The saga continues
chicken math is a force of nature
After the chick/rooster drama of this spring and summer, I packed up all my brooding equipment and vowed I would not do that again. (In case you missed it, you can read about it here.)
I’ve learned this pronouncement is akin to saying you’re done having babies and giving away the crib and stroller and high chair and 17 Rubbermaid tubs full of children’s clothing. You will invariably have one more.
But I have a solid defense.
In the beginning we were given some already-laying hens, and after spending a year nursing them back to health, losing three to sickness and one to a raccoon, I really didn’t want to give up any of the remaining four. They’re big, beautiful birds, and when they’re laying, we get extra-large eggs from them.
One went broody in the spring and I decided to try the trick I’d heard about letting her sit on fake eggs, then slipping Tractor Supply chicks under her in the dead of night. It worked beautifully and my big black hen raised two adorable Rhode Island Red babies. This victory might have made me a little cocky (no pun intended).
Then another of the original hens went broody and I didn’t feel like going through all the drama of separating her from the flock again, so I put her in jail until she quit. Five days and she was back to her non-hormonal self, laying eggs. Two weeks later she went broody again. I broke her again, this time adding the dreaded cold-water dunking a few times a day. A good time was had by all, except the hen. But after five days in jail and a few ice baths, she was back to herself again, and in with the flock she went.
This time she waited three weeks to go broody and I just could not fathom how I was going to break her for good. But “Hey,” I thought, “it’s only August, and Tractor Supply still has chicks, so maybe I’ll just give her babies to raise and let her get it out of her system.” This is how chicken math happens. And remember, I had four roosters in the last go-round, and you have to buy four chicks at a time, so I thought this would be a good way to replace the roos I had to give away. It’s Tractor Supply’s fault.
So I made wanna-be-Mama a lovely, private brooding suite out of an extra-large dog crate, complete with protective cardboard sides to keep the other hens from kicking dirt in her water and food. I put the wood eggs in her comfy nest and she happily settled in to make her mama dreams come true.
After she’d sat on faux eggs two weeks (plus the week she was hogging the favorite nest box, making a total of three weeks, which is long enough to hatch eggs—chicken moms are smart, you know), I went to Tractor Supply to buy her babies. This time, there would be no cheap (ha) Rhode Island Reds for us. I spent the big bucks on ultra-rare premium pullets: two Chocolate Orpingtons, plus two less-rare-but-still-stupid-expensive Buff Brahmas. As long as we’re adding chicks, we might as well infuse some high-class variety, right?
I brought the babies home and put them in a temporary brooder, and then at dark, Zola (my 7-year-old granddaughter) and I went out to make the switch. Mama got a little agitated when I reached underneath and took the eggs, but she settled right down on the four squirming babies I shoved up underneath her. She seemed content, so I went to bed.
The next morning I went out bright and early to check on the new family, and I found one Orpington sitting near the waterer. I figured she just got up to get a drink and would go running back to Mama as soon as I came near. She did not. I tried giving her a gentle nudge in the right direction, but she bolted through the cage wires and out into the run like she was making a break for it. I quickly caught her and put her under mama’s wing, and mama turned her head and pecked at the baby. Hmm. That seemed a little aggressive. So I took the baby and shoved it under mama’s back end where she couldn’t peck it. Maybe it would take a little time for them all to adjust to each other. Then I left for church.
That afternoon, I went to check on them and found Mama sitting on the nest, three chicks huddled together in a corner far away from her, and one little Orpington lying prone by herself. I picked her up and realized immediately something was wrong. One leg was splayed out sideways, as well as the opposite wing. I set her down to see what she would do and she was unable to stay upright. She just flopped around wildly. My guess is that Mama attacked her and hurt her leg and wing. Meanwhile, Mama started making those clicking noises they make when they’re mad.
I scooped the injured baby back up and cradled her in my shirt, blood boiling that a hen who wanted to be a mom so badly would do this to a helpless baby. Do chickens have no empathy? I tried putting the three chicks back under mama and she wasn’t having it. She pecked at them and they ran away like she was Godzilla on the loose.
Broody wasn’t fooled. These were not her babies and she did not want them.
I grabbed them all before she could do any more damage and took them back to the mini brooder I still had set up in the garage (definitely not doing this again in my basement). At the very least, they needed food, water, and heat. Remember when I said I would not raise chicks again in 2025? Here I am notting.
This time I have a solid plan to raise them in the extra coop outside, which only requires Ben digging a trench from the garage across the driveway to the coop so I can run electricity out there and plug in a heat plate. Welcome to farming.
Once I had the babies safe and comfortable, I went to the brooding palace and took away every accoutrement I could. No nest, no protective cardboard sides. The cage is now up on blocks so the air flows under her to cool her brood patch, and she has food and water. Nothing else. The lovely suite has become a jail cell. She will eventually stop being broody and will go back in with the flock and lay eggs. If she goes broody again this year, she will take a trip to freezer camp. Buh-bye.
The injured baby is not getting any better and will likely be humanely put out of her misery.
I did have the thought to get one more to replace her since she is an ultra-rare premium breed, but then I’d have to buy four . . .
Later:
As I was leaving this afternoon, I stopped to look in on the chicks and found the lame one had gotten to the water all by herself. She was hopping on one leg, leaning against the side of the box for support. The will to live is strong! Go, Sister!
You are a good chicken Mama!