicken food and jumping inside the coop. Sweet Pea tolerates their poor manners, if only for the sake of companionship.

Farm of DEATH!

Sounds like an awesomely bad B movie, eh? Well if you want to see it, there's a showing going on in my backyard. Yes, dear readers, we lost two more feathered friends, Violet and Petunia. I've only got a couple ladies left and these days I often find them huddled together looking tense, as if the Grim Reaper were hot on their heels. I hate to tell them, I think he is.

Petunia inconveniently kicked the bucket the morning of my daughter's 6th birthday. Ute's present this year? A good lesson in the hard knocks of life. Before rushing off to school, she held a dying chicken in her arms, hopefully giving that bird a comforting send off towards the great hen house in the sky. Raising peeps was supposed to teach my child about the cycles of life. Instead she is getting a crash course in all things death. I am unnerved by the fact that Ute no longer associates chickens with laying eggs, but with looking cute for a while and then suddenly dropping dead. And why wouldn't she? Christ, this season's tomato plants have lasted longer than the damn hens!

Violet hadn't been acting like herself for several days before her death. Nothing too alarming. She just tended to be off by herself, separating from the rest of the flock. And when I would pet her, she would crouch down rather than pushing back up against my hand, which was her usual m.o. I had read that this was a sign that the hen was about to start laying and since the ladies were approaching that time, I didn't think too much of it. Then last Thursday morning I found her sprawled out underneath the feeder. I shrieked at the sight (I am not ashamed to be a shrieker). To add to the gruesomeness of the scene, I saw that she was still alive, gasping for air and unable to lift her head or move her legs. I cradled her in my arms and stroked her until she left this world.

I knew Petunia wouldn't make it more than a day longer than Violet. She had also been acting a little depressed and was no longer living up to her nickname, "the Asshole". In the evening when I was putting the ladies to bed, I was heartened when she executed an amazing 180 on the roosting bar so that she could snack from the feeder without losing her spot. I stretched my hand out to pet my girls before I closed up the coop and Petunia whipped out her wings, sheltering Sweet Pea and Gertrude on either side of her like a good mother hen. And to let me know who was boss, she gave me a peck on the hand. I was thrilled to see her back to her old tricks. But the next morning, I found her prostrate on the floor of the coop, having fallen off the roosting bar, in the same position as Violet with the same symptoms. However, death was not so swift for her. She held on for a solid half hour and when I tried to lay her down so that I could get Ute ready for school, she freaked, squawking as hard as she could muster and moving any body part that wasn't paralyzed. I couldn't let her die in such a state. So I swaddled her in a tea towel, carrying her upstairs like a baby. And that is how my daughter came to hold a dying chicken on her birthday. We used it as a teaching moment, discussing how it was a precious thing to be able to give someone we care for a loving departure. [What? It's not my fault the bird decided to make her exit on this day. I'll put an extra $75 in the therapy jar. It'll pay for at least a half of a session. Happy now?]

Discouraged. Dismayed. Demoralized. Disheartened. Dispirited. Distressed. Why do all of my feelings start with the letter "D". I digress. I imagine that many of you out there might be thinking, "Wow, chickens must be extremely fragile creatures!", or maybe "Heidi doesn't know enough about poultry to pull this off.", or even "See I told you raising chickens in the city is a bad idea." I don't blame you. It's not like I haven't thought these things myself. But I don't think any of them are necessarily true. Chickens are super easy to care for: food, water, predator proof housing, roosting bar, laying box... done! The tricky parts? Predators and disease. There are over 200 poultry diseases and a few of them are some mean ass, fucked up sicknesses (pardon my french). And if you buy your birds from a sketchy breeder, you're certain to have a few nasty illnesses smuggling themselves inside those cute puffs of fluff.

I'm pretty sure my birds died of Marek's, which I have astutely assessed with that online Vet degree I've been working towards. In vaccinated birds, deaths due to Marek's shouldn't surpass 5% and in unvaccinated flocks you might be looking at 60%. According to the breeder whom I purchased the chicks from, all of the birds were vaccinated. I don't know if I'm buying that. I'm probably going to be looking at 80-100% mortality. Gertrude is not growing, though she eats like a pig. And both birds are dropping feathers. That's been the first sign with this bug. I can't know for sure unless I get a necropsy, which would require driving to Davis, paying a fee for the services, and possibly culling one of the two remaining birds. That doesn't sound appealing to me. My killing days are done for now.

Maybe the birds were vaccinated and I'm just horribly unlucky. As my dad says, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that the world isn't out to get you." He also warned me that I would need to learn a lot about poultry diseases BEFORE I got the chickens. He's probably sitting behind his computer right now doing an "I told you so!" dance. [You stop that right now dad! I know you're doing it. Not funny!]

I had several email exchanges with the breeder. She told me that she had autopsies on her birds last year and they found Marek's and Cocci in her flock. She copped to both of those diseases when I picked up the second batch of birds, so I'm not going to hold that against her. I'll give her credit for trying to be helpful. But when she told me that she would be relocating her operation and alluded to the fact that it had to do with disease issues, I absolved myself of any potential wrongdoing in the raising of my ladies. She offered to replace my birds, which felt more like she was trying to unload the dead weight (pun intended) to avoid bringing it to a new location. I politely declined, but thought to myself "You couldn't pay me to take your chickens lady, no matter how pretty and tempting they are."

So what am I going to do now? Well I guess I'm going to let the girls live out their natural lives and simply wait for them to meet their maker. One of my fears is that only one will survive and then I will HAVE to introduce at least one new chicken (remember chickens are not loners) to the property. The 2 remaining birds are probably carriers of whatever they have so that means as long as they are around, there is still potential for more losses as they will infect any birds they are housed with. I suppose I will have to cross that bridge when I come to it. I don't think I can deal with one more dead animal. Mostly because I have run out of places to bury them.

Heidi's Hard Learned Top 5 Tips on Purchasing Chickens:

1. Purchase birds from a reputable breeder. Ask around. Don't go with any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Who knows what kind of nasties they have infesting their operation.

2. Buy vaccinated birds. It's not a 100% guarantee, but it could save you some heartache.

3. The bird should look healthy: bright eyes, plucky spirit, no drippy nose or eyes, have meat on its breast (the keel or breastbone should not stick out so much that it feels like a spatula), no pasted up vents, no signs of mites. Have a chicken owner friend come with you. They'll know what healthy looks like.

4. Know how to keep your birds healthy by having some general knowledge of common poultry issues: mites, illnesses, treating injuries, appropriate feed and supplements.

5. See #1.

R.I.P. Petunia and Violet. You were good, and very good looking, chickens.

Greetings, IBFITC readers!
I've been hard at work on the farm with my sweetheart and fully gruntled farmhand, Jeremiah, so I haven't had much chance to sit down and pound out a proper update to the ol' blog until today, our last day!
We were thrilled when Heidi, Esteban the Disgruntled Farmhand (typing 'gruntled' makes me giggle), and Ute welcomed us to their home. We were both looking forward to spending some time out of the 'burbs, frolicking with goats and watching chickens act chicken-like. Since both of us have become interested in the urban homesteading movement (it's big enough to be called a 'movement', right?), we were particularly excited to learn more about what goes into creating a more self-sufficient household. And ooo-wee! We got us an edumacation!

Contrary to common belief, I was not a farm kid. I grew up in Bodega Bay, which I call a town but the tourist brochures call a quaint village, and my dad was a fisherman. Aside from our kleptomaniacal dog Skipper, thousands of nameless feral cats, and one Muscovy duck named Buddy bought on a whim at the feed store (when I lost interest and realized the duck couldn't live on love alone, my brother rechristened him Guido, took him to his house, and later ate him), we didn't keep animals. I liked to look at them, and like many little girls, I wanted a black pony with a star on his forehead more than anything in the world, but for the most part I viewed farm animals as big, smelly alien creatures who magically provided us with beef and chicken. My sole contact with livestock came when I was a teenager living with my sister, Deb, who for some reason decided she needed to have two goats penned up in the backyard. Their names were Orion and Snowy, and I hated them. Yeah, I said it. I hated them. I don't know if they were mean or just acting, like, goat-y, but no matter what I did, those damned goats would rear up on their hind legs and jump on me, like they were trying to dance with me or something, and then they'd drop to the ground, rev themselves up, and butt me. They wouldn't even let me pet them without butting me. Though I'd expressed no interest in the goats, outside of the desire anyone would have to keep them safe from Chupacabra or goat rustlers, Deb felt that it was my job to take care of them. I'd go outside, grimly clutching the feed bucket, as the goats fixed their walleyed stare upon me. I'd open the gate and BOOM! the assault would begin. I think my sister had purely sadistic motives, because she found this uproariously funny.

I'd related this story to Heidi and her DF, and Heidi was a tidge worried that I may have been too traumatized by my sucky goat experience to take proper care of her farm. But no. I told her that I've grown up and I think animals are fun now, not to mention the fact that her goats are cute, a little skittish, and much sweeter than the snarling beasts my sister kept. Jeremiah was just excited to play chicken farmer for two weeks, and he had no fear of goats to speak of.

We arrived at the Itty-Bitty eager to get our hands dirty. We read through Heidi's instructions, and set about divvying up the chores, though we liked doing the work (and we're still in that gross snuggly stage of our relationship) so much we ended up abandoning the list to do everything together. The work was pretty straightforward--clean food and water for all the animals everyday, rake the pen a couple times. J and I immediately loved the scent of the goat's feed--molasses, corn, oats--and even grew to enjoy the loamy smell of the pen in the morning, earth and dewy straw and sweet alfalfa. The goats weren't down with us petting them, but we were consoled by the fact that they regarded us with curiosity, not malice.
Chickens are amusing creatures, and we enjoyed watching them cluck and peck. That's their jam, you know. I'm sorry to say that Lorraine has departed this mortal coil. She began acting strangely midday Wednesday, and took her last breaths by evening. Jeremiah brought her inside and made her a bed of shavings, and tried to feed her bits of fruit; we knew she might not make it when she took no notice of an earwig crawling over her beak. No matter how large or small the creature, it's always bad news when it refuses to eat. She died a peaceful, natural death. I have to admit that I was terrified I might have to euthanize her, especially after reading Heidi's harrowing post on that subject. RIP, Lorraine.

I guess I don't have anything earthshaking to share on the topic of animal care. It was fun and cute. But I have to say that my experience here has raised a lot of questions about the food I eat and the lifestyle I lead.

With Heidi's permission, I pillaged her cabinets and found homemade preserves, home-canned beets and asparagus, and homemade applesauce. The freezer is full of the meat of ethically raised animals who didn't die in abject misery, stuffed full of corn and drugs before being cruelly slaughtered. Apples from the neighbor's tree are waiting to be turned into cobbler in the refrigerator. Heidi's tomatoes--both home-grown and out of the CSA box--are rich and flavorful. All the great things about ye olden dayes, with the added benefits of penicillin and hair dryers. Cooking next to Jeremiah, I found myself stating the obvious: "Honey! Taste this apple! It's real and tart and hasn't been engineered to do unnatural things! We're eating a REAL apple! Wow!" Poor guy. He's very patient. I've become very aware of the fact that even though I eat quite well--whole foods, mostly vegan (I really love honey), little to no artificial yuckiness--I'm still eating products. My Safeway tomato isn't bland because it's a dud, it's bland because it's been sitting in a greenhouse, artifically ripening. It's the result of a process designed to sell more tomatoes, not provide nourishment. I've already collected a bunch of containers so I can start my own tomato and herb garden, to begin the process of reducing the amount of products I consume.
Most people were incredulous when I told them I'd be farmsitting in the city, especially when I mentioned the goats. People have no qualms about keeping Rottweilers and Mastiffs in a city home, but goats! Well, that's just crazy talk. But the fact is, there's no reason one can't keep a couple of foodbeasts in the city (yes, okay--there may be zoning laws and boring stuff like that. But I'm talking about something DEEPER). There's no reason one can't raise a 3' x 3' patch of corn or make homemade yogurt. We don't have to live the way we were taught, and we don't have to pigeonhole ourselves into city or country boxes.

My homestead may never be self-sufficient, because I am all too happy to pay someone else to make my bread or collect my honey. But I liked the way it felt to peer into the pantry and find a stockpile of handmade food. So, it's baby steps for me--Heidi gave me a home canning kit as a thank-you, and I plan to can the hell outta anything I can find. I'm excited to rehabilitate my plant-killing black thumb, and I have a good lead on a free vermiculture bin so I can rightly call myself a worm farmer.
It's going to be fun.

Nebraska, the Good Life

This past week, Ute and I were visiting my parents. As many of you are well aware (let's face it, 99% of you, my precious few readers, are friends or family), I hail from a smallish town in Nebraska, population approximately 25,000. I didn't grow up on a farm or anything. Rather I would be considered "city folk" by the majority of Nebraskans since there is a Kmart AND a Walmart in my hometown. But I did grow up on the edge of town across the street from an alfalfa field, began working in the corn fields detasseling seed corn at the tender age of 12, was a member of 4-H, and raised rabbits. The latter was actually illegal. I often marvel at the fact that I would never be able to raise my current critters within the city limits of my hometown. Even though our house was situated on a rural route for mail delivery, we were technically within city limits and therefore could not keep small livestock animals within a 50 yard distance of any dwelling. And for those of you out there who are spatially challenged, 50 yards is like a long distance, even in land o' plenty small towns.

Whenever I return to my roots, I expect to eat the typical Midwestern diet and engage in the standard activities, respectively eating fast food, fast food, and more fast food, and sitting in an overly air conditioned home watching television. Well, when in Rome. However, this last visit held so many unexpected culinary and pastime delights. Here are some of the highlights:

swimming at the super awesome water park with Grammy Betty,


admiring the neighbor's flower garden on evening strolls around the block,



eating local cuisine (I was so shocked to see that this trend has reached the Midwest.) at places like The Back Alley Bakery,


which carried a wide array of locally grown, organic grains


and fancy cheeses,


and, hands down, the best kolaches I have ever eaten,


feeding ducks and ducklings at the park,


watching crazy thunderstorms with dark ominous clouds on one half of the sky and a bright shining sun on the other,


gallivanting around the county fair


where I took Ute and her cousin, Zane, on throw-up rides,


watched the 4-H pygmy goat show,


with some pretty uncooperative goats,


and saw this cute little boy win Grand Champion for his cockerel at the poultry show,


visiting my friend Dan's cabin on the North Platte River where he took us pontooning,



and frog catching,


and wading in the lovely river,


and best of all, spending quality time with the Kooy family.


What a wonderful trip! But I'm glad to be back on the farm. I know my DDF is relieved. Taking care of all the plants and animals, working at his regular construction job, and simultaneously helping build the retaining wall in the backyard has really taken its toll. And there's so much for me to do here at home. All the animals' quarters need cleaning, the chickens need feed, Miss Lorraine needs to start her 3 day injection of antibiotics for her eye infection that is not clearing up, there is a tree full of apples that needs to be picked, and a couple tons of apples that need to be processed or stored. Come to think of it, I better get off this computer and get to work.

I'm Not a Virgin Anymore

And I don't mean sex, you perverts! I popped my killing cherry today and let's just say that there was a lot more crying with this one. More like hysterics, but that's beside the point.

Last night I came to the conclusion that Pearl was not just suffering from an upper respiratory infection, as she had become completely paralysed in the legs over the last few days. I searched and searched the web for illnesses that included both cold symptoms and paralysis and came up with nothing. I had thought she might have Coryza because her breath and boogers smelled like a strong cheese, but when I brought Pearl into the barn, I mean garage, she didn't stink up the whole place with the putrid scent of rotting meat. Apparently, that's how you know for sure your bird's got Coryza. I used some VetRx to help with the upper respiratory crud, which helped her to breathe through her nostrils, but she was quickly losing her ability to stand on her legs. When I pressed against her feet, she had no reflex response. Pearl was not great at roosting, having never been able to quite grasp that bar with her claws. But I chalked that up to her being a bit runty. And though she was a feather legged Cuckoo Maran, she was scant in leg feathers. These 2 things were a sign of something much more hideous and insidious than Coryza. This was the dreaded Marek's. Prior to the introduction of a vaccine in the 1970s, Marek's, which is a herpes virus and a cancer, caused huge economic losses for the poultry industry because of its high mortality rate and the fact that once infected, a bird is a carrier for life. In the 80s and 90s, super virulent strains of this disease began to sweep across the U.S. and Europe, and is so widespread today that the title of an article I recently read sums it up entirely, "If Your Chickens Breath, They've Been Exposed to Marek's". I believe Pearl probably came from a hatchery in Iowa that purposely doesn't vaccinate in order to breed for resistance. In theory, I agree with this method, though it did put me in a bit of a pickle.

Some birds recover from Marek's. I was hoping that Pearl would be one of them. But last night when I checked on her before I went to bed, I knew this wouldn't be the case. She was laying on her side, gaping her mouth wide whenever she drew a breath. This was a problem. You see, my DDF was not in town. Having hunted with his father when he was a kid, he's like a professional compared to me when it comes to killing stuff. But he had taken our daughter to Fresno; she is staying the week with her grandparents. I prayed that Pearl would pass in the night. It's a funny thing for an atheist to do, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I knew I couldn't keep her alive like this, but I was also too chicken to do the deed (pun totally intended). But I told myself that if she was still with us in the morning, I would have to put her out of her misery.

Well if there is a god, he clearly doesn't hear the prayers of atheists. For a split second, when I first checked the box after my morning chores, I thought Pearl had gone. She lay on her side stiff as a board. But when I looked at her face, she was still breathing. I began to cry. I couldn't get out of it now. I promised myself I wouldn't let her suffer one more day like this. I picked her up and held her. Told her in a sobbing voice how much I loved her and that she was a good chicken. My sobs turned to hysterics when I began my litany of apologies for what I was about to do. I asked for her forgiveness and that I hoped I could do this as painlessly as possible.

I wasn't exactly sure how to kill a chicken without any blood shed, but remembered the self-explanatory sign language description that my father-in-law performed for me at last week's 4th of July family gathering. This entailed a quick whipping of the chicken over one's head like a cowboy throwing a frantic lasso from which I read, twist neck fast and hard. I held one hand on Pearl's head and the other at the base of her neck, readying myself to do the wringing, but by this time my crying had reached a feverish pitch interjected by pathetic pleas of "I don't want to do this. Please don't make me do this." But I knew I had to. I couldn't let Pearl go on like this until the DDF returned later in the evening. I jostled her to see if she would suddenly open her eyes and stand on her own feet again, as if my shaking had some potent magical powers. Sadly, I have no such powers. I tried again, hands in position, but failed to complete the act when I had suddenly awoken to the fact that I was going to kill my daughter's pet with my bare hands. I once again drifted back to pathetic pleading. I didn't allow myself to go on for too long. I drew a deep breath, counted to 3 and twisted. I heard the disturbing crackle of breaking bones and began to relax thinking that my job was done. Like I'm that lucky. Pearl was still breathing. How could that be possible? So I quickly twisted again in a panicked effort to put an end to this. Her neck wobbled and she oozed a thick liquid from her mouth, but she was STILL FUCKING BREATHING! At this point I found myself screeching "Die Pearl. Please die!" Obviously I hold no juju in the life and death arena. I couldn't think of what to do next. I couldn't bear the fact that I was drawing out her pain. Should I get a shovel and smack her over the head? Way too violent. I settled on covering her nostrils with my fingers whilst holding her beak closed. She continued to make efforts to breathe, flapped her wings, then released a foul smelling fluid from her vent and went limp. It took at least a minute. I don't have to tell you that this was the longest minute of my life. But I had to do it, right?

I cried like I've never cried before, howling near the door of the garage. It was the only place I could think to do the killing where the other animals wouldn't see what I was doing. The goats are already distrustful. No need to add any fuel to that fire. I walked out the back door to look for a box in the yard. I was trembling from head to toe. The goats stopped their goaty games and eyed me suspiciously. I went back to clean up the residuals of Pearl's death throws, placed her in the box, and brought her to the far corner of the backyard where we will bury her under the cement retaining wall that is being built this week. I wretched for a solid five minutes. Good thing I hadn't eaten breakfast.

I'm sure you all are wondering why I gave such a gruesomely detailed description of "the deed" without even a warning. Frankly, I think all of you pussies divorced from the reality of growing food should have to take a good hard look at how that food gets to your table. There's a lot of killing that goes on out there, even when it comes to eggs, which I'm sure a lot of you have assumed involves no killing at all. Wrong. Go read Michael Pollan's The Omnivores Dilemma. It's a real eye opener in regards to the egg industry. And all you vegans out there sitting on your high horses thinking you have no blood on your hands, think again. Growing vegetables, even on a small scale, involves a great deal of death. And I'm not talking about bugs. Gophers, moles, voles, rats, mice, birds: they all want those vegetables. They'll do what they have to do to get those juicy treats. And the farmer will do what she has to in order to prevent excessive crop loss. Chew on that the next time you're crunching on a carrot with your pompous "I don't eat meat" swagger.

R.I.P. Pearl. I'm truly sorry.

P.S. I'm sorry I called you pussies. I don't mean to take it out on you, but it's been a rough day. I need a hug.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

I really wanted to write an upbeat post about all the delicious foods I've been whipping up in my fabulous retro kitchen. However, the vicissitudes of life on the farm preclude me from doing so. There is much to report since my last post. I will try to be brief.

