Rachel Dahl
I got new chickens. Ten of them. Hens from one of Josi’s friends. We’re now at 23.
So far in this new batch we have Denise – the spicy redhead who just hangs out with me all the time. Pretty sure she’s really an Edgmon. Then there is Rose, the sweetest, prettiest little fluffy head, and Blanche of the silver feathers, and Sophia who is all white and also has a fluffy head. Dorothy is white with black tail feathers and seems to be the wisest of all of them, hanging out most of the day in the tamaracks. I don’t know who the other five are yet – but they’re all fairly friendly and are settling in quite well.
It appears that the Boyer Bunny Ranch is becoming the rescue of choice for urban-dwelling chickens in Reno. Let’s face it, if you were a chicken, you probably wouldn’t want to live in Reno either.
Larry came from a gal in South Reno who discovered she was he after binging chicks at the hardware store. Apparently, her neighborhood has a strict “No Rooster” policy and she needed him gone before anyone figured it out.
Chester the Fabulous came from Lemmon Valley. A guy posted on Facebook that his neighbor was threatening to shoot him – the rooster not the guy – and he needed him gone that very day. I met him and his kids at a Starbucks off the freeway and send them pictures from time to time of Chester with his harem.
He settled in fast – we had lost our original rooster to the owl, and the minute I let Chester out of the carrier into the yard, Goody claimed him for her very own. Love at first sight, quite literally. They are inseparable. But he has also turned out to be the most amazing protector of all his girls, patrolling the yard, getting in between them and whatever, including me. He regularly attacks my lower legs as I go in and out of the shed getting them food and checking for eggs. Ungrateful rascal.
At first, I had a little PTSD from the horrible rooster we had as kids at Yeoman Lane. The one who eventually met his demise at the end of a polo mallet when he attacked my mom as she was carrying a brand-new Harvey across the yard. That creature was the reason I hadn’t become a crazy chicken lady until this late stage in life.
When he first got here, I wasn’t sure Chester and I were going to make it. He would relentlessly fly at me and grab or spur or peck or whatever show that is in a great display of bravado, sending my heart racing and offending my delicate sensibilities. Until one day when I was out in my barn boots and heavy leggings and realized it didn’t really hurt, it was just intimidating. Now I just let him have at it and walk through the bluster. I’m actually so impressed by his protectiveness that I wouldn’t want to do anything to discourage him.
It’s been really interesting to watch all of them interact with each other and the cats and the Great Dane. Each one of them has a distinct personality and there really is a pecking order and they establish it fast. Pretty glad the cats were kittens at first because they are firmly at the bottom of the pecking order. And no one has any use for Clio unless they’ve gone wandering off and she gently trots off to round them up.
So while we revel in our chicken-lady-ness and hunt the yard for wayward eggs, we’ll be right here…
…Keeping you Posted.
Rach.
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