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Muddy Valley Farm

~ Life on a tiny west coast hobby farm

Muddy Valley Farm

Monthly Archives: January 2019

A Good Working Relationship

27 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Farm Life, Wildlife

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Liza the LGD (livestock guardian dog) and SL Wyandotte rooster have a good working relationship. They collaborate daily to help keep the barnyard citizens safe. When danger threatens, Liza goes after the intruder, barking wildly. SLW, growling chickenspeak commands, gets the girls to safety and then returns to back Liza up, ready to add his sharp spurs and beak to her tooth and nails defence.

Almost always, the intruder is airborne, so neither of our devoted barnyard guards has to resort to hand to hand combat. Thank goodness.

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My Chicken Name

24 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Farm Life

≈ 2 Comments

I got a nice surprise the other day, my niece (actually my cousin’s lovely daughter, my “first cousin once removed”, whom I should refer to as my niece while she calls me aunt, according to Google search results) had given her Dad a book for me, called “How To Speak Chicken”.

I sat down to read it last night, wondering if I would learn anything new, and maybe a bit over-confident that I would not. Well I was wrong!

The author claims that her chickens have given her a chicken name! Sounds nuts I know, but she is perfectly correct in her interpretations of all the other chicken noises. Plus I wouldn’t put it past them. Why couldn’t animals who have a vocabulary of more than twenty calls have a sound to denote their primary caregiver? A sort of a chicken mom name.

I’m excited now. My new project? To figure out my chicken name!

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44 Breeds of Chicken

20 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Farm Produce

≈ 1 Comment

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The other day, as I was writing about how much I love my Wyandottes, I had a thought. “I wonder how many different breeds I’ve kept over the last eight years? A lot. I should make a list and count.”

My husband often jokes that I never do anything by half measures. When I embark on a new hobby, I throw myself straight into the deep end every time. I mean, who wouldn’t, right? It’s so FUN to immerse oneself!

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When I started keeping chickens I chose as many breeds as I could lay my hands on. I wanted all the chickens. They were so different from one another! Not just in looks and number of eggs laid. Chicken breeds are like dog breeds, their members share characteristics. Some breeds are loud and demanding (ugh, Ancona! I can’t abide a noisy chicken), while others are so quiet and self-effacing (Cochin, Orpington) that I almost forget they’re there. Some are skittish (yes Legbars, I’m talking about you!) and some are stoic (Marans). Some are as dumb as posts (coughpolishcough). Some are photogenic (Swedes). And some are as smart as a two year old child (Wyandottes).

So I made my list, and found out that as of today, I’m up to exactly 44 chicken breeds. That’s when my superstitious side’s jaw hit the floor, because four is my favourite number!

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I was born on the 4th, I have four immediate family members (besides me), my address and license plate have lots of fours, I took pictures when my odometer hit 4444, and 44,444 and 144,444. Four is my lucky number. I joke about this often, pointing out auspicious fours here and there, and choosing them in preference to other numbers when minor decisions involving numbers need to be made. So how weird is that?  I’m telling you… I couldn’t make this stuff up!

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After the happy shock of finding 44 breeds on my list, I did some more figuring. Right now in my pens, I have 21 breeds. Seven pens of the breeds I like best (currently Wyandottes, Silkies, Swedish Flowers, Cream Legbars, Marans, Olive and Easter Eggers and Barnevelders) and fourteen breeds in “the laying flock”, all leftovers from various chicken breed trials.

 

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I still want to try all the chickens (there are more than 200 breeds available in Canada) and I’m getting better at choosing now. These days, when I see an online auction for something new that might be fun, I study the pictures with a critical eye. How does the parent stock compare to their breed’s SOP (Standard of Perfection)? Do they and their quarters look happy and clean? How do their eggs size up and are they reasonably mud-free? 

 

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And then more practical considerations, like do I have room for another breed? Why do I want to try this one? How well does it produce? And just how far away are these eggs? Newfoundland or Alberta, the distance the eggs have to travel makes a huge difference to how well they are likely to hatch.

I don’t know if I will try any new breeds this year, the status quo (and the number 44) seems alright to me. But I may be tempted, something interesting could come up. 

I am going to be very careful though, because if chicken breed #45 is anything like US President #45, I am better off doing what I bet a lot of folks wish they could have done in 2016…stuck with #44! 😉

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Miss Splash Turns Over a New Leaf

18 Friday Jan 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Farm Life

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It has been a week since Miss Splash indicated that she had learned her lesson and I am happy to report that she continues to cooperate. She hasn’t gone so far as to hang out underfoot at the barn while I feed, but faithfully waits for us at the corner of the paddock every day.

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As we pass by she attaches herself to the edge of things, and she enters the pen flawlessly. Always one of the last birds in, she keeps half an eye on me at all times, but she cooperates. Such a smart bird.

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To ease her fears, my new plan is to throw her a treat every time I run into her around the barnyard. I bet I’ll have her eating out of my hand in no time.

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Eight eggs on this cold, wet winter day from this amazing little group of eleven hens and a rooster and maybe more to come before nightfall. My Wyandottes lay more than any other heritage breed I have ever owned. And they are beautiful to boot. I highly recommend this breed.

Battle of Wills

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by Jodi in Chickens, Farm Life

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The Wyandotte flock free ranges every morning. Once their pen door swings open, they quickly inspect the other birds’ feeders, sampling a beak-full or two. Then they beeline to the barn to assist George with his breakfast. George is a messy eater, and the Wyandottes make a great clean up crew. It’s one of those symbiotic barnyard relationships, limiting waste plus helping to keep the rodent population down. George very much enjoys the company of his daily breakfast companions. He takes care to avoid stepping on them.

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The lucky birds spend the rest of their morning sampling the tender new grass, scratching through the manure pile seeking juicy bugs and patrolling the verges of K’s garden to scout weak spots in her defences.

At lunchtime, I head outside to hand out flakes of hay to the again-peckish equines and to put the Wyandottes away. It’s time for a different rooster and his girls to enjoy the freedom of the barnyard.

Their cooperative nature has won the Wyandottes this daily constitutional. The other flocks don’t listen as well, but the Wyandottes have learned. Well behaved birds who go docilely into their pen receive a delightful bonus, a snack of cracked corn, wheat and oats, aka “chicken crack”. 

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And so every day, right after the hay flakes hit the ground, a Wyandotte tide ebbs and flows around my feet as I walk from the barn to the coops. They jog excitedly along, keeping as close as chickenly possible to their walking treat dispenser. I have to pay close attention to avoid stepping on them, not always successfully (SQUAWK!).

When I reach the coops, I scoop up a can of grain, step inside their pen and lay out a line as they tumble around me, each vying to swallow the largest amount of grain in the smallest amount of time. 

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Mr. Rooster generally enters the pen last. My trusty lieutenant, he supervises regally, murmuring gently at his ladies, keeping squabbles to a minimum and perhaps deigning to sample one or two grains himself. Then I step backwards out the pen door, count to twelve to make sure I have them all, and gently clip the door closed. Voila.

Except. Too many times last summer I counted only eleven Wyandottes. There is this one hen you see, an exotic splash laced gal, who prefers to spend her entire day in freedom, thankyouverymuch. 

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I first noticed Miss Splash’s recalcitrance in July, soon after she, along with a few of my more comely early 2018 hatch got promoted from the grow out pen to the breeding pen. After making introductions, I had kept the whole group locked up for a few days, so the new girls could find their place in the pecking order. That accomplished, I gave them back their morning freedom. At first Miss Splash consented to be penned at noon like the rest, but it wasn’t long before her rebellious streak surfaced. At lock up time, she balked. Either vanishing entirely or staying on the periphery eyeing up the grain, she would not put even one scaly yellow toe across the threshold. She refused entirely to cooperate.

At first I made some effort to chase her in, as did her rooster, but she wasn’t having any of that. It was freedom over food for our little orange birdbrain.

So I gave up, and put her in with the laying flock, where she spent the rest of the summer and all of the fall. She free ranged less, only making it out every other day, but when she finally got her freedom she kept it until dusk, going inside at a moment of her own choosing, not mine. This arrangement suited Miss Splash very well and she was content.

But with the advent of breeding season, our arrangement didn’t suit me very well any more. Chicks from her unique bloodline were a goal, they would be silver laced blue, and, bred appropriately, their chicks would be silver laced lavender, a colour I badly want to achieve. There was nothing for it but I must put her back in the Wyandotte coop, in with her man and away from the other roosters. But I was NOT willing to compromise the Wyandottes’ well-earned freedom. I want lavender chicks badly, but not that badly.

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So Miss Splash rejoined her own kind one day about ten days ago. The very next day when it was time for the Wyandottes to get penned, she played her old trick of months before, keeping her distance, refusing to go in the pen and generally being a giant pain in the butt. Have you ever tried to herd a chicken? Try it sometime, I dare you. Even my eight foot long pvc ‘chicken herder’ didn’t help. I was forced to pen everyone else, and then, resorting to guerrilla warfare, surveille her until she wandered into a random pen or tight spot, so I could corner, catch and put her away. My only other option was waiting till nightfall, when I could grab her as she perched mournfully outside the Wyandotte coop, yearning, now that was dark, for the company of her own kind. That wasn’t a good option though, since it allowed the afternoon roosters free access to her, sullying the purity of her eggs’ bloodlines.

Enough of this, I thought. Time for Miss Splash to learn a lesson. So, for about a week, every morning before I let the Wyandotte flock out, I grabbed her and tucked her under my arm. Once everyone was free, I popped her inside a roomy yet secure cage inside the pen, where she spent each morning while the rest of the flock gaily free ranged. She was not happy. There was much pacing and lunging at the door in repeated bids for freedom. The first day, she actually did manage to get the cage door open and flee, but judicious application of a steel clip put an end to that escape route. Each noontime, after I had spread the grain line, counted to eleven and closed the pen door, I popped the clip and she burst out of her cage, rushing to snag what she could of the few remaining grains.

After Miss Splash’s week of spending her mornings locked up and her afternoons with the flock inside the pen, I thought I would see if she had learned her lesson. So yesterday, there was no snaring and stowing of reluctant chicken. I simply stepped inside the pen and had a word with her instead. Then, keeping my eyes on her as I admonished her sternly to be good, I opened the pen door and gave her her freedom. She stepped slowly outside, lifted her wings high and then dashed, a joyful blur of squawking orange feathers, across the barnyard.

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The test came at noon, when it was time to put the Wyandottes away. They crowded my feet as usual as I walked towards the coops from the barn. Miss Splash was not among them, but rather hanging around casually near the grain bin. She stayed well on the periphery as me and my chicken train grabbed a scoop of grain and headed for the pen. As I stepped inside and moved to the back of the pen to lay out my grain line among a fluster of excited chickens, she advanced to stand in the doorway, clearly uncertain, weighing her options. I finished, keeping a bit of grain in reserve, and peeked at her out of the corner of my eye. A direct look would have sent her running I knew. She stood there, teetering on the door sill, undecided. So I trickled a few more grains, enticingly rattling them against the feeder to sweeten the bait audibly while standing perfectly still, as minimally threatening as humanly possible. 

After a long pause, she finally, carefully, stepped inside and tiptoed over to the grain line. What a smart girl.

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Today, much to my pleased surprise, she was right in the thick of it, weaving around my feet with the other birds as I travelled from the barn to the coops. And there was zero hesitation at the door, she enthusiastically ran to the grain line along with the others. As if our battle of wills had never happened!

So that’s where we are. I am hopeful that we are beginning a good working relationship. I will keep my side of the bargain, giving her her freedom every day that she cooperates, declining it when she does not. I think we both clearly understand the rules now. The parameters of our truce.

Time and time again my chickens remind me that they are intelligent creatures, each with their own unique personalities.  Is Miss Splash a prudent sort? A practical gal who is open to compromise, like Angela Merkel or Ruth Bader Ginsberg? Or is she more impulsive and bull-headed, like Indira Ghandi or, god forbid, Mr. Headstrong Trump? A bright orange colour laced with grey, she sports a sulky mien, but I have my fingers crossed that her resemblance to the Donald is purely physical. She certainly appears to possess superior intellect.

I’m hoping for more of an Angela Merkel / RBG type. I do admire those women.

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Wild Westcoast Winter Weather

05 Saturday Jan 2019

Posted by Jodi in Farm Life, Seasons, Weather

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Barely two weeks into winter and two big weather events under our belts already!

It has been a wild one so far, with the worst windstorm in BC Hydro’s history battering the west coast on the eve of the winter solstice. Three quarters of a million of us lost power, some for more than two weeks, and over Christmas too. We were lucky here in our muddy valley, our lights stayed on and our well stayed online. We had no internet for a couple days, and no cable TV, but those were minor inconveniences. 

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A couple days after the windstorm, we drove 300 km up island to spend Christmas with family. We got lucky again, it only took three hours, not the 6.5 it had taken our kids the day before. The traffic lights were back on, thank you BC Hydro crews, but the highway corridor was still a war zone.

Both sides of the road and the centre line were green with fir needles, twigs and boughs. In some places, huge conifers lay every few feet all along the roadside, fallen soldiers with raw fresh-sawn stumps glowing rusty orange through the grey wintry gloom. Side roads were closed entirely.

From Boxing Day to the 29th of December, 96 straight hours of west coast misty rain lubricated the efforts of the 900-odd people working double shifts to repair our power grid, and they had the lights back on most everywhere by the 31st.

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New Years was quiet, but on January 2, with our creek still busy digesting her latest voluminous meal, the most massive rainstorm in years stalled over Vancouver Island for 48 hours, delivering record-breaking amounts of rainfall. It just poured.

So here we are, still only at the beginning of January, with peak mud levels in our muddy valley. The creek is a many headed hydra, snaking all across the north fields before collecting herself to slip under the heavy timber driveway bridge with bare inches to spare. Still in a mad rush, she squeezes her bulk into the narrow deep channel that skirts the house, filling it to its very tippy top and splashing over the edges. 

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We are lucky too, that the people who built this place situated the house where they did, on the high side of the creek. Any overflow goes the other way, out towards the fields, and our valley-bottom house never floods, no matter what Mother Nature throws at us.

Today, finally, exactly two weeks into winter; sunshine. The calm after the storms. I luxuriate in the rays of honeyed light. With no new storms in the forecast, things should settle down now for a bit. What a relief, for us and the barnyard crew. Everyone is pretty fed up with this challenging weather.

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Oh. Crap. What’s that? You gotta be kidding me, another weather warning? Wind gusts to 90km/h tomorrow? Sigh. Ok. Here we go again.

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