Rooster Training

As it turns out, the chicken that was camped on the floor of the chicken coop was on her way out. She was not protecting chicks. I found her dead in the corner of the coop yesterday morning. Sometimes, it is hard to tell what the behavior means. I still have several hens sitting on eggs so I remain hopeful that there will be chicks at some point.

And the best way to describe my training program for the baby roosters is that I talk to them. I talk to all the chickens, constantly. I talk about the weather, the deer and the turkeys, what’s in the bags of scraps that my friend Anna brings over for them—it’s basically a running commentary that gets them used to hearing my voice. By the time the baby roosters are old enough to start being aggressive, they have heard me blathering on for six months and don’t see me as a threat. In their minds, I am just the lady that makes a lot of noise and gives them food. Even the year that I had nine juvenile roosters in the coop, I didn’t worry about going in there.

Dave knew his name. I could say, “Dave,” and he would stop what he was doing and come over to me. When I go into the coop in the morning, the rooster is standing by the door to meet me. I say, “Good morning chickens! It’s time to go out! Follow the rooster!” and the rooster trots over to the door to the chicken yard and stands there until I open it. When it’s open, he starts clucking and encouraging the hens to go outside. When I leave the coop, I say, “Okay, ladies, the rooster is in charge!”

Do the roosters actually understand me? Probably not. Their brains are not very big. But we have a routine and they are used to it and I think that keeps the anxiety and drive to protect the hens from me at a minimum.

One of my roosters used to demand to eat scratch grains from my hand.

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I canned up the ham stock yesterday afternoon and put a few more bags of tomatoes into the freezer. I’d like to make the second batch of tomato sauce today although I might not can it until tomorrow. The schedule this week is fluid. I do have an appointment tomorrow to get a desperately-needed haircut. I try to get in at least every eight weeks, but it has been more than three months and my hairstyle right now is most charitably described as “poodle meets Newfoundland.” My hair has multiple personalities depending on the humidity level. I have always had thick hair and a lot of it, but it became a lot curlier after I had chemo. Here in Montana, when the humidity level is less than 25%, I can wear it straight if I blow it dry and use the flatiron. Anything more than that and it curls up no matter what I do to it. (I don’t even take my hairdryer to Seattle with me because there is no point.) Thankfully, the woman who cuts my hair knows how to layer it properly to take some of the bulk out of it.

The Jeep has also been loaded with the first batch of donations to take to one of the thrift stores in town. Books are next on the list. I’ve gone through mine and the husband said he will try to cull his collection, too. Those will go to one of the used bookstores, either here or in Missoula.

We moved the nightstands into the spare bedroom at the rental house. They look nice there. The husband installed the lights in the rental house garage, although we still need to get one more fixture. Home Depot only had two in stock. Next weekend, because the weather is supposed to be nice, we have to dig potatoes and put hoses away. I am trying to decide if I should cut the grass around the garden one more time. It would make it cleaner and easier to work out there.