Chicken Farming 101
April is an animal lover too. A true animal lover. Her heart is immediately filled with waves of joy when she sees a fluffy, clumsy, cuddly puppy playing with a tennis ball or a curious, rambunctious kitten attacking a ball of yarn or a reflection on the wall. You can almost see any stress or tension that may have shown on her face only moments before nearly instantly disappear.
She has been this way most of her life. When we were only small children, we lived just down the road and up the hill from each other. We rode bus number five to school. She got on in the mornings just before I did, and I got off the bus each day just after she did. Every day when the bus would drop her off at the end of their driveway, you could look around the property at their home and see any number of exotic animals grazing in the pastures. And it wasn’t just dogs and cats. April’s family had horses, buffalo, bobcats, mountain lions, peacocks, ferrets, goats, and countless other species and breeds of animal. So with her upbringing, it’s easy to see how she would grow up to be an adult with a soft spot for animals. But still, there are a few animals she tends to hold in a higher regard than others, sort of a trinity, if you will. Horses, followed closely by dogs, and then there are chickens. She absolutely loves chickens. She loves to watch them peck around the yard for food. She loves to hear them talking to each other out in the yard and the rooster crowing at the start of each day. And she loves all the different breeds, varieties, and colors that are available. Chickens just make April happy.
One of her first memories as a child involves chickens. Unfortunately, it’s not one of her favorite memories. Nearly thirty years later, it still haunts her. As a little bright-eyed seven-year-old, she grabbed an armful of her new baby chicks that her stepfather had bought for her. Against her mother’s wishes, she snuck them into her bedroom, played with them until she got sleepy, then tucked them into bed with her and fell asleep hugging them closely against her body. Sadly, the next morning, she awoke to a scene from Of Mice and Men. Just like Lennie, she had cuddled and squeezed and loved the baby chickens too much. She had crushed them during the night. Unfortunately, there were no survivors.
I sometimes wonder if that tragic night so many years ago is what fuels her love for chickens now. She enjoys them more than you could imagine. When we first moved to our new property, we were so excited with all the possibilities. We had land and barns and room to do things we hadn’t been able to do when we lived in town. April quickly had a plan. No sooner had we moved into our house than she was out tearing out junk and old shelving from a toolshed in the backyard. She gave me a picture of what she wanted it to look like inside, and when I had finished with my little Bob Vila project, she had what I would call the fanciest chicken coop in East Texas. It’s the one I mentioned earlier, the one with a chandelier. If April ever decides to kick me out of the house, it’s nice to know I have a pretty, frilly, and comfortable pad I can crash at until I am back in her good graces.
Once the chicken coop was complete, it was time for her to start adding some new tenants. Our first chicken purchases were just some run-of-the-mill leghorns. White bodies with red combs on their heads, they are the most common chicken you will find. While April was happy to have them, she yearned for more variety, more color. A woman in a small Texas town some thirty miles away had dozens of varieties of chickens running wild on her property. She invited April out to look around. I volunteered to drive her out there, which turned out to be much more of an undertaking than I had anticipated. It was truly in the middle of nowhere. April got some very vague directions to the chicken property, and of course, we got lost. Once we had made multiple U-turns, we finally found our way to the right place. April looked around in awe at the chickens scouring the landscape. They were everywhere, and she was in heaven. We quickly found just what she was looking for. She got two dominickers and one black banty. They were small but pretty. She happily scooped them up and put them in the pet taxi we had brought, and we headed home. All the way back she talked excitedly about the beautiful flock she now had. She was ecstatic at the thought of having to gather fresh eggs every day.
Months passed by, and the chickens began to mature. The anticipation of them laying eggs was almost unbearable for her. Every day she’d make her way out to the coop looking for eggs, and finally, it happened. Her first egg! You would have thought she had won the Indy 500, judging by the celebration she was having. Then the next day, there were more. And April’s cup, it overflowed.
As the chickens got bigger, we began to notice that one of the dominickers looked a little different than the others. Bigger, thicker, and more aggressive. It was a rooster. But that was okay. One rooster wasn’t a big deal. But then, the other dominicker began to get bigger too. And thicker, and more aggressive. It was a rooster too. I had always heard that two roosters meant trouble. But they had been together since birth and had always gotten along, so it shouldn’t be any trouble, right? Unfortunately, no. That’s not correct. You are going to have big trouble. One rooster clearly had the upper hand. He was bigger, stronger, faster, and more aggressive than the other. Sadly, before we even had the opportunity to separate them, nature ran its course. And once again, I saw this thirtysomething woman turn into a sad little girl right in front of my eyes. I disposed of the smaller rooster, hugged and kissed her, and told her I was sorry. And then I did what any good daddy and/or husband would do. I bought her more chickens.
