Chick Shopping in Late Winter

Our last batch of chicks were Buckeyes (reddish-brown), Buff Orpingtons (golden) and Cuckoo Marans (black and white).

My favorite shopping event just may be Chick Days at the local feed store.

In February, the store takes chick orders, and in early April, an employee drives to the hatchery to pick up chicks.

When we first ordered Buckeye chicks from a preservation center nearly 20 years ago, the chicks arrived by mail. The postal worker called me at 6 in the morning and said my chicks had arrived, and no, I did not have to wait until 8 a.m. when the post office opened to pick them up. After the mail delays I've experienced in the past six months, I wouldn't want to risk mail-order chicks.

For years, we kept 25-30 Buckeye hens and several roosters and raised our own chicks. Sometimes hens sat on eggs. Usually, we incubated a batch of eggs as in insurance policy. This resulted in a beautifully uniform flock and hens and roosters everywhere.

And then I got sucked into Chick Days.

(Okay, keeping a breeding flock is a lot of work and resulted in more roosters, eggs and work than I wanted to deal with. And shopping for chicks is just so much fun.)

Here are the Three Truths about Chick Days

1. There are so many chicken breeds and so little time. When I walk into the feed store, I tell myself that we are only getting 12 chicks, and Randy said he wanted more Buckeyes. Then, the clerk hands me pages of chicken breeds. The number of Buckeye chicks I'd planned to order dwindles to four.

At home, we have five hens: one Buckeye, one Cuckoo Maran and three Buff Orpingtons. I like the Cuckoo Maran and her lovely chocolate colored eggs. The Buff Orpingtons have a 100 percent survival rate on the farm. Somehow these golden hens have evaded foxes and hawks. I'd get both breeds again, but there are so many other choices.

2. Egg envy is real. A few years ago, a friend opened up her carton of eggs collected from her chickens. There, in the carton were chocolate brown, tan, light green, bluish green, white and brown eggs. It was a sight to behold. At home, my carton contained uniformly brown eggs (still quite beautiful, but quite monochrome).

3. A long, gray winter makes me seek color. Our hens free range in the sheep and horse pastures. I wanted hens that stand out against the grasses.

And, in the end, I went with colorful feathers over colorful eggs. Here's what I selected:

Four Buckeyes (mahogany feathers and brown eggs)

Two French Blue Copper Marans (slate gray with copper heads and necks, and dark brown eggs)

Two Silver Laced Wyandottes (black and white feathers and brown eggs)

Two Rhode Island Blue (a cross between Rhode Island Reds and the black Astralop and brown eggs)

Two Oliver Egger (a cross between Black Maran and Americana and green eggs). 

What would you choose? If you want to see the choices, check out the Mount Healthy Hatchery catalog.

The Fragility of a Single Egg

When you have five hens, and it is winter, and cloudy days stack up one on top of the other until they reach 10 in a row, eggs are a rarity.

On some days, I find no eggs. On others, I find one, never two or three or four.

Protecting that single egg seems so much harder than a clutch of eggs.

In the summertime, when eggs are plentiful, I place them in a coffee can that also serves as my vessel for carrying scratch grain, horse feed and sheep minerals.

But a single egg gets lost in a coffee can. It's easily overlooked and, if lucky, left on the counter in the barn or a fence post. If unlucky, it's knocked over or covered in grain.

A single egg fits neatly in a winter coat pocket, where it's forgotten until hit with firewood or a flake of hay.

When I find a single egg, I cup it in my palm and carry it to the barn where I look for a safe spot to place it while I finish evening chores.

I don't place it on the counter in the barn where a slightly bored and always hungry cat would bat it around, until it fell to the ground and became cat food.

Instead, I nestle it in a bird's nest that I found in the yard and kept because it was lined with pony hair, and I found it charming.

A chicken egg looks ridiculous in the tiny nest.

But I always notice it as I'm turning out the barn lights in the evening. I carry it into the house and place it in the egg carton.

I have six single eggs now--enough for an omelet.

A Golden Reminder

 Counting chickens is easy these days.

We're down to five: three Buff Orpingtons, one Cuckoo Maran and one Buckeye. (Yes, I'm eyeing the chick calendar for more in the spring, but that's a story for another day).

A month ago I took down the poultry netting around the chicken yard because the area had become a muddy mess and poultry netting sags under the weight of snow. I hoped that whatever was munching on my chickens had been discouraged by the electrified netting and changed her hunting patterns.

