The Birds and the Bees

Weeks 2 and 3: The Atlanta Gig

I was told to guard against any chickens escaping. On my first solo morning, this was foremost on my mind. What would happen if one did escape? Could I lure it back inside or would I have to chase it around the yard until one of us gave out in sheer exhaustion? I had been instructed to don the nearby pair of Crocs to keep my own shoes from collecting any flotsam from the chicken house floor. After having done so, I positioned myself strategically at the door, gave a nod to my recently employed assistant and, as he opened the door, I swooped in saying “shoo.” They shooed. I wasn’t sure if chickens liked being shooed, but it seemed to work as I swiftly entered and my assistant shut the door behind me. No escapees.

These gals were the teenage chickens. They were not yet laying eggs. My job was to refill the feed bin and give them fresh water. On this my first morning on the job, I found the feed bin had been knocked off its usual spot and was completely filled with the shavings which covered the floor of the coop. I wondered if this was some sign of rebellion for being stuck with the novice chicken tender. After I dumped all the shavings out, I signaled to the door man to let me out. Oh no, this meant I had to open and close the door four times per visit thereby increasing the chances of fowl play. I wondered if I should streamline this effort. But the chickens were somewhat nonchalant about my exit and appeared to have zero intentions of rushing the door.

I came back in with a feeder full of some kind of juvenile chicken scratch that consituted their daily meal and they settled into pecking at the thing with abandon. Whilst they were thus occupied, I grabbed the water container for a quick refill. Unfortunately, these four seemed to have no sense of decorum as they had shit all over the damn thing from the handy roost above it. I gingerly picked it up and made my own escape. My trusty assistant hosed the water container off and we refilled it with fresh water then returned it to it’s spot beneath the poop post. Outside, I heaved a sign of relief that my first foray into bird care had gone off without a hitch…except for the desecration of the water container.

My next chore was to visit the “old gals,” the egg laying chickens. Their coop was not on the property. I coaxed my handy dandy assistant into accompanying me around the corner to the house with the orange front door right across from the next intersection. If it wasn’t for that orange door and that intersection I never would have found it again and would have been forced to call our friends, who might have questioned their judgement re allowing me to care for their chickens. The coop in that yard is the taj mahal of chicken containment. Only two of the old gals were in residence at this fancy abode. I must explain (as it was explained to me) the young’uns weren’t quite ready to mix with the geezers. Sounds like a teenage birthday party. Yes, we have to invite grandma and Aunt Gladys.

For these two delightful ladies, I had to dig into a bag of dead worms (dried until crunchy) and scatter a handful or so around the feeding mechanism, a contraption which dispensed via gravity their daily meal , which meant I did not have to mess with filling it. The water container was even better. It was not necessary to continually refill it as these birds were trained in “nipple drinking.” They drank like baby cows from a bucket with little red teats extending from the end. I merely had to check the water level in the bucket and marvel at the whole idea of training chickens to nurse like a litter of puppies.

Lastly, I checked the laying box for eggs. Two fake eggs were in residence in order to attract the hens into laying their bounty in the appropriate place. Generally, one or two real eggs appeared daily. I cradled them in my hands, locked up the coop and egg box and returned to our friends’ house for a cup of tea and an omelette. Just kinding, we saved them for a nice fritatta when our friends returned from their trip.

Atlanta is a huge metro area and one might be thinking we were in some sleepy suburb of that city tending the chickens and dogs. But, not so. We were in the heart of the city. There were also bee hives on the premises. Thankfully, we had no regular bee keeping duties to perform, though we did have a bit of bee wrangling to manage. One night, not long into our stay, I heard a buzzing sound next to my side of the bed. Our friends’ dog began shoving herself between the bed and dresser next to it. When we pulled her away, a bee flew up and landed on the wall.

Our minds began formulating a compassionate effort for removing the little guy to a more appropriate evening accommodation. We got a glass and a piece of a box with which to cover the top once we gently nudged the bee inside. True to form, the bee, perhaps sensing some sort of shenanigans on our part, took off and refused to land on any flat surface. This little rodeo went on for a bit until we decided to just sit and wait. Surely it would not be able to buzz around all night. Eventually this tactic paid off and we were able to corral that tiny dude into the glass and take it outside to lift off the cover and release him into the wild, or at least the wilds of the backyard where his co-bees lived in comfort.

We returned to the room, got into bed and heard buzzing. Surely he didn’t follow us back into the house and return to the scene of his captivity? Once again, we bided our time until we were able to catch the second invader and place him next to his buddy on the back porch. We slept the sleep of righteous-minded people everywhere. The next night, as we prepared to retire…yup, buzzing from the same spot. We briefly considered that there might be some sort of breach in the carpentry on that particular side of the house. The little sting-a-ma-bobs waited until we were alone, tired and vulnerable to attack through whatever portal they entered. Once more we launched a humanitarian effort to protect the bee while desperately performing a late night capture and release maneuver. After clearing our heads a bit, we realized they probably followed us in through the back door as we took our time ushering two rascally pups inside.

As you can imagine, there was a lot of shouting “Go, go, go!” at the back door when we returned from the daily walks with the dogs every day for the rest of our stay. No other bees were able to violate our defenses. Now you are probably wondering if we did anything else besides chicken tending, dog walking and bee lassoing. We did. We walked to parks with the dogs. We walked to restaurants for lunch and dinner (which felt like such luxury after the shutdown in Asheville). We even went to the zoo, only 3 miles away. We drove, but probably could have gotten there quicker if we had walked. Walking seems to be the major activity of our stay in Atlanta. We visited with family when we weren’t busy walking.

We did some major waiting in traffic, which is the hallmark of any visit to Atlanta. We watched as our friends’ neighbors slung up elaborate Halloween decorations. I had a nightly chat with the young chickens after our evening walk. I looked at a couple of nearby real estate listings–this due to my state of mind after getting a shower upon arrival after a week of stinkiness. We yearned for home, a home with running water. We stayed a couple of extra nights when our pals returned from their trip so that we could visit with them. I was really reluctant to give up the daily showers, but we wanted to check on our house and participate in early voting. So, we came back to Asheville.

There’s no place like home,

Cheryl

Next week–our return to paradise.