Are we great chicken farmers? Goodness no. Do I get unbelievably tired of having to clean chicken mess off of my porch every single day? Yes. Do I kind of want to kill the big rooster when he sits right outside my bedroom window and crows at 6:00 a.m. every Saturday morning? Yes. But as long as these stinkin’ birds keep putting that smile on April’s face, I suppose I will keep that chicken farmer out in the middle of nowhere on speed dial. Because what I hope is that our daughters are watching. And I hope they see that a man who loves them will do for them whatever is needed, whatever is asked, no matter how silly they may find it to be (like putting a chandelier in a chicken coop). Because they deserve that kind of respect and that kind of love. That’s not to say I am perfect. Far from it. But they know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I love their mama to death. And I certainly hope they each find a man someday to love them as much as I love her.
Beautiful Chaos
The cowboy way of life has been ingrained in my family for a very long time. I was the fifth generation of ranchers on the Rocking S Ranch, which would later be known simply as Stamper Ranch. We showed a lot of horses, pigs, and even a few cattle through the years. We judged horses and livestock and gave speeches in our FFA programs. We built fence for folks in town and delivered truckloads of feed for the old cattle farmers down the road who couldn’t haul it for themselves anymore. Very few kids have been more involved in 4-H and FFA than me and my siblings. I admit I didn’t always love it. As a child, it was a lot of hard work, a lot of long hours out feeding and washing and clipping and tending to sick animals. I didn’t get to go play quite as much as some of my friends.
My dad is a softhearted man, kind and gentle for the most part. But when it came to working with the animals, he became a different man. Inevitably tempers flared, voices were raised, and feelings were hurt. Now, don’t take that as bad as it sounds. In the whole scheme of things, this was “family time,” and it was fun, in a weird way. There was this strange synergy we had. Even though emotions were tense and more than a few tears were often shed, we still laughed, and we made these amazing memories that we continue to laugh about today, some twenty-five years later. They are my favorite memories with my family.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize what a blessing it was to be able to grow up in the country surrounded by trees and hayfields and pastures full of horses and cows. To breathe in the cool spring air and smell the fresh-cut hay and hear the bawling of a new pen of calves in the corner lot. But more than all that, the time I spent with my family out ther
e—in the winter, in the rain, snow, and sleet, or in the smoldering heat of an Oklahoma summer—was so much more. They are the fondest memories of my life. They are my most prized possessions and something that no one can ever take away.
I spent eighteen wonderful years on that ranch. Then I used all I had learned in 4-H and FFA and agriculture and was able to receive a full-ride scholarship to college. I spent the next four years engaging in extracurricular activities that would not have pleased my strict cowboy grandfather in the slightest bit. But then again, I did have something he had never had: a college diploma. And then right out of college, I got a good job with a decent salary, and my company put me on the road. For nearly fifteen years, I worked all over the country and in Canada. I traveled nearly three hundred days a year. I spent more time in airports, train stations, rental cars, and hotels than I could count. At first, it was fun. The country boy goes to the city. I spent a good bit of time in New York, Detroit, Boston, Toronto, Montreal, and Chicago. Places I never thought I’d visit. I loved it and became a professional traveler. I knew every restaurant or bar that was the place to be. I may have been the life of many parties, but that kind of killing time was killing me. I had gotten far away from my ranching roots. Such thoughts take me back deep in my memory.
But I am suddenly yanked back to reality by the screams of a teenage daughter. The pigs are loose and have scattered. They are just babies and haven’t had a lot of time to get gentled down just yet. Abby is wearing Carhartt overalls and rubber mud boots, clearly not the most conducive outfit to running sprints and chasing pigs, but she’s doing her best. And right on cue, the dad comes out in me, and I begin to yell and gripe and bark orders at her. She yells, “I’m trying!” as she rolls her eyes at me and continues to try to get these wild animals back in their pen. April and the girls and I finally get all four of them back in the barn and almost to their pen when one of them makes a break for it. He shoots through a gap and runs for the large door. Abby sees where he’s headed and starts her chase after him. Just as she gets to the door, within arm’s reach of the pig, her toe catches the water hose that is coiled on the ground. Her feet are way too far behind her, and there is no chance of her catching herself from this fall. April and I watch in slow motion as she hits the ground chest first. It draws a guttural ugh sound from her lungs on impact. And at that precise moment, I forget all about the pigs, I forget about the one that was quite possibly running as fast as he could for the highway. Instead, I focus solely on laughing at Abby. It’s the funniest thing I have ever seen. She’s not hurt, of course. As a matter of fact, the pig we were chasing has grown pretty curious as to what we’re laughing at as well, so he comes walking back up to us and then right into his pen as if nothing ever happened. It’s chaos. Beautiful chaos. And April, Abby, Emma, and I laugh the rest of the evening.
Twenty years from now, the girls probably won’t remember too much about these pigs. They probably won’t remember how they placed at the shows or how much money they won. But I can guarantee you this: they’ll never forget the time Abby face-planted in the barn while chasing that crazy Berkshire hog.
Flew the Coop
Not long ago, my lovely wife made a horse trade. She does this occasionally, and it’s an adorable trait. She wheels and deals and sometimes even makes a good one. This was one of those times. She traded a miniature horse we had named Sparky for two smaller miniature horses. You see, April is a photographer, and a good one if I do say so myself. She does a lot of minisessions with children. And one of her most popular minisessions is with a real live unicorn. Yep, you read that right, she gives little girls a chance to dress up as their favorite storybook princess and take a picture with a living, breathing unicorn. Okay, it’s not really a unicorn. It’s a miniature horse with a glittering cone strapped to his head, gold spray paint on his feet, and colorful hair extensions. But to these little girls, he is a magical creature.