"Go free," I told the hens as I opened the gate to the chicken yard and allowed them access to the sheep pasture. If I lost another hen, I'd close them back up in the chicken yard.

The hens went about their merry way, pecking and scratching. In the afternoon, they hung out in the barn and clucked at me for scratch grain. 

When I went in the barn yesterday, only four clucked at me.

A Buff Orpington was missing.

So, I did my walkabout, looking for feathers and wondering what got her.

I found no feathers and found no hen.

Could she possibly be laying an egg?

At this time of year, with short days, the hens don't lay eggs often. I was averaging an egg a day earlier this month, but hadn't found any eggs for over a week. I lifted the lid to the nesting box, and found no hen nor no egg.

So, I went about my chores, bummed that I'd lost another hen and that I'd have to confine them to their chicken yard. While walking the dogs in the fading afternoon light, I looked toward the chicken house and saw three Buff Orpingtons. Where had she been hiding out?

After feeding the dogs, I went back to the chicken house where the hens were roosting for the night, and counted five chickens.

The chicken house has nesting boxes on both sides.

Then, I walked to the side of the chicken house that houses nesting boxes that the hens haven't used for over a year--and that I haven't checked for weeks. There I found 10 eggs, including one that was clean and still warm. Apparently the hens (wanting a change of scenery?) had walked across the chicken house and chosen a new nesting box, and for the past few weeks had been laying eggs there.

The Buckeye hen in the nesting box.

And, so I was reminded on this late December day, when the sun rarely shines bright and always sets too soon, and when a pandemic dampens the holidays, that there are glimmers of hope and joy--even if it comes as finding the "missing" golden hen and eggs.

Merry Christmas all!

 

 

The Cycle of Life: Hen Edition

I stopped counting at seven.

Where was number eight?

I opened the hen house door, hoping to get a better view. Three Buff Orpingtons, three Buckeyes and one Silver Laced Wyandotte lifted their eyelids. The hens had settled onto the roost for the evening and were slumbering. The other Silver Laced Wyandotte was nowhere to be found.

Could she be sitting on a nest somewhere? If she was, she'd make an appearance at feeding time in the morning.

She didn't show up in the morning.

The fox must be back.

Last summer, a fox killed six of our hens. I wanted to post a sign telling the fox to eat bunnies, but leave the chickens alone. But foxes can't read. Instead, we built the chicken enclosure and surrounded it with electric netting.

After several months, hoping the fox had gone elsewhere, we let the hens out to free range again. For months, the hens have delighted in roaming the sheep and horses pastures, plucking dandelions, worms and bugs.

We had no losses until a few days ago. After a hen went missing, I confined the others to their fenced-in run and pondered how to outfox the fox.

A few days later, I found black and white chicken feathers in the horse paddock.

Maybe it wasn't a fox. Maybe it was a hawk.

Last summer, my friend told me how she saw a hawk swoop into the horse paddock and carry off a pigeon.

I wish the hawk would take all the pigeons, I thought at the time.

A few years ago, some pigeons escaped from a nearby farm, took up residence in our big barn and multiplied rapidly. Our pigeon eradication program--involving a gun and lots of arm flapping, yelling and running around the lofts was unsuccessful. This spring, we resorted to covering all of the hay and equipment with tarps to protect them from pigeon droppings.

While standing in the horse paddock, examining the chicken feathers, I realized that the pigeons were gone.

Had the hawk, upon running out of pigeons, swooped into the paddock, picked up the chicken, eaten it and said, "Hmmm, tastes like squab?"

Sometimes I think we paint our barns red, install four-board fences and plant flowers to distract from the messiness of farm life and nature. Birds and animals have to eat, and sometimes that means eating other birds and animals.

Try as I may, I cannot tell the wild animals to leave their claws off of the domestic ones. Nature doesn't work that way.

So,when I let the hens free range and roam free, I accept that one or more may die. When that happens, I confine them for a month or two, hoping the predator moves on and they can roam free again.

For now, the hens will remain confined to their small chicken run. In a month or two, I'll let them out, and in the evening, I'll count them. When I stop at six, then the confinement begins again.

Who's Smarter? Me or the Fox?

We've had chickens for 20 years, and until this year, had few problems with predators.

The husband would credit Llambert, the now deceased llama, for keeping them at bay.

I always thought that nothing would come near where the Border collies tread.

This summer, though, a red fox got into our chickens one night.

And, then she came back during daylight hours and snagged a hen. I know, because I saw her.

So, I locked up the pullets in the pullet house and the four remaining hens in the hen house, and pondered how to allow my chickens to roam outdoors while still protecting them from the fox.

While I was researching electric poultry net, a friend told me of another threat: she saw a red-tailed hawk swoop into the horse paddock and carry off a pigeon.

So, I pondered and researched and pondered some more.

In an ideal world, the hens would roam the pastures, ride the occasional sheep, and generally be everywhere. But leaving them roaming now means they'll be picked off by predators.

So, I spent the past weekend building the chicken fortress: an enclosed coop and yard, surrounded by electric poultry netting.

I'm almost certain I'll get shocked on a daily basis. Will it keep the fox out and the hawk at bay?

Time will tell.

There's Always That One

The pullet flock was happy to go outside this week.

The 8-week-old pullets are too big to confine in their pullet house, and too small to free range with the six adult hens.

So, my solution was, as it frequently is, to add more fencing.

Knowing they will be adult size in a few months, I went for the quick method, building a temporary fence around their pullet house. It allowed them to go outside, but kept the adult hens out.

Experience has taught me that not all my solutions are brilliant, and not all work. Erring on the side of caution, I kept the adult hens confined to the hen house on Wednesday and then let the pullets outside.

By day's end, three pullets were too chicken to go outside; five were enjoying their new digs; and five had proven that they were like mice, and able to squeeze through my fence.

I spent the evening catching pullets, and the following day planning for a grander temporary fence.

On Friday, I made a second attempt at pullet confinement. After completing the fence, I let the pullets outside. Within minutes all were outside, scratching for bugs and plucking weeds. At day's end, 12 pullets returned to their house and roosted.

And then there was this one, a Cuckoo Maran, who was in the sheep pasture, cooing, "Don't fence me in."

I wasn't going to argue with her.

Chicken Little

The Buckeyes are okay with snow. The
Wyandotte? Meet our newest barn
resident.

When the snow started falling Saturday morning, two Buckeye hens peered out of the chicken coop and opted to stay inside where it was dry, and food and water were plentiful.

Three other Buckeye hens and the Silver Laced Wyandotte did what they also do; they ventured out to roam the pastures and visit the sheep and horse barn where they were sure to find bits of grain and seeds among the hay chaff.

As the snow continued to fall, they lazed and scratched under the barn's lean-to. When the sun began setting, they noticed the wide swath of snow that separated them from their chicken coop.

Collectively they decided that could not walk through 5 inches of snow, and it was certainly too great a distance to fly. Allowing me to catch and carry them was also out of the question.

And so, as the afternoon faded into evening, I walked back and forth from the chicken coop to the barn, stomping the snow and creating a path for the chickens. They refused to leave the barn.

I, though, was cold and hungry and more than willing to leave the barn. I'd return in a few hours when they were roosting, grab them and carry them to the coop.

But, when I checked the hen house a few hours later, I found all five Buckeye hens on their roost and snoozing. The Silver Laced Wyandotte was by roosting by herself in the barn. Unlike the Buckeyes, she refused to put her dainty chicken claws in the snow.

Now, days later, the Buckeyes are okay with the snow and happily traverse the path from the coop to the barn. But that Wyandotte remains in the barn, waiting for the snow to melt.

Walk in the snow? No thank you,
I'm a chicken.

The Year of the Rooster

Blame it on the sheep minerals. This past winter, I was standing in line at the hardware store to pay for the minerals and saw the flyer for Chick Days.

There were photos of Buckeyes, Buff Orphingtons, Silver Laced Wyandottes, Rhode Island Reds and more. Usually we incubate our Buckeye chicken eggs. But here was a chance to get Buckeye chicks and maybe even try another chicken breed.

I left the hardware store with a mineral tub and an order receipt for 18 Buckeye and 6 Silver Laced Wyandotte chicks, straight run.

When ordering chicks, you can order all females, all males or straight run. With the heavier or rarer chicken breeds, buyers are only offered straight run, or as hatched. That's what we were offered, so we’d have a mix of roosters and hens.

The Silver Wyandotte rooster distinguished himself first. At  nine weeks old, his red comb was larger than the hens and he challenged the other chickens. A few weeks later, he attempted to crow.

