Meet the Chicken

We have added a chicken to the homestead. Gee. I didn't even know I had a homestead. I just have a small town home a garden, some grape vines and blackberries. And a bunch of herbs. And a penchant for canning. And a hobby of learning to use herbs for more than cooking. Not to mention the knitting and sewing. And... And... When did this become a homestead?

Now, about the chicken?" you ask. She is a rescue that my daughter-in-law brought home.  Lisa, the daughter-in-law, drives a semi. She found the chicken running loose in the parking lot at a Tyson slaughter house. Since no one claimed the feathered refugee, Lisa popped her into the cab of her truck and brought her home. I have no idea what breed of chicken she might be, but we've been calling her Lucky Leghorn.  We are pretty sure she was a caged bird, but I am very pleased she never had her beak trimmed.  It took her a week to become accustomed to walking and exploring a small cage at my son's house. Today Lucky was introduced to her new home: the 10x20' former dog pen in my back yard.

As soon as Lucky was released into the pen, my black cat Loki found his way inside. He went to sniff the chicken and Lucky pecked him on the nose. Ouch! He retreated to the water dish to check out the beverage on tap. Lucky spotted a long, black, fuzzy wormlike thing and pinched it. Ouch, again! If you look closely at the photo, you will see Loki on the right side of the pen, staying as far away from that Evil Chicken as he can get. Shortly after the photo was taken, Loki made his escape and got far, far away.

My first priority was to get the top of the pen enclosed so neither my cats nor any visiting hawks or raccoons could get inside. Son Joe, granddaughter Lala, and I strung netting across the top of the pen.  It was hardly finished before another of my cats, Lonesome, jumped up to check out the handy work. He must have been talking to Loki, because he didn't even try to get closer to Lucky.

Now Joe is building Lucky a small hen house where she can get out of the weather. I have a bit of straw I can tuck inside later for nesting material.

Dad built the dog pen in 1961 for his hunting dogs. I bet both he and Mom are in Heaven laughing about this latest use of his 53 year old dog pen.

UPDATE:  The chicken's name didn't stick. We got to calling her Mrs. Cluck, from Disney's Robin Hood. That worked fine until "Mrs. Cluck" started crowing. Oops!

So now he is Mr. Cluck.  He's such a lot of fun. Whenever we go to the pen to feed him he runs to the gate to greet us. Technically we are not supposed to have a rooster inside the city limits, but no one has complained and I will keep my happy chicken until I have to move him. Fortunately, Joe and Lisa live 1/2 mile outside of town on 5 acres. If the city complains, I can see if the kids can take him.

Mother's Day, 2014

Morning Has Broken!

The Cat Stevens song is running through my head. I was awake early today (really early), so I took my hot tea and breakfast on the back porch. There were too many clouds, trees and houses to see the sun rise, but every bird in my neighborhood was caroling the dawn. I enjoyed my quiet time to commune with the new day.

I love spring. It rained last night, so the grass is that extra vibrant green of freshly watered spring grass. Charming and Sugar were snuffling and rolling in it. Loki, our youngest cat, followed everywhere Sugar went, stalking her dog run as it trailed in the grass. Every so once in a while he would pounce... then she'd walk off (never seeing him) and he'd shake himself and look around. What the dickens?

It's a good morning. Happy Mother's Day to all.

Furball and Squirrels

Furball

My oldest cat, LC Furball, is a character. I found her in Grand Prairie, Texas, in 2002 as a six-week-old kitten. She was caught in the plants on the neighbor's porch. I knew she was lost because that neighbor didn't care for cats. She was raised by our German Shepherd, Hagar. No matter that he was a dog, and a male, to Furball he was Mama. She mourned when he died.

When Furball was half grown, she found a way to slip out an upstairs window and lurk on the garage roof watching for squirrels. She was a mini-panther. She was a fierce hunter. She stalked squirrels.  Until the day one caught her.

