“WAKE UP,” my husband David said softly. It was early on a Saturday morning in late May. “It’s Chicken Day.”
We had been working hard to get ready for the arrival of our first chickens, and the day had come, too quickly and not quickly enough.
I don’t remember much of what I did all day, although I’m sure I was fidgeting with the innocent anticipation of a little kid on Christmas Eve. The week before, we had met some people a few miles down the hill from us. They were in the process of moving, downsizing actually. Since there was no room for chickens at their new place, the birds had to go.
The chickens turned out to be Buff Orpingtons. Great! I thought. The Orpington was on my short list of preferred breeds, those that met all my criteria (more about this later).
I realized — too late — that I had failed to pay adequate attention when the birds’ owner mentioned an incident of the rooster rushing at him, quite aggressively, for no apparent reason. This bird was large, with a permanently peevish expression. I assumed (blush) that if we were just “nice” to the chickens, the rooster would mellow out.
Not knowing any better, in spite of all my research, we also took at face value the man’s claim as to the birds’ age. “A year and four months,” he confidently stated. Much later, we concluded that if those numbers had been reversed, it would have been closer to the mark. The following spring, when our second-generation roosters grew spurs that were maybe an inch long by their first birthdays, we wondered. Papa Cock’s spurs must have been a good four inches long, not that we ever got close enough to measure. At least, not while he was alive.
Anyway, it was Chicken Day. We expected delivery of the birds and their coop late that afternoon. Although it was a bit pricey, we had decided to buy the coop from the owners because it had good storage space for feed and equipment. It also had nest boxes and roost space for more than four times the number of birds we were starting with. Plus, they would deliver it for a small fee.
I was nervous and excited and impatient by the time they drove up. The chickens were in waxed cardboard Chiquita banana boxes, which David and I transferred to the back of our car while the guys were maneuvering the trailer to put the coop in place. Finally, it was done, and the truck drove off as dusk began to deepen over the Olympic foothills.
Although it was a little early, we decided that it would be best to just put the birds into the roost for the night and let them settle down. So we took them, one by one, from their banana boxes and gently placed them into the roost through the side door, talking quietly to them. I was entranced by their soft clucking and cooing as they moved around the roost area. They were just beautiful. This was good.
After they were all tucked in and the coop doors secured, we walked back to the house. Actually I think I floated; it felt like Christmas, at the moment when you look at the pile of paper and ribbons and bows and realize the last gift has been opened. The anticipation of earlier that day had given way to a mixture of feelings: excitement at the start of something new; satisfaction (and relief) that we’d gotten through this part of the process; and even yet a little nervousness, on my part anyway. Had I learned enough? Would we be good caretakers of these beautiful creatures? Would they like it here? Would they be attacked and killed by a swarm of mutant killer bees their first day on our farm?
As we settled in for the night, David said, “Don’t be disappointed if the hens don’t lay eggs right away. They’ll probably be upset by the move; they need a little transition time.”
Okay, I thought sleepily. As I dozed off, it occurred to me to wonder how he would know that. Must ask him in the morning.