“The Wyandottes must mature faster than the Buckeyes,” I mused as I scanned the flock, trying to pick out the young Buckeye roosters, who had yet to grow long tail feathers and to crow.

A few weeks ago, the Wyandotte rooster went to a friend's farm, and the noises from the chicken house ceased.

The chickens are four months old now—and none crow. They all look alike.

“I don’t think we got a straight run,” I tell my husband. 

In the Year of the Rooster, we have no roosters.

Zero Degrees in the Barnyard

When temperatures dip below 20 degrees, people ask how the barnyard animals are handling the cold.

The horses, sheep and even the chickens handle the cold weather better than the hot weather. For, with winter coats and a wind break, they only need extra hay to warm up.

And they love extra hay.

Last night temperatures dipped below zero degrees Fahrenheit, but the winds were calm. So the horses spent the night in the pastures, pawing through snow for grass, rolling and snoozing.

For the dogs, temperatures below zero mean shortened walks. Old paws feel the cold in sub-zero weather and after five minutes or so, I few of the dogs begin tiptoeing.

The sheep have hooves instead of paws, so after eating their hay they mosey to the pasture. Their thick coats and low stature handle the cold just fine.

The chickens venture outside, but not as much as when it's warmer.

The Buckeye chickens were developed to handle Ohio winters. They have short combs and heavy bodies. They don't let a little snow keep them from roaming.

After lunch, when temperatures finally reached double digits, I took the dogs on their daily walk around the hay fields.

Jack came back with icicles, and Niki, with a dirty nose.

Both seemed disappointed that herding training wasn't on the afternoon agenda.

But 20 degrees is when the human works the dogs on sheep.

The One New Year's Day Regret

I spend part of New Year's Day doing activities that I'd like to do throughout the year. Lucky for me, the sun came out and the temperatures climbed to the 40s, so I could spend hours outdoors.

 Pictured from left are Tag, Raven, Niki, Jack and Caeli. This was taken right before I released them so they could run in the fields.

I started the day like I do most, with the dog walk. But on this day, because the sun was shining and because I had time, I extended the walk to the far hay field and lingered as the Border collies hunted for mice, rolled in the grass and chased each other.

I followed that up with several rounds of herding training--a treat when the weather is warm, the ground is soft, but not muddy.

I took time to admire the horses, soaking in the afternoon sunshine.

Lily, like always, is front and center. Jet is behind her.

Noticing their bushy bridle paths, I took them in the barn for hair cuts, grooming and lots of peppermint treats. Is there anything more soothing than listening to the barn radio and the swish of scissors while standing over a horse? 

And, while being lulled by the horses, I made my New Year's Day mistake.

I addressed the chicken issue.

For months now, I've been squabbling with the hens who insist on sleeping in the horse barn, rather than the chicken coop. Carrying hens from the horse barn to the chicken coop has become a nightly chore.

I decided to put a stop to that and move them to the other chicken house, the chicken house that has a fenced yard and no direct access to the sheep and horse barn.

I spent New Year's Day preparing the chicken's new home. I cleaned it out, spread fresh straw on the floor and stapled plastic over an opening to cut down on drafts. That evening, I carried 2 roosters and 16 hens to their new home.

This morning, they roamed their new yard and gobbled up butternut squash seeds and apple cores.

They seemed happy, they seemed content.I was happy, I was content.

But as dusk approached, one hen flew over the fence and into the yard. Another flew over the fence and marched to the horse barn.

And so this evening, I did what I'd done on New Year's Day: I moved a chicken from the horse barn to the chicken coop.

The Chicken Wars

Getting chickens to accept a new home is easy.
Just move them to the coop at night.
When they awake, they'll know it's their new home,
and they'll return to roost in the evening.

Unless they don't.

For the past few weeks, I've battled the chicken wars.

We have two chicken coops on the farm. With winter approaching, I thought it best to move them to the larger, more weather-tight hen house. On a moonlit night, I carried each hen to her new home. A few murmured as I placed them on their roosts in the coop, but most dozed through the process.

In the morning, I let the chickens of their new coop, and they foraged, wandered and found the horse and sheep barn to their liking.

That night three returned to the hen house.
Two perched on the horse stall doors.
Seven took up residence in the ram pen.
Five huddled in the horse's stall.
Two nested in the sheep stall.

By moonlight, I moved them to their coop.The following morning, I fed them in the hen house and waited until mid-morning to let them out. That evening, I again found the chickens nesting in the sheep/horse barn.

Maybe I need to make the chicken house more inviting.
Maybe they need more time to acclimate to the coop.

After cleaning out the coop. I spread new wood shavings on the floor, and then gave them an extra bag of shavings for good measure. I left the chickens in the coop for three days. Before letting them out, I closed the doors to the ram stall and the sheep stall.

That night, 13 chickens returned to the chicken coop. Five found the open door to the horse stall. My husband and I gathered the five and returned them to the chicken house.

Last evening, before dusk, my husband closed all the doors to the barn, so the sheep, horses and chickens could not enter.

All hens are now sleeping in the hen house. The sheep and horses are sleeping outside, under the stars.

I am certain the chicken wars are not over.

The Zucchini Solution

Mama Hen and her three chicks inspect a tomato, their first of the season.

Because it is summertime, and I have a garden and a flock of chickens, I am a picky produce eater.

When I find three zucchinis that grew a foot overnight, I don't make them into bread or mix them with cheese and bread crumbs. I simply break them in two and toss them over the fence to the chickens who cluck in delight.

Is that cucumber past its prime? Over the fence to the chicken yard it goes.

Tomato have a spot on it? The mama hen and chicks will love it.

In my Before Chicken years I felt compelled to use or give away everything I grew in the garden. The 2-ft. long zucchinis and bushels of tomatoes that I had no time to process took away the joy of gardening and eating fresh produce.

But now that I have chickens, I take joy in tossing the excess and damaged produce over the fence and watching them gobble it up. And, I can savor the six-inch tender zucchini, the perfectly ripe tomato, the crunchy, snack-sized cucumber.

...And There Goes the Weekend

I walked into the hen house tonight, and two fluffy yellow heads and one watchful hen greeted me.

When I returned with a camera, one chick had buried itself under its mama. The other one was cautious, but curious.She kept peeking out from under her mama's wing.

Mama Hen will stay on her nest for another day or so, until she's sure there are no more chicks to hatch. After hatching, chicks can survive 72 hours without food and water. This allows Mama Hen to stay on her nest and complete the hatch.

Inside the house, I have another distraction--11 hot chicks in the bathroom.

I had placed eggs in the incubator, and the chicks began hatching on Tuesday morning. In a few days, I'll repace the newspaper with cedar shavings and soon, they'll go to the chick house.

But for this weekend, I will be taking a break from planting the garden, from cleaning the horse barn, from weeding the flowerbed, from mowing the pastures, to watch the chicks.

Llama Love

When we were considering a llama as a sheep guardian a decade ago, people advised to get one llama, not two.

A single llama will bond with the sheep; two llamas will bond with each other.

For a decade now, Llambert the Llama has watched over the barnyard and pastures. He's learned who belongs and who doesn't. He raises neither a lip nor twitches an ear when he sees our dogs in the yard, but a visitor's dog sends him into alert mode.

And, he's learned to tolerate the Buckeye chickens who roam the farm and think nothing of hopping on his back.

Or maybe they've come to an agreement: a soft, warm roost in exchange for a back massage.

No Slumber Parties for Him

When I returned from the early morning dog walk, Trick the Cat was not perched on the picnic table and awaiting his morning meal.

Now 8 years old, the muscular tabby is a man of routine. He comes to the house for breakfast, takes a nap in the barn, then hunts the fields and barns for mice, birds and rabbits.

I didn't think much of his absence until a few hours later when I went outside to do the morning chores.

His cat food was untouched and he was not in the barn. I hoped he'd gotten locked in a building--and made a note to look for him.

But I didn't need to do that. As I approached the chicken house, I heard his insistent cry. He marched out when I opened the door.

Instead of "thank you," he said, "what took you so long?"

On his evening patrol, he must have gone hunting in the chicken house.

Because chicken food attracts sparrows and mice, Trick

routinely patrols the chicken yard and house.

 When closing the chicken door at dark, I didn't see him so he spent the night with the hens, a few roosters and probably a few unlucky mice.

Did he curl up in a nesting box, snug and secure? Did he stay up talking to the murmuring hens? Did he bat at the roosters' tail feathers?

He is not saying.

But when I took the dogs on their early walk this morning, he was perched at the picnic table, awaiting his morning meal.

Not all that falls is snow...

The sub-freezing weather hit this week, and I'm breaking ice from buckets and feeding hay, lots of hay.

Most mornings and evenings, I'm pulling another bale from the stack.

While reaching for the far bale in the corner, I'm counting bales. Is there enough hay to get through the week or do I need to move some from the hay storage barn?

Eggs fall on my shoulders.

For more than a week now, while I've been in the warm indoors, a hen has flown over the stall gate and laid eggs on the hay bale.

Lucky for me, it is 3 degrees and the eggs froze long ago.

Is the hen really planning to hatch chicks in January? Or, is she like the cats, the dogs, the humans and horses -- bored and looking for a little excitement in the cold, dark month of January?

She is not around, so I cannot ask her.

Instead, I gather the frozen eggs.

I will defrost them one at a time, and the dogs shall have a January treat.

A Conversation in the Hen House

At dusk, the hens retreat to the hen house and murmur as they settle in for the night.

I'm not sure what they're saying, but this fall, I suspect the conversation is going something like this.

Old Hen 1: Did you see what that young one did today? She went and laid an egg.

Old Hen 2: Drat! That means no eight-week holiday from egg laying for us.

Old Hen 1: Guess we'll have to produce a few eggs each day... It'll save us from the stew pot.

And a few weeks later...

Old Hen 1: Those young ones keep laying eggs.

Old Hen 2: Yeah, but they're itty-bitty eggs.

Old Hen 1: We could do better.

Old Hen 2: Yeah, we'll show them.

Yesterday, on the first day of December, this is what we collected from the hen house.

Chicken, anyone?

I took a moment to admire the flock of 14-week-old chickens the other day.

The cockerels are growing black, iridescent tail feathers; their gold-mahogany neck feathers shimmer in the sunlight.

That's going to be a handsome rooster, I think as I look at one.

And that's going to be another handsome one.

And there's another good-looking one.... and another ... and another.

I take a moment to count the cockerels. Eleven cockerels. Six pullets.

Rarely do we have a 50-50 ratio of males to females. This year we have lots more cockerels than pullets, and more ewe lambs than ram lambs.

In the fall, after selecting two cockerels to keep, we'll be eating a lot of chicken.

The Roosters' New Home

"How'd you get all the bruises on your legs?" the husband asks.
.
"Grrr..." I say. "Those roosters."

This year's roosters rank No. 3 on the Most-Aggressive-Roosters-Ever List -- behind Andy the Barred Rock who terrorized me as a child (had to carry a rolled newspaper with me when I fed the chickens. He met his demise days after attacking my father.); and then there was Uckhead, a Golden Comet, who arrived with our first batch of chickens on the farm. His spurs were so sharp that they cut my jeans.

But the problem with this year's roosters is that there are two--and they double team us. Many days I've found myself facing two roosters and fending off one with my left foot and the other with my right. And they're agile, moving through the pipe gates from one paddock to the other.

We keep sticks at the gate entrances, but sometimes I don't grab one if the roosters are off in another paddock. I regret it moments later, when they come attacking.

And, so after months of being terrorized by roosters, I moved them to their new homes.

"It's only temporary," I tell them, circling July 1 on the calendar.

Will there be chicks?

In a few weeks, I'll know if it's the Year of the Hot Chicks or the Year of the Rotten Eggs.

My first attempt at incubation was a red hot fail. Hatching eggs requires a steady temperature of 100 degrees.

To keep Dewey Kitty from shredding the incubator, I put the incubator in the husband's unheated workshop, which was fine until the weather warmed and the incubator temperature soared to 108 degrees.

So I tried again, this time in the house. To keep Dewey Kitty from shredding the incubator, I put it in Caeli's crate. The Border collie is counting down to hatch day so that she can move from her temporary little crate to her big wire one.

Meanwhile, the hens have gone broody.

One hen did it the right way, building a nest, laying eggs and snuggling in.

Unfortunately, she got up to eat at the same time the spouse was collecting eggs.

When, a half hour later, during dinner, he mentioned how many eggs he collected, I dropped my fork, grabbed the eggs that were still sitting on the counter, and sprinted toward the hen house where I deposited all the eggs back into her nest. Did they cool too much? I don't know.

Meanwhile, everyone wants to be a mom in this nesting box. I have no idea how many eggs they're sitting on -- or if any hen is assuming the duties of turning the eggs.

When this happened a few years ago, three hens hatched out three chicks... and then no one wanted to be the mom. Finally, an old hen stepped up.

What'll happen this year? In a few weeks, we'll know.