Being a Buck Owner - No Small Decision

Hormones are amazing things - I've learned this. They have influenced the course of history for many an entity, (though a CEO would never admit it). Mankind itself, frankly is chained to this fundamental - history in tow. . How do I know? I have a farm!  

We put it off as long as possible, but let's face it - when you own an animal whose value hinges upon lactation, eventually to maintain the value of the animal, your gonna need a buck! We'd have been happy to wait another year, until one day, I spied our virgin doeling developing an udder - no male involved. It's rare, but it happens (which says a lot about the milking capacity of our little gal).

So, we bought a buckling. Five months old. And oh what an impression he made!

Since our silly ole wether is named "Otis", we thought we'd name the little feller after Rome's famed & most handsome emperor - "TITUS".

The breeder couldn't guarantee how he or the girls would behave - so we were on our own. He was so cute, and so small. Just settled right down in the little the dog crate we brought.

Well first thing outta the box, he made a bellering bee-line for the girls on the other side of the fence. Within sixty seconds the kid became a wailing, walking squirt gun. He charged Otis, (probably for fun), and alienated his only, would-be friend. Not sure if Otis was actually afraid of the half-pint, or just didn't want to get a face full, but he trotted off several yards away complaining loudly. Enough with his commarade, Titus sprinted back to the fence line so the girls on the other side could see, hear AND smell him - his debut being quite the extra sensory experience for everyone.

The Kinder does were as bedazzled as three teenage girls over a man with a package. Next door in the Kiko pen, the two Jezebels began showing off slamming heads like a couple of crash test dummies. Well THAT only egged him on.

Suddenly the hair on the back of the Kinder gals stood straight up. In unison, they all started blubbering and tossing around and making these weird noises like they were demon possessed. Titus kept running back and forth - from our wussy wether, then back to strut in front of the vixens on the fence line, unsure if he had been delivered to heaven, or banished to hell. Amidst the uproar and confusion, I couldn't tell him either.

I stood there with my mouth dropped open thinking silently, he's gonna have this sewed up in a week. RJ dropped to her knees and was laughing her pants off. Well that set the dogs off, which set the guineas off, which ALWAYS sets our Chinese geese off. (I'm sure the cacophony from our homestead has the neighbors convinced we deliberately select the loudest breed of every specimen we own).

I tried to take pictures, but most were too obscene to post. Honestly, the entire spectacle was so depraved, it would have probably made the ancient Romans proud.

S & M

STATE & MAIN - the story
 
A breeder in North Carolina raised Langshans, and had a particularly regal roo named Saddleback.

Desiring to share in the bounty of this wonderful Roo, two dozen eggs were sent to the PacNW from North Carolina. Some I incubated, some I put under broodies. Twenty two days later - well over a dozen fuzzy chicks emerged, among them, somewhere -  a contender for the throne of "Flock Roo".

One morning, after the big hatch, I heard a bunch hollering from a hen who had hatched a quorum. She was jumping around flailing her wing to beat the band. When I finally was able to get a hold of her, I found that somehow, stuck to the underside of her wing was a little black chick glued to her and suspended by his own little wing. After I separated them, inside he came to live in the brooder with the others.

His poor wing just dragged and was clearly broken in I don't know how many places. I tried to set it. After 24 hours or so, I removed the sling. His wing was all curled up behind him at wrong angles as if he were trying to reach and scratch his back.

I called an Exotic Bird Vet who agreed to see him (for cheep!) and show me how to set a wing, so I put him in a little cigar box and off we went. The scene at the bird vet was hilarious.

"Thanks for coming in, here's your paper work. So where's the chicken?"
"In this box".
"Oh. Well, were gonna need a smaller scale to weigh him".

The paperwork was exhausting.

Breed of exotic pet: Chicken
Age (month/year): 6 days
Sex: Not yet!
Name of exotic pet: (I sighed, looked out the window and scribbled down the first thing I saw).

"Follow me into this exam room. So, where's the chicken?"
"In this box"
"Oh. Looks like we're going to need a smaller needle".

There was no saving his wing, and i was warned that he'd likely die. If not, he was just going to remain all crippled - but I DID get a good lesson on how to wrap an injured wing.

In the days that followed I watched as his bad wing became shriveled and leathery and curled and stiff. I felt bad figuring it would always be a source of grime and irritation. He kept eating though, and growing! 2nd biggest in his group! Then one day, that ugly wing just fell off! A nice clean break. I don't think the vet could have done as nice a job of amputating it.

A week or so later I got a postcard from the exotic bird vet.


"...We sincerely hope that your pet, "State & Main" is doing well".

He was thriving.

Underdogs do pretty well on our farm. He's welcome to live on in peace.

Here's his baby pic!

And here is today. The center of all being - realizing nothing of his disability -and- crowing for the day.

End notes: S & M's progeny, aptly named First & State, was introduced to a flock in Snohomish WA where his manners and good looks will be further appreciated. Hatching eggs from the original Langshan Sire's line are still available from North Carolina.   

Buffy & Buffy: Mom's always right - Right?

Before we got into it all, we sought the advice of Mom - a chicken raiser from the 40's.  Her advice (and I quote) "Well, you couldn't go bad with a couple of Buff Orpingtons".
 And so it was that Buffy & Buffy (both so blonde they each thought they had original names), came to our farm, and gently and sweetly took us around the chicken learning curve.

I remember Rj picking our two treasured chicks from the hundreds (it seemed) at the feed store. 

I remember our first egg!  

Big Buffy

I remember our first winter!

Little Buffy.

In time, we added more chickens of different breeds - but those Buff Orpingtons hold a soft spot in our heart.

When Big  Buffy turned up dead one day, at the grand old age of 4 years, Rj buried her near the chicken  yard. By then, we had a large flock of chickens of various breeds, all off doing other chickeny things - except for Little Buffy.
    "It was eery", Rj says. "The whole time I was digging a hole and burying her, Little Buffy kept me company, interested in what I was doing, and wouldn't leave. As if she knew something had happened to her long time companion and she wanted to be there."

As of this post, Little Buffy is now 6 years old. She's a full on convalescence case, but we keep her, none the less. She has seen more generations come and go than most chickens ever will....and even in her old age, now and again, she still lays an egg.