Wednesday
Jun222011
Tired and wet
Wednesday, June 22, 2011 at 9:16AM
Last night was one of those nights to remember. We had moved out first batch of broilers out to pasture last Saturday and everything has been going great. Yet, we have been waiting for rain - which is kind of hard to say given how insanely wet the Spring has been. Still, things have gotten dry, some plants have been struggling and the pasture is a bit more brown than green... but I digress - the real reason we were waiting for rain with the chicks on pasture is to teach them what to do. Having no concept of these balls of moisture hurtling at them from above - often they stand there soaking or worse yet panic and run into a corner.
The radar from the moment I woke up at 4am
At 4am the first flashes of lightening flickered in the bedroom and the distant rumble of thunder roused me from my slumber. As much as I wanted to stay snuggled up there were over 150 chickens in the pasture that were going to need me - even though they didn't know that yet. As I stumbled through the dark house to find work pants, a shirt and a headlamp one thought kept turning over and over in my mind, "You're crazy."
Outside the sky was a clear portent of strong storms coming. The wind was crisp and smelled of distant ozone. A duck quacked at me in the darkness that was past the reach of my headlamp... sounded like Aflac but could have been Mini. Walking to the pasture the crisp, cool wind in my face help return me the full usage of my sleepy faculties. As I approached the closest pen of chickens the first large raindrops began to fall, shattering the sounds of the rushing wind with their abrupt snapping as they struck the metal roofs of the pasture pens. With the cool breeze and the natural timpani of the falling rain the young birds we clearly startled but this first pen was in excellent shape there were only 4 or 5 that had decided to sleep under the open roof portion of the pen and they were easily picked up and moved to the sheltered portion. "This is gonna be easy" I though. I closed the lid on the first pen and headed to the second as the frequency and brashness of the raindrops increased.
You may ask yourself "why is this important to do"? And that would be a very good question. The issue of chickens not knowing what to do the first time it rains is usually not a big one. When the first rain comes during the day the chickens that are getting wet may be confused but there are always enough chickens in the pen that they can see the dry ones lounging comfortably in the grass and they "figure it out" and move to dryer spaces. At night it's a different story. Chickens have terrible night vision which is why they like to roost. A roost is their only defense against predators at night, just up and out of the way. Well, when the first rain comes and it's dark out not only don't the chickens not know what's happening but they can't see it going on and they have no idea how to get away from whatever IT is.
As the beams from my headlamp reached the second pen the individual rapping of falling raindrops had transformed into more of a dull roar on the metal roofing. Inside pen number two about half the birds were out in the open just standing there confused and blinded as their little bodies grew wetter and wetter. I was outside at 4am for a reason so now was the time for action. Good pasture pens are built a certain way to allow easy acces and I was never gladder than this morning that our pens followed those principles. After removing 1/2 the top of the pen I joined the soaking chickens. Quickly I pulled my headlamp off and placed it so the beam illuminated the covered end of the pen thinking "if they can see where they need to go this will go a lot easier". Quickly, two by two, I moved the birds that were getting wet from the open area to under the covered end of the pen. About 20 birds in all, less than half, and most had not been soaked all the way through. As I grabbed my headlamp I thought about how this wasn't going to be too difficult after all. I left the top off the open end of the pen so I could get over to the last pen and see if there were any birds that needed rescuing.
As the illumination from my headlamp made it's way to the closest corner of the final pen it was actually obscured to some degree by the deluge of rain that was falling. I actually remember blinking hard because the entire corner of the pen looked white. "Holy (expletive sting) - it IS WHITE!" All the chickens in the pen must have been either out from under cover or the terrifying roar from the metal roof flushed those that were dry from the darkness and every single bird in the pen was piled up in the corner. As I feverishly began dissembling the end of the pen. As my wet fingers fumbled on slippery latches all the stories I had ever read or heard about broiler chickens smothering each other out of terror were suddenly rushing through my head. As the last latch came loose and the top of the pen was tossed aside, looking down that soaked, writing, peeping mass of chickens I wondered "how many would we lose"? What a horrible way to die too - choked of your last breath by a soaking wet fat meat chicken! "Hang on guys, I'm here" I said out loud, hoping somehow the sound of the voice that feeds might relax the grip terror had on the young birds and muster my strength for way surely awaited at the bottom of the pile.
As I knelt down in the pen I was acutely aware the squishy sensation on my skin was not mud. With rivulets of rainwater streaming down my shoulders and sometimes from the hood of my jacket into my eyes I placed the headlamp again so the sheltered end of the pen was illuminated and began grabbing chickens as fast as I could to see if there was any salvation to be had for those at the bottom of the pileup. Two by two I gently tossed soaking wet little roasters into the dry end of the pen that was reverberating with an impressive forte raindrop symphony. Two by two I dug through the pile of smothering fowl with a near panic just waiting to find my first limp body - wondering the whole while about the implications of mouth to beak breathing - wondering if I would try that extreme measure if confronted with the inevitable.
All 52 birds in the last pen were soaked to the skin, confused and dazed but at least they were now under shelter and breathing comfortably. As I rain continued to pound on me, my adrenaline subsided. After methodically reassembling the ends of both pens I felt compelled to take one last walk around to ensure no one had inadvertently entered the exposed portion of the pen and much to my pleasure discovered that not only had they stayed put but even had begun to nestle their soaked bodies down into the dry grass. As I turned from the last pen and started back towards the house I began to notice things. My boots were both ankle deep inside full of water. The non-mud squish I had encountered countless times as I scrambled and crawled about and been washed off by the torrent. The wind had subsided. The thunder was more distant and the flashes of white light less frequent. As I reached the house the very last drops of rain were falling.