The Good

I made a lot of great stuff from scratch, like these loaves of bread:


And these precious 3 jars of loquat jam. About a third of the loquats came from our tree and the rest from a friend's backyard.


Ute and her friend Zoe and I went to pick Ollalieberries in Pescadero, but the crop this year was completely abysmal. After 2 hours of picking in the hot sun, without a lot of help from the short set, I gleaned approximately 2 pounds of berries. No Ollalieberry jam this year. So we went next door for some strawberries. Again the girls didn't quite take to task, as illustrated in their mostly empty berry baskets.


But I got some more red juiciness for the freezer and a few pints of jam out of the deal.

Other foods included pita bread, hummus - cooked those chickpeas and everything -, and yogurt, which turned out a bit grainy. Tasted fine, but I guess to get that real creamy texture that you find in the store you have to add pectin, gelatin, guar gum, or other additives. I used an electric mixer to smooth it out. It kinda worked.

In other news, we are making a lot of progress in the backyard with the help of our friend Daymon. He's building the fence, digging trenches, pouring concrete, and moving crap around so that we can move the animals to their more permanent location in the yard.


The little chooks have finally graduated to the big house. I wasn't quite ready to do that since Pearl is still sick, but it was either move them out of the garage or end up in divorce court. I chose my marriage over the chickens, which I hope is happy news to my DDF (Dear Disgruntled Farmhand). And after just under a week of separation from the flock, foot soaks, and antibiotics, Sweet Pea's toe is doing great.

The goats are fabulous. They are not tame yet, but are eating out of our hands. We are moving in the right direction.


The Bad

Poor Sweet Pea. Her toe was getting so much better and then I had to go and almost kill her again. I must have some weird karmic relationship with that bird because I keep inadvertently trying to do her in. I was cleaning out the chicken house, keeping the birds on the other side of a low, makeshift partition - think scrap plywood board - and things were going swell. I had to move in and out of the coop to bring the hose and the bucket of soap, etc., but I checked the door every time to make sure I wasn't squishing any meandering peeps. On my way back from one trip, I noticed that Lorraine was trying to fly over the partition and sneak out under the coop (usually this area is blocked off by aforementioned plywood board). So I pushed the run back, hoping to keep her in for a few seconds longer so I could get the board back in place. I went to put the board back, opened the door and noticed that Sweet Pea seemed stuck between a cinder block and the bottom board of the door frame. Then I realized that she wasn't stuck between, she was jammed underneath the run, the entire weight of it crushing down on her little body. I freaked. I screamed. Loud. Probably scared the neighbors. I swept Sweet Pea up and brought her into the garage so that Ute could tend to her. Ute starting crying that Sweet Pea was going to die. I assured her that she just needed to rest after her ordeal. She was still breathing. A little limp, but breathing. Meanwhile the hose that I was using to wash down the coop was leaking, spraying water everywhere. The chicks by now had all escaped, running underneath the coop and out into the neighbor's yard. It was utter chaos. But don't worry, this tale ends well. I collected the chicks, turned off the water, secured the coop, and brought Sweet Pea upstairs to watch Barney with Ute. The TV worked like a charm and Sweet Pea is again right as rain. Ute... well I will put some money in the therapy jar for this one.

The Ugly

This is the most difficult news to report. Pearl is not doing well. This morning she seemed more lethargic than usual and extremely stuffy and sneezy. Miss Lorraine recovered from this cold/conjunctivitis thing rather quickly. Pearl just seems to get worse every day. This afternoon I went to take some photos and I found her looking miserable. I picked her up and she drooped in my hands like a rag doll. I laid her down while I went to find a box to separate her from the others and she went limp on her side. I thought she would die then and there, but she continued to breath. She is now closed off inside the kitchen where I've been keeping her hydrated and dosing her with Sweet Pea's antibiotics. Normally I wouldn't give a chicken antibiotics, but since they are not laying yet and I don't have a very large flock, I want to prevent as much death as possible. Although I didn't suspect Coryza at first, I'm now thinking that this may be what is going around the flock as Pearl is displaying the telltale sign of foul smelling breath along with the other upper respiratory symptoms. Three of the young chicks seem to be immune to whatever this is. I keep hearing her sneezes and croaky chirps from the kitchen so I'm assuming Pearl is still giving it a fight. Please think healthy thoughts for this poor chook. Ute will be devastated if she loses her chicken.

Another Episode of Veterinarian's Hospital

I swear there is more drama around here than on a daytime soap opera. The plan for this beautiful day was to head towards the farmer's market to pick up some apricots and blueberries for preserving, bake some bread, and make some yogurt and sauerkraut. I was going to give you all recipes, but that brilliant plan was thwarted by an emergency trip to the All Animal Hospital. It was my fault. I was a careless, reckless oaf. Watashi manuko. That's the only thing I know how to say in Japanese. It means, according to Father Guido Sarducci in the movie Spirit of 76, "I am an asshole."

So I was getting the big chickens some fresh water while the peeps were pecking around their little lot outside. I went to close the door while 2 of the chicks were on the threshold. I figured they would just hop off, but Sweet Pea, kind of being slow and all, didn't get all the way off and her toe got squished in the door. Well more like torn off to the point that the bone was exposed. She made a squawk and hurried for shelter inside the cinder block that was laying in the pen. As an after thought, I decided I should check her to make sure she was okay. That's when I saw the carnage. She was bleeding everywhere. I popped her into a bucket and ran her inside to the operating table.

Ute was busy with her Bollywood Dance Workout when I shouted to her to come help me. I briefed her on the gravity of the situation and insisted that she hold the bird upside down while I cleaned the wound. Ute kept murmuring that her stomach hurt. I think the sight of the mangled claw was a bit too much for her. I pressed her on, firmly - o.k. angrily - coaxing her to be strong for Sweet Pea. Hey, I was panicked. Don't judge. After cleaning her dangling digit with peroxide and Neosporin, I made a pathetic attempt to bandage her up. She flicked that gauze off in a matter of seconds. I started crying, which led to Ute weeping. It was a mess. So I called my mother. She lived with chickens when she was young. She told me not to worry. I was still worried. So I told the Disgruntled Farmhand. He asked "Can you see the bone?" Yep. "Then you better take her to the vet." Great. This wasn't going to be cheap. And since time was of the essence, I didn't feel that I could spend the couple hours to further my online veterinary degree today.

After making several phone calls to find someone who would actually see a bird, not to mention a chicken, we made our way to the All Animal Emergency Hospital. We arrived just after noon with 4 emergencies ahead of us. Not good. Neither Ute nor I had eaten lunch. Come to think of it, I hadn't eaten all day. Ute was also beginning to exhibit the telltale signs of having stayed up the night before until 11 p.m, which included whining, tapping on the windows, sliding off the office benches, and exaggerated wiggliness to the point of rolling around on the floor. My patience had worn so thin that the only thing I could do to hold it together was to bury my nose in a celebrity rag mag. It was 3 by the time we saw the vet. All she did was clip off the hanging bits and give it a rinse. Probably could have done that at home. Then came the meds, which included a foot soak solution, pain meds, and an antibiotic. When I got the bill, I nearly passed out. I'm not going to tell you the total, but let's just say that the bird is literally worth her weight in gold now. It will take her a solid 2 years of eggs to recoup the cash.

Sweat Pea will have to be separated from the other birds for up to 2 weeks. I can't use the pine shaving bedding that I've been putting in the brooder because it might get stuck in the wound. Since there is still a chance that the bone could get infected, I'm keeping her on tea towels, which I will change out twice a day. Yay, just what I wanted, more laundry. When we got home, I plopped Sweat Pea and Ute down in front of the TV because I had heard chickens like to watch television. Sweet Pea did seem to enjoy the Power Puff Girls.

This whole event reminded me of the time when I was caught smoking at age 8 - yes, I was very advanced - and my parents told me that I would have to decide my own punishment. Though it was the middle of summer, I made myself a hot cup of tea in order to think this through properly, knowing that I would have to come up with something way worse than a spanking or being grounded. As I walked away from the stove with my freshly poured cup of steaming tea, I ran into the dishwasher with its door open. Instead of doing the right thing by walking around or setting the cup of tea down and closing the washer, I took my standard shortcut of lifting the door with my foot to let the bottom rack roll back into the machine and flipping the door closed. This trick had worked before... every time ... except that day. On that day, I flew over the dishwasher, teacup sailing along with me, and landed on shattered pieces of ceramic. One shard went so deep into the tip of my middle finger that my parents rushed me to the emergency room while I cradled the blood soaked towel that engulfed my injured hand. If I had been more careful and less distracted by having to think up really bad punishments for myself, maybe I could have avoided that entire traumatic episode. I should have walked around that dishwasher. And I should have scooted those chicks off the door frame. Why didn't I? Maybe it was because I was stressed about where we are going to put the goats that are being picked up tomorrow. Maybe it was that I was freaking out and distracted by the fact that I haven't secured a farm sitter for our August vacation. Maybe it's that I couldn't figure out how to adequately express my dog's anal glands this morning. Maybe it's because I'm an asshole. Well I certainly feel like an asshole. I injured the most harmless, sweetest bird of the bunch. And to be honest, if it was Petunia's foot that got crunched, I wouldn't be sitting here with a ridiculous vet bill. She is definitely an asshole.

To top things off, Miss Lorraine and Pearl have some sort of respiratory issue. I think it must be the same thing that Gertrude had. Pearl is sneezy and has boogers clogging one nostril, but Miss Lorraine is really suffering with a swollen pink eye, wattle, and ear/gland thing on the side of her head. They are both eating and drinking, but seem sleepy and out of sorts. Will this ever end? Am I destined to have chronically ill chickens? Do I have Munchausen by Proxy? And so ends another episode of Veterinarian's Hospital. Stay tuned next week when the Disgruntled Farmhand and Sweet Pea swap war stories.

Free Ranging Chicks

I am thrilled to report that Gertrude's eyes are completely back to normal. Well almost. She still has this look to her like she tied one on the night before, but it's a definite improvement to her condition last week. What the problem was? I have no idea, probably some kind of cold. At one point, her eyes were so swollen that I decided to separate her from the other chicks. If you ever want to traumatize a chicken, which I neither advocate nor recommend, just take her away from her fellow feathered friends. Several times we were awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of desperate, frantic peeping, leaving us wracked with guilt. While Gertrude was on the mend, I attempted to clean out her small quarters. She grasped her window of opportunity, flying out of her box and over into the bigger brooder. Obviously, she was in complete despair for companionship. I let her stay. It just seemed too cruel to keep her away from her flock.

Since the weather had warmed up nicely in SF and the chicks were all relatively healthy, I brought them to the outside run where I blocked off a little area so that they would be safe from getting picked on by the big kids. Petunia was so beside herself with glee that she took a solid 20 minute dust bath. If you've never witnessed this act of everyday chicken life, it looks something like an epileptic fit in that "Oh my God, there's something wrong with my chicken" kind of way. Petunia also chased her peep buddies around the tiny bit of yard, administering harsh pecks if she saw that another bird found a treat. She's some what of - and I hate to say this but - an asshole. I dumped her over to the other side of my makeshift barricade to give her a taste of her own medicine. She made a swift determination that being a little fish in a pond with big fish was not for her. Wanting to return to being top dog, she figured out how to fly back over the wall in order to better reign over her minions. Well I guess she's a fairly bright little asshole. All I have to say is that she better lay some pretty green eggs otherwise she's headed straight for the stew pot. Sounds harsh, but that's life on the farm.

D.I.Y. Vet

"Paging Dr. Heidi. Paging Dr. Heidi. You have another patient." I'm getting a crash course in the compendium of chicken illnesses. I'm practically an expert now. Can you get an online Veterinary degree? Maybe I should try.

That's right, another chick has fallen ill. Poor Gertrude. I think she may have some sort of eye infection. She's got these 2 red puffy lumps on each side of her head above her eyes.

One eye is a bit watery and she wants to close it. I'm cautioning you now, if you are eating breakfast, DO NOT Google "chicken eye infection." Let me have made this unfortunate mistake for you. Gruesome doesn't even begin to describe the results you will come up with. As far as I can tell, Gertrude's situation is not too bad. She is active, eating, drinking, peeping, scratching, crapping - all the normal chick stuff. No signs of influenza. Her eyes aren't swollen shut or weeping gross gunk or crusted over. Just a little puffy, like someone on the morning after a few too many martinis. I consulted my new bible, BackyardChickens, and got some info for saline eye flushes and smearing Neosporin in the eye. It's cheaper than the recommended meds that you can only get from a vet. And I'm cheap, even going so far as to make my own sterile saline solution. I know that sounds totally high tech, but if you knew the truth, your snorts and guffaws could be heard all the way through my computer.

After a quick trip to Walgreens for an adequate eye dropper and some triple antibiotic, I set up for the procedure. I sterilized the field, a.k.a. the dining table (please don't tell the Disgruntled Farmhand), covering it with towels. Gauze, saline, eye dropper, and meds at the ready, I wrapped the bird in a tea towel - she didn't like it, in case you were wondering - flushed those glassy suckers and stuck the ointment IN the eye. Yes, you can put Neosporin directly in the eye, even though the directions tell you not to. It's amazing what you can find out on the internet.

All we can do now is keep our fingers crossed and hope that the maxim "misfortunes come in threes" holds true. In the meantime, check out our incredibly adorable chicken handler:

Lazy Ladybugs and Mentally Challanged Chicks

We are sporting a serious tomato jungle on the front steps.

It's the only spot on our property where one is not blasted by tempestuous winds. And as I discovered a couple weeks ago, the gales that sweep across the backyard are no place for 'maters. I experimented with some homemade upside down tomato pots along the back fence, which ended in complete disaster. The winds literally whipped the poor plants, roots and all, out of the soil. So we moved tom central to the front entryway where we have about a dozen plants of various Russian varieties growing in containers.

But silly me, I made the novice gardener mistake of watering in the afternoon when the plants looked a bit droopy. Bad, bad Heidi. This little fumble landed me with a gazillion aphids, not to mention white flies and a couple other tiny winged critters. Of course there was not a predator in sight. My first move was to panic. It's what I do best in a crisis. Then I realized this would be the perfect opportunity to buy a tub of ladybugs to provide some summertime entertainment for the five year old. I heard rumor that they have a tendency to fly off if you don't release them at night, so we waited until it was good and dark and then dumped them on the plants. In the morning when we went to check on the progress of Operation Destroy Pests, we found the ladies clumped on top of the tomato stakes

and on the welcome mat,

aphids still a plenty and running amok. What's up with that? First lazy trees and now languorous bugs? Am I the only one working around here?

I'm sure many of you out there are chomping at the bit to get an update on those cute chicks. In general, they are well, though we did narrowly avert catastrophe a couple nights ago. Violet, my Swiss chicken, was looking droopy, doing a weird gaping thing with her beak, and making a slight honking noise. I went to the Backyardchickens.com message board to see what my sweet baby might have and came up with gape worm. This little wriggler lodges itself in the throat and basically suffocates the chicken. Not pretty. I read that sometimes you can see the worm in the back of the throat. So I grabbed my disgruntled farmhand and had him hold the flashlight while I made an awkward attempt at prying the chick's beak open. Easy? Yeah, right. Once those peeps decide they don't want to open up you couldn't jimmy that sucker with a pair of pliers. I held steady, waiting for a squawk, and then jammed my finger in the mouth of the peep. No worm. Phew!