Well, if you’re going to take such pictures, you need your own unicorn. So she bought Sparky. He was a good horse but not exactly the unicorn she was wanting. So she made a trade for these two others. They were a little smaller and just what she was looking for. One of them was a red dun. He is a little older and still a stallion. He will undoubtedly make a perfect unicorn someday. We decided to name him Dink.
The other one is only four months old. He was weaned right before we got him, and he was really missing his mama. A lot. It was sad to hear him cry and neigh for his mother. Emma, who was eleven at the time, was in the stall with him nearly all day the first few days we had him, playing with him and rubbing on him. She did her best to make him feel at home on our little farm. One of these times, she made a mistake. A horrible mistake. She didn’t shut the gate behind her. Being that he was still pretty nervous and anxious in his new home, when he saw an open gate, like any unicorn, he made a break for it. Interesting fact number 1: a scared baby pony can run as fast as a cheetah chasing a gazelle. I’m not even kidding. He was like a little pint-sized rocket shooting across our field. Interesting fact number 2: I am not as fast as a cheetah chasing a gazelle. It was like a race between Dale Earnhardt Jr. in his NASCAR and me trying to keep up on a tricycle.
The race (or chase) wasn’t even close. I was easily one hundred yards behind him within a matter of two seconds, and he wasn’t slowing down. I was, however. I couldn’t have been sweatier. And the little guy was gaining ground with every new stride. I hollered back at April, “Go get my rope!” So she headed back to the barn to get it, while I continued in pursuit of the tiny runaway.
Although I was clearly losing steam, the pony wasn’t. In fact, he caught another gear like he’d been hit in the hind end with a hotshot. Little dude was gone like the Road Runner. Interesting fact number 3: fences mean absolutely nothing to a horse the size of a small dog. They can go through a fence, or under it, without even the slightest hesitation. He never broke stride.
Meanwhile, the neighbors have a new dog that did not approve of my presence on their property. He was all over me, but I was too tired to even care. If he bit me, he just bit me. My legs were mostly numb anyhow, so it shouldn’t even hurt.
Finally, once the dog realized that I appeared to be suffering from emphysema or some other lung malfunction and was no danger to anyone, he went back home. I went on back to another house behind the neighbors, and there stood the little pony. Smug, smiling at me, it seemed, as he ate grass by their propane tank. But more important, he was standing still. Oh, thank God. I eased up on him like a mongoose on a cobra, walking ever so gently, although I’m sure my incessant wheezing wasn’t helping my sneakiness. I got within ten feet of him, and now April was coming up behind me. She couldn’t find my rope. Well, that’s just dandy.
I was quietly talking to the colt, and he was just staring at me. I inched closer…closer…closer…and he made a run for it. I hurled my body at him and, somehow, caught him by the front leg. You may think to yourself, Oh good! He caught him. It’s over. No way.
Interesting fact number 4: a tiny pony may be small in stature, but it is still as strong as André the Giant.
He hit me full force. Our heads butted. I bit my lip. I moaned. He jerked back. I fell forward. I grabbed another leg and finally wrestled him to the ground. Again, here I go with the wheezing and sweating. I actually feared for a moment that I was suffering from a massive myocardial infarction. I held on with all the strength I had left, and finally he stopped fighting. I had won. Either that or he had died under my weight. But no. He whinnied. He struggled a bit more but apparently realized I would sooner die than let go of him at this point. It was a mighty long walk back to our barn. As we approached the house, Emma was sitting on the porch swing. She said, “Sorry, Stoney.” I’m not sure I replied, but it was less out of aggravation and more out of my continued heavy breathing and possible cardiac issues.
April walked up to us and said, “That little guy sure flew the coop, didn’t he?” We chuckled and looke
d at each other and knew she had just named our newest unicorn addition to the farm: Coop.
A Predator in the Night
Although my family says I have a tendency to exaggerate things a tad, it would not be an exaggeration for me to say that some of the things that happen in our house are certainly out of the ordinary. When you put a group of five eccentrics like us into one house, you’re bound to have some pretty crazy stories.
As the man of the house, I am the official protector of all things on the farm. The girls feed the animals and love them and care for them, and I make sure they don’t get killed. Our neighbors have dogs that like to visit on occasion, plus there is a fox that lives nearby, and of course the occasional possum likes to sneak in and eat eggs.
Not long ago, we had an intruder. I was already in bed when suddenly I heard our backyard gate rattle loudly. I sat straight up and listened closely. Then I heard our young basset hound bawl as our chickens started squawking and carrying on. At 1:00 a.m., this is never a good combination. Something was definitely out there, and as official protector, I had a job to do. I jumped up out of bed, ran to the gun cabinet, grabbed my .22, and then headed toward the chