The (not-so) Great Flood

It's been an exciting Christmas Eve on the Farm today.  Since we moved in here in late Summer, we've had a few "floods" way in the back where the tree line of the woods starts.  There are a few stray patches of concrete in places around the grounds -- apparently the previous owner worked for a concrete company and would pour in various places, some of which prove useful and some I guess just add character.  There's one particular patch along the "road" going off into the woods that's not far past the chicken coop and goat house.  We use that as a gauge for the water level when it rains.  If the patch is covered, which has happened once before, then we're flooded -- otherwise, a little rain never hurt nothing.  Well, today, that's an understatement.

Before lunch today, we decided to move the goats from the goat house/yard to the dogs' yard, which, of course, meant that we had to move the dogs somewhere else.  In our short experience as farmers, we've learned that the goats and the dogs (that is, Belle and Brix) cannot live peacefully within the same confined area.  I still have to tell that story, but honestly it's exhausting to even think about.  Wonder what Noah would have done if God had told him to build separate Arks for the different species?  Anywho, while I'm fairly certain that Max the Guard would take precedence over Max the Dog, thereby protecting the goats from the dogs, "fairly" isn't enough certainty for me.  So today has been a day of shift work on the Farm.  Brix and Belle were shifted to the garage, while Max, Milky and Prada were shifted to the "back yard."

The bayou waters to the right of us continued to rise, flooding out the road where it turns to gravel right past our house.  And in the back, the gauge patch is just a memory and the goat house has a river for a floor.  But all is well, though, right? Ha ha ha.  Milky and Prada are master escapees through the rungs of the cattle gates, which have satisfactorily confined Brix and Belle up to this point.  So after at least 3 times of chasing down the goats in the mud and rain, we admitted defeat.  Something had to give.

Reevaluation in the back turned out to be reinforcement.  The goat house is in a river and the chicken coop is not far behind.  Fortunately, the chickens can get up in their nest and be safe from the rising tide.  Will they is a whole different question.  'Course Bryan said that it's a Darwin thing, whichever ones survive will make good breeders.  Pepa just said we'll get smarter chickens next time if we have to.  Lovely, huh?  I'm trying my hand at some positive thinking - the chickens always go up to their nest at dusk and stay there until daybreak - surely the water will start to recede by then.

Anyway, refusing to worry about the chickens, we were still left with a goat problem to solve.  After a little disagreement, I lovingly convinced Bryan that we had 2 choices for the goats - the garage or his workshop.  He was none too happy about either option, but he reluctantly agreed.  So we tried to "goat proof" the workshop as much as possible and got Milky and Prada settled for the night.

Since Max, Brix and Belle have gotten along in the past, we figured they'd be okay in the back yard together.  When Bryan opened the gate to let Brix and Belle back in, Max lunged in attack and then took off.  Max still has a lot of puppy in him which combined with his size makes him hard to handle.  Brix and Belle mind pretty well, as long as there's no aroma of tasty goat meat lingering nearby.  Not Max.  He doesn't respond to basic commands like "stay" or "come" and hasn't yet been trained to walk on a leash.  If you grab his collar, he just falls over in submission, making it even harder to "guide" him anywhere.  Once Bryan chased him down, we finally got all three of the dogs in the back yard.  Hopefully ... they'll all be there in the morning, the goats and the workshop will survive each other, and we won't find out the hard way whether chickens can swim. Yay for positive thinking.

The De Facto Creation of Apple Hill Farm

Having finally completed the first fencing project - i.e., keeping the dogs in the yard and Ben out of the pond - we decided we were ready to begin our farming endeavor. We knew pretty quickly after moving in that, with a little modification, the pen where the dogs had been staying could be used as a chicken coop. So, a bit abruptly one Sunday in the early evening (October 11th to be exact, well, I think that's when it was), we decided to call around about buying our first farm animals. Next thing we knew we were driving almost to Benton to see a lady about a chicken (or two).

The Chicken Lady, as she will forever be called (it's the label for her number in my cell phone) was very nice and offered lots of information for us newbies. Discovering that chickens were, well, um, cheap, we left with 5: 2 Barred Rock laying hens, 2 Black Sexlink (yep, that's right) laying hens, and a Silver-Laced Rooster. The hens are between 2-3 years old; the rooster is still under a year. (None of the hens are laying eggs right now though; they are molting. Hopefully, we'll start having eggs within another month or so.)

We got them home and, in the dark, Bryan threw together a latching half door thingy (see photo below) to fully enclose the pen - to keep the chickens in and predators out (notice humans are on the list at that link!). Anyway, that's the modification I was talking about. We're not really the best planners, though we do try ... sometimes.

Anyway, within 24 hours, we were down to 4. What happened? Who the heck knows? Not me and not the Chicken Lady either. One of the Barred Rocks was "acting funny" when I got home from work on Monday, so I separated her from the rest of the flock (he, he ... we have a flock of chickens). I tried to get her to drink fresh water and to hand-feed her pellets, rice, corn ... anything to get her to eat. I inspected her crop and vent (parts of the chicken I couldn't identify, or wouldn't have wanted to, just a few short years ago) and checked her over for mites. But either 'cause I'm a newbie or 'cause those weren't the problems, I got nothing. Within a couple of hours, she died. While I was concerned about the others, and Bryan was trying to determine the best way in which to dispose of her, Brock just wanted to know if we could eat her.

Over the next couple of weeks, the others seemed to be thriving and the dead hen remained a mystery. Then, again rather suddenly, one of the Sexlinks started "acting funny," keeping to herself, not standing hardly at all, swaying a bit. Honestly, other than not wanting to lose them all, I didn't much care since I'd unofficially dubbed her "Meanie" within the first few days. She pecked at the others constantly, wouldn't let the Barred Rock lay on the straw, and always seemed to be "mouthin' off" to everybody.

For the sake of the flock, I separated her (we threw together a make-shift death house, I mean, er, hospital - again, not the best planners, eh?) and gave all of them some tetracycline antibiotics. She perked up initially, then started acting weak again, was hot to the touch, seemed to be having trouble breathing and had green runny poop. I know it's gross, but apparently poop observation is a very important diagnostic tool when it comes to chickens. We kept her separated for what ended up being a full week and I started researching all about chicken diseases, including hours evaluating "pics o'poo" on a website I stumbled upon. Of course, every time I read about a different disease, I was sure that's what she and the one we'd already lost had. Having become a de facto chicken lady my own big self, I diagnosed her with Marek's or its counterpart Lymphoid Leukosis (for older hens), both of which are untreatable and fatal. Clearly it was just a matter of time before we lost her and likely the whole flock. Then, of course, she recovered. Shows what I know, huh?

She's now been back with her friends and they all seem to be doing just fine. As a bonus, she's no longer "Meanie;" I think her separation put her at the bottom of the peking order. 'Course, my grandma would just say that her being sick was just the onery working its way out. The rooster clearly rules the roost, deciding who lays where, who eats when, and so forth. The problem is the boss doesn't seem to be all that bright. I let them out to graze sometimes and Forrest Gump always has the hardest time getting back into the pen, prancing up and down the side squawking at the ones smart enough to walk through the door. "That's all I got to say about that."