Then I remembered something an old friend, whom also raises citified chooks, told me. One of her chicks had some similar symptoms to Violet, which required her to stay up two nights in a row squirting olive oil down the chick's throat and massaging its crop. When I felt Violet's crop, the lump at the base of the chicken's neck that grinds the food, she had a couple hard things that shouldn't have been there since she has only been eating mashed up feed. So I brought her upstairs, sat her on a heating pad, and went to work. But there was no way Violet was going to let me get any olive oil in her. She clamped her bill shut tighter than a miser keeps a hold of his money. I made several efforts which ended in the bird making desperate peeps for release or flying about the room leaving droppings here and there. I gave up and decided to stick with a plain ol' massage. She acquiesced and began stretching out her neck, looking something like a mohawked giraffe. Boy is her neck long - at least twice the length of the other peeps. After a half hour or so, she began crying for the company of her flock mates. I brought her back to the brooder, keeping my fingers crossed that I wouldn't find her stiff as a board in the morning. The next day she was practically her old self, prancing around, giving herself a little dust bath, and pecking at her friends. Then I witnessed the culprit to this whole fiasco. As Violet pecked at some of the pine shaving bedding on Sweet Pea's back, I admonished her not to eat it. She appeared to have dropped it out of her beak. And then what did she do? She went back for it and swallowed, thus reiterating the stereotypes about chicken intellect.

Cluckin' Chicken Crap

***WARNING*** There will be a great deal of talk about excrement in this post. If you are in the midst of eating, have a weak stomach, or find the topic too distasteful to bear, please read no further. You will be sorry if you do.

Lately, my nerves have been more frayed than the cat's scratching post. With the mystery of Broccoli's death remaining unsolved, I've taken to obsessive compulsive levels of observation of the chooks' behaviors, general appearance, eating and drinking habits, and excretion of bodily fluids. Miss Lorraine and Pearl seemed fine in all categories but one. And of course that one category would have to have been their feces. Yes, I have spent an inordinate amount of time dissecting and analyzing chicken shit over the last week. I know, you are soooooo jealous.

The day after Broccoli's passing, which was particularly cold and grey, I reluctantly trudged over to the chicken coop, heart in mouth, fearing that I would find another lady keeled over of god knows what. Fortunately, they were both bright eyed and chirpy, though looking a bit forlorn with the loss of their friend and everything. As I cleaned their bedding, I noticed that some of the poop just didn't look right. It was kind of pinkish and brain-like looking, and when I smushed it open I saw tiny specks of blood in it. I immediately rushed to consult my dear go-to-in-a-crisis friend, Google, and entered "blood chicken poop" in the search engine. The results were not encouraging. Apparently, this is a sign of one of the most common illnesses in chicks, Coccidiosis (Go ahead and try to say it. It's fun, if not humbling), and if it is not treated right away, deaths in the flock will follow. Evidently, we'd already made it to that point.

Coccidiosis, or Cocci if you can't quite spit out the full version, is a single celled parasite that naturally occurs in the intestines of all chickens. The problem for chicks is that their systems can easily get overwhelmed by these little buggers as poultry have the disgusting habit of pecking at their own, as well as fellow flock mate's, poo and consequently, ingesting more of the parasite, which eventually burrows into the intestinal lining, wreaking all kinds of havoc. By 12 weeks, most birds become immune, thus many a farmer give medicated feed to the babies until they reach this stage. I had the bright idea that I would go organic, thinking that would be in the best interest of everyone involved. I am now fairly certain that the green behind my ears can be plainly viewed from outer space. I bought these hens from someone who kept hundreds of chicks in her small barn; they were bound to have been exposed to a large amount of this parasite. I should have known... or maybe I should have read the whole book.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda, whatever! I needed to find the appropriate treatment... and fast. This is where the true trials and tribulations of raising poultry in the city reveal themselves. The cure? A drug called amprolium. Where to find it? Supposedly any feed store. Ha! The search for this little medication involved one heck of a wild goose chase in places that of course were nowhere near my residence. I began with a frantic and bogus trip to Half Moon Bay where I actually held the bottle of this stuff in my hands, but didn't end up purchasing it because the sassy young filly behind the counter crisply informed me that it was only for cows. Maybe I just looked like an uppity city slicker so that when asked if I could just figure out what the dosage for a chicken would be, she snipped "that's your deal, it's for cows." Apprehensive that I might kill the rest of my flock, I decided the chickens could wait until I returned from my weekend in Fresno for a three year old's birthday party. Certainly I could find this stuff in the Central Valley, being the heart of California farm country. Well, one would think. I called 15 stores in the greater Fresno area and only ONE told me they had the product I was looking for and that it, too, was for cattle. Are there no chickens in Fresno? Seriously? How is it possible that I cannot find the medication for the most common ailment of young poultry? The store clerk assured me that I could adjust the dosage for a chicken. To err on the side of prudence, I phoned up feed stores in the Chicken Capital of the U.S., "the egg basket to the world", poultry central... Petaluma. They confirmed the store clerk's advice. Problem solved. I picked up the amprolium and brought it to my ladies as soon as we arrived home on Sunday.

After checking in on the chicks and giving them their meds, I settled down with my computer to look for replacement peeps on Craigslist when I found a flaming post that finally put all my questions to rest. The post warned customers to BEWARE of the person who sold me my chickens, that she knowingly sells sick birds, and that it has happened to many people. Was I swindled by the Chicken Queen? Did I turn a blind eye to the conditions in her barn because of the tempting and vast array of chicken breeds that she had in stock? Maybe. I know I should be pissed off at this poultry farmer, but really I'm just relieved that I didn't kill the chicken.

FYI, for any of you out there who may need to know what Cocci looks like, go here (and I don't recommend looking unless you have to):

http://www.backyardchickens.com/forum/viewtopic.php?id=90731

Here's a pic of the lonely ladies: