It is sometimes hard to believe it has only been 2 years since my husband "got chicks for his birthday." Hubs was in the throes of a life-threatening series of gall bladder treatments at the time, so you probably already guessed who got the responsibility of caring for his "chicks." I put "chicks" in quotation marks because the original 6 Rhode Island Red hens were all mature chickens. One of the original 6 is still part of the flock and quite old in chicken years. 4 of the 7 "Old Hens" are a random variety of breeds I bought as adults. The other 2 of the "Old Hens" are from my first attempt at raising them from chicks. One of that batch crowed. He was delicious. The original birds might have been my husband's, but I am in love. I would be guilty of loving my feather babies more than I love the ol' ball and chain I share my human roost with. Well. . . Perhaps I am comparing birds and bees? Might not be a fair comparison.

The 7 chickens from second batch of hand-raised chicks is reaching maturity. At least one of them has started laying eggs. They are on the verge of flocking with the "Old Hens," but they still pretty much range my half-acre urban yard as 2 separate flocks. Two of that chick batch have crowed. I hate it when chicks crow. I live in constant fear of urbanite reactions from the neighbors. When can I expect the angry mobs touting protest signs and legal petitions? Dawn is not a popular event in the urban populations. Even a small rooster is quite loud with the daily heralding.

One of the roosters is a feisty little fellow of unidentified breed who has taken to attacking anything that moves. He kinda reminds of a Chihuahua dog. Not enough bite to face off in a dog fight pit, but it don't feel none too good, either. He officially made the dinner invitation list after he attacked my 3 year old grandson. Now to catch him. . . Catching free range chickens is worthy of being an Olympic event. Half an acre is more than enough field space to create a merry course. Normally, I catch my chickens while they are sleeping. Chickens are extremely docile in the roost. This wiley little comb head is roosting in a tree. I could still pluck him out of the roost, but reaching the roost is a bit problematic. Sigh. Some days you get chicken. Other days you get feathers.

The second rooster is a Japanese Silkie. He is crowing often enough that I am quite sure it is a he, but his crows still sound like a human adolescant's voice cracking. Silkies are often claimed to be the most gentle chicken breed in nature. Commercial hatcheries often use silkies for brooding. They are natural nannies and will brood anything with feathers. They are also flightless birds. The breed name is rooted in the fact that they never develop the feathers which give birds the ability to fly. Silkie is already about twice the size of the chihuahua rooster, but so far his reaction to the fight invitations have looked like an over-sized child reacting to a playground bully. Can it, pipsqueak.

Why can't all my chicks be hens? During the two years I have kept chickens I have grown so partial to yard eggs that I almost can't eat commercial eggs any more.

Just rambling. . . Chicken jokes/puns welcome.