I'm tired and wet today not because I wanted to be - but because I chose to be. From the moment we take an animal into our care they become our responsibility. Being a good shepherd to the flock is not optional, it's not something to be done when it's convient or comfortable, it's a requirement and bond that separates man from animal. And I'll be damned the day I willingly let something harm our flock.
Happy pastured chicken
The radar from the moment I woke up at 4amAt 4am the first flashes of lightening flickered in the bedroom and the distant rumble of thunder roused me from my slumber. As much as I wanted to stay snuggled up there were over 150 chickens in the pasture that were going to need me - even though they didn't know that yet. As I stumbled through the dark house to find work pants, a shirt and a headlamp one thought kept turning over and over in my mind, "You're crazy."
Outside the sky was a clear portent of strong storms coming. The wind was crisp and smelled of distant ozone. A duck quacked at me in the darkness that was past the reach of my headlamp... sounded like Aflac but could have been Mini. Walking to the pasture the crisp, cool wind in my face help return me the full usage of my sleepy faculties. As I approached the closest pen of chickens the first large raindrops began to fall, shattering the sounds of the rushing wind with their abrupt snapping as they struck the metal roofs of the pasture pens. With the cool breeze and the natural timpani of the falling rain the young birds we clearly startled but this first pen was in excellent shape there were only 4 or 5 that had decided to sleep under the open roof portion of the pen and they were easily picked up and moved to the sheltered portion. "This is gonna be easy" I though. I closed the lid on the first pen and headed to the second as the frequency and brashness of the raindrops increased.
You may ask yourself "why is this important to do"? And that would be a very good question. The issue of chickens not knowing what to do the first time it rains is usually not a big one. When the first rain comes during the day the chickens that are getting wet may be confused but there are always enough chickens in the pen that they can see the dry ones lounging comfortably in the grass and they "figure it out" and move to dryer spaces. At night it's a different story. Chickens have terrible night vision which is why they like to roost. A roost is their only defense against predators at night, just up and out of the way. Well, when the first rain comes and it's dark out not only don't the chickens not know what's happening but they can't see it going on and they have no idea how to get away from whatever IT is.
As the beams from my headlamp reached the second pen the individual rapping of falling raindrops had transformed into more of a dull roar on the metal roofing. Inside pen number two about half the birds were out in the open just standing there confused and blinded as their little bodies grew wetter and wetter. I was outside at 4am for a reason so now was the time for action. Good pasture pens are built a certain way to allow easy acces and I was never gladder than this morning that our pens followed those principles. After removing 1/2 the top of the pen I joined the soaking chickens. Quickly I pulled my headlamp off and placed it so the beam illuminated the covered end of the pen thinking "if they can see where they need to go this will go a lot easier". Quickly, two by two, I moved the birds that were getting wet from the open area to under the covered end of the pen. About 20 birds in all, less than half, and most had not been soaked all the way through. As I grabbed my headlamp I thought about how this wasn't going to be too difficult after all. I left the top off the open end of the pen so I could get over to the last pen and see if there were any birds that needed rescuing.
As the illumination from my headlamp made it's way to the closest corner of the final pen it was actually obscured to some degree by the deluge of rain that was falling. I actually remember blinking hard because the entire corner of the pen looked white. "Holy (expletive sting) - it IS WHITE!" All the chickens in the pen must have been either out from under cover or the terrifying roar from the metal roof flushed those that were dry from the darkness and every single bird in the pen was piled up in the corner. As I feverishly began dissembling the end of the pen. As my wet fingers fumbled on slippery latches all the stories I had ever read or heard about broiler chickens smothering each other out of terror were suddenly rushing through my head. As the last latch came loose and the top of the pen was tossed aside, looking down that soaked, writing, peeping mass of chickens I wondered "how many would we lose"? What a horrible way to die too - choked of your last breath by a soaking wet fat meat chicken! "Hang on guys, I'm here" I said out loud, hoping somehow the sound of the voice that feeds might relax the grip terror had on the young birds and muster my strength for way surely awaited at the bottom of the pile.
As I knelt down in the pen I was acutely aware the squishy sensation on my skin was not mud. With rivulets of rainwater streaming down my shoulders and sometimes from the hood of my jacket into my eyes I placed the headlamp again so the sheltered end of the pen was illuminated and began grabbing chickens as fast as I could to see if there was any salvation to be had for those at the bottom of the pileup. Two by two I gently tossed soaking wet little roasters into the dry end of the pen that was reverberating with an impressive forte raindrop symphony. Two by two I dug through the pile of smothering fowl with a near panic just waiting to find my first limp body - wondering the whole while about the implications of mouth to beak breathing - wondering if I would try that extreme measure if confronted with the inevitable.
All 52 birds in the last pen were soaked to the skin, confused and dazed but at least they were now under shelter and breathing comfortably. As I rain continued to pound on me, my adrenaline subsided. After methodically reassembling the ends of both pens I felt compelled to take one last walk around to ensure no one had inadvertently entered the exposed portion of the pen and much to my pleasure discovered that not only had they stayed put but even had begun to nestle their soaked bodies down into the dry grass. As I turned from the last pen and started back towards the house I began to notice things. My boots were both ankle deep inside full of water. The non-mud squish I had encountered countless times as I scrambled and crawled about and been washed off by the torrent. The wind had subsided. The thunder was more distant and the flashes of white light less frequent. As I reached the house the very last drops of rain were falling.
I'm tired and wet today not because I wanted to be - but because I chose to be. From the moment we take an animal into our care they become our responsibility. Being a good shepherd to the flock is not optional, it's not something to be done when it's convient or comfortable, it's a requirement and bond that separates man from animal. And I'll be damned the day I willingly let something harm our flock.
Happy pastured chicken