The neighbor told me about it that evening. She looked out her back door to see a squirrel sitting on the cable TV wire that stretched across her yard and attached to my house. Furball saw the squirrel, too, and slipped across the wire to catch her prey. She caught him! But squirrels have sharp teeth. Once Furball had him, HE didn't let go. The neighbor said she wasn't sure what would have happened if the wire had been larger. It wasn't. They fell off!

Furball dashed one way and the squirrel went another. Each was happy to escape the monster on the wire.

Watching for squirrels

I found Furball and doctored the bite on her chin. She snuggled close to me and told me what a mean creature that squirrel was. From that day on, the mini-panther did her squirrel hunting from behind windows. She had no desire to return to the roof.

Furball was traumatized when we moved to Kansas. This house is surrounded by trees -- FULL OF SQUIRRELS! She rarely goes outside now. She will lurk at the screen door and peer outside. Where are the squirrels? If it is pitch black outside, she will venture as far as the porch. She rolls around and basks in her freedom. Any sudden noise will send her scurrying back to the safety of the house. Most of the time she follows me from room to room, lounging nearby, keeping an eye on me. Perhaps I am her protector, the new Mama now that Hagar is gone.

Jen says she knows Furball's secret: she's nuts, and she is afraid the squirrels will collect her.

Furball Lends a Paw

I am drawing the line. As you can see, Furball is helping. When Pat came home for lunch he brought me a second roll of blue tape. That really helps. After the lines are drawn, I can lay both lines at the same time.

In case I do this again, I'll document what I've learned. First-- knee pads are a must! That floor is HARD. I tried various methods of drawing the lines. The easiest one doesn't even require a pencil. Just a good yard stick and the tape.

I place the yard stick near the wall and use the tape to mark the 12" point. I'll next use the second roll of tape to mark the 13" point. I press the first six inches down securely on each piece of tape so they won't come loose when I tug on them later. Then I move the yard stick about 1/3 of the way down the floor and position the edge of the stick on the starting point of this "brick". Using the first roll of tape like a plumb line, I "snap" it straight to the 12" mark and secure it to the yard stick. I now have a straight line. I repeat for the second role of tape, securing at the 13" mark. Press the tape down and progress to the next section of floor.

Quick. Straight. And no pencil marks to paint over if there is a mistake.

Peeping Tom

While the painting is in progress, we put the boys outside. (Furball, the Ladycat, is afraid of squirrels. She never leaves the house.) I'm not certain if Morris wanted to see what we were doing, or if he was telling me he wanted back in. However, we did have a Peeping Tom while we painted.

There is a cart parked under the kitchen window where I keep unused flower pots. The cats will jump on it and look inside to tell us they want in. The view behind him is the east yard and the three-car garage/shop. This is our main "back yard" because we seldom use the front door and only cross the west yard to get the mail. The south yard is another full lot. We use it for the garden and orchard.

Dewey and Sumo

Dewey is sitting on the front steps. He wants Pat to repair the broken step.

Dewey D. Cat is probably our largest tomcat. Morris, Joe's cat who is living here, has as much mass as Dewey, perhaps a bit more, but he is so compact he appears smaller. Dewey, however, is no match for the original Sumo. The original Sumo was at least 25 lbs. (Dewey is about 15).

Sumo was a rescue from the pound who needed a home. We never knew, but I imagine he grew up with a little old lady who overfed him. When she went to a nursing home, he went to the pound. I fell in love with his picture when a call for a home came out on the city e-mail. Unfortunately, Sumo didn't like to share with dogs and other cats, so he spent the rest of his life under our waterbed. He had his own catbox, food and water under there. The only way we could get him out was for me to crawl inside the waterbed and retrieve him.

Sumo lived with us less than six months. We hadn't seen him for a couple of days. When Pat checked under the bed, he was dead. Sumo is buried in Texas next to Worf and Lady Zsa Zsa. The verdigree yard ornament in this picture is about the size of the original Sumo and we call it Sumo in his memory.