March 16th, 2011
I’m sorry to leave you hanging like that. It wasn’t intentional. Thank you for the cards and letters of concern.
Previously in my life I was battling the wicked rooster, Ricky Ricardo, who had it in his tiny little chicken brain that he needed to murder Tina Turner for spurning his amorous advances. He had pursued her into the woods in the attempt, threatened me with bodily harm for trying to intervene and basically frightened the rest of the chickens into a state of dither I had only seen when a fox or hawk was after them. Things were bad. I faced a tough decision.
To tell you the truth, the end of the story was already written when I posted the first part of this two-part saga. My procrastination in telling Part Deux was part “life” and part “I hate to tell them what really happened.”
So, here’s the story.
I knew that I had to intervene. I could either let Ricky Ricardo continue to terrorize the chickens and perhaps risk losing Tina Turner who couldn’t get back into the coop or I could intervene.
I tried to find that mythical country home for bad roosters but, alas, they don’t exist. No one wants a mean rooster for their flock—and certainly not as a pet.
As a backup, I tried to find someone to “take him away” (euphemism for “Just don’t tell me what you did with him”). Alas, even the hearty country folk here in Calvert County can’t be bothered with butchering and plucking a mean rooster just to end up with a stringy bird stew.
Short of a solution, I decided I at least needed to get Tina Turner to safety (literally out of the woods) and separate the bad boy Ricky Ricardo from the good chickens. I decided to use my magical powers—a can opener and a can of corn. Did you know chickens react to corn the way an addict reacts to the crash of a meth truck?
I managed to lure most of the good chickens into the coop. But every time Tina Turner tried to slip inside Ricky Ricardo would lunge after her, sending her skittering back into the woods in fright. It took all my wiles and cunning, but I finally managed to outwit a stoopid rooster. I distracted him toward the opposite side of the coop while simultaneously giving Tina Turner the high sign that it was safe to make a dash for the door. I swear, I think she knew what I was doing. She finally reached safe haven.
That left me with the bad boy Ricky.
I tried to entice him into the small Eglu—the portable coop I use for sick or injured birds or as quarantine for newcomers. He was being either especially smart or especially stupid, but either way, I wasn’t able to get him into the Eglu.
By this time I had been outside in the dark and the cold with my hands in a wet can of corn for about 45 minutes. Pardon me for my callousness at this point, but I had given it everything I had.
“Ricky Ricardo, you’re on your own for the night. Tina Turner did it. Now it’s your turn.”
Yes, I tucked in the chickens and left Ricky out in the cold.
The next morning Ricky was raging around the yard, acting like King of the Hill. Most chickens peck here, wander a bit and peck there. Not Ricky. He just ran around. And ran around. He kept circling the chicken coop trying to figure out why the other chickens were in and he was out. I noticed that Tina Turner refused to leave the inside of the coop that day.
Ricky ran around all day. I tried again to herd him into the Eglu, but he was having none of that foolishness.
The next morning Ricky Ricardo was gone.
I called him. I looked for him. I kept thinking he would wander back into the yard with stories to tell about his walk in the woods. It didn’t happen. After some more looking I eventually found a few feathers that looked suspiciously like someone had left them in haste.
I think The Circle of Life solved the Ricky Ricardo problem.
It’s a sad thing to lose a chicken, although perhaps less sad when it’s a mean chicken. Still, Ricky Ricardo was conceived, hatched and raised here Chez Bumblebee, so it was a sad day.
I don’t believe I was the only one who felt that way. Remember Edith, Ricky’s surrogate mother? She began to search for him. For the next couple of days while the other chickens would forage for bugs, Edith was wandering around looking into the trees. She flew to the top of the coop for a better view. She was looking for something—or someone.
I try not to anthropomorphize my chickens (too much), but I believe that Edith was searching for Ricky Ricardo. Motherly feelings are primal, after all.
So there you have it. The Ballad of Ricky Ricardo. Bye, Ricky.
February 5th, 2011
Small flock chickens are never boring. If you’ve never kept them, then you probably haven’t spent evenings like I have, sipping wine and watching Chicken TV, as well call it—the antics of the chickens as they hunt for bugs, flap their wings and take dirt baths behind the lilac bush. Recently, the chicken drama here has ranged from slapstick to tragedy, with a good deal of mystery in-between.
The kernels of discontent and upset in the coop began way back this past summer when Edith went broody and hatched a little grey chick we called “Baby,” since we have zero chicken sexing skills. After Edith and Baby’s maternity leave in a separate coop and reintegration into the flock, chickens did what chickens will do and tried to peck at Baby to ensure she/he knew she/he was at the bottom of the pecking order.
Despite her diminutive size, Edith was Baby’s fierce protectress. She and Baby cruised around the run as if tethered side-by-side. When any of the other chickens approached the pair, Edith would puff out her chest and challenge the offender. Not even the enormous rooster T. Boone Chickens would cross Edith in her heightened state of maternal fierceness. At night, Edith would tuck Ricky under her to keep him warm. When he grew too large to sit on comfortably, they sat side-by-side with Edith’s wing covering him.
All of this we/them drama did not make for a quiet and happy coop. The chickens seemed out of sorts. They had difficulty settling down at night. In the mornings I would find them churning around in a state of agitation. Egg production dropped to near zero.
Baby grew at an amazing rate. His/her fuzz was replaced by feathers and brown markings. He/she grew speckled feathers along the head and shoulders. Baby looked like a chicken assembled from spare parts.
Edith and Baby gradually started expanding the distance between them as they meandered among the rest of the flock and Baby began the process of negotiating his/her place amongst the chickens.
It was during this adolescent phrase that I started having growing suspicions that Baby was a rooster. There would be no eggs from this chicken.
Unlike other chickens I had integrated into the flock, Baby would aggressively challenge hens twice his size. Even though he would get a good solid warning peck and would retreat, Baby would advance again. And again.
Things were heating up. There was definite discord in the coop. There were no eggs for days and days.
We re-named Baby Ricky Ricardo. Then Ricky figured out he was a rooster and had an idea about what roosters are supposed to do. This is where it gets bad.
In the coop he would try to mount the hens and there would be pecking and noise. When the chickens were on walkabout and he tried to mount a hen they would run away. Ricky would give chase. There was a lot of running around because Ricky didn’t give up. He just kept chasing.
The yard was littered with feathers. The hens were exhausted. Ricky was frustrated. My dozy little flock had turned into a churning mass is discord.
Frankly, I was surprised that T. Boone Chickens, the only other rooster, didn’t put a stop to all of Ricky’s shenanigans. He would just watch curiously when a hen ran by with Ricky in pursuit. His laissez faire attitude may be due to the fact that T. Boone cannot run and can only walk with a limp due to an eagle attack a couple of years ago that nearly killed him.
Then one Sunday the chickens were on their afternoon walkabout while my husband and I raked leaves and worked on tidying the winter-ravaged garden. Suddenly, Tina Turner ran by squawking, with Ricky Ricardo in hot pursuit. She ran this way. She ran that way. Ricky was like a marathon sprinter. He wasn’t giving up.
Exhausted, Tina finally wedged herself between the house and a trellis. The position was awkward and Ricky wasn’t able to mount her, so he began pecking at her and pulling out her feathers. Tina was making frantic, distraught sounds.
Harry held Ricky off with the handle of the broom while I extracted Tina from behind the trellis. I was moving to put her into the coop out of harm’s way when she suddenly panicked and broke free, running to the woods. Ricky darted past my husband with the rake and took off in hot pursuit.
Tina again sought refuge, this time under a shrub in the woods. Ricky commenced pecking at her and pulling out her feathers. I think he intended to kill her.
I pick up Tina to put her into the coop. She was so panicked that she started squawking. Ricky then came after me with Tina in my arms.
Of course, I did what anyone would do, I screamed like a little girl. “EEEEEEEEEE!”
Harry, figuring what the problem was, started yelling from across the lawn something like, “No, stop! STOP! STOP!”
I ran. Tina got loose. Ricky followed her again. This time though Tina headed deep into the woods and eluded me, Ricky and Harry with the rake.
At the end of the day Ricky nonchalantly wandered back into the chicken coop with the other chickens while Tina Turner was still hiding in fear. She spent the night outside. Thankfully, she was well-hidden and survived until morning.
The next day during walkabout, Tina retreated deep into the woods to avoid Ricky’s attentions. When it was time to go home to roost at sunset she started timidly approaching the coop, only to have Ricky chase her away.
Here is where I faced a difficult and perhaps life and death decision. This was not the first instance of overly-aggressive behavior on Ricky’s part. Do I let the chickens work it out, risking Tina Turner to injury or perhaps death? Do I allow Ricky Ricardo to terrorize a docile hen because he is just following his roosterly instincts? If I intervene, what do I do about Ricky? Would anyone want a mean rooster?
There is more to this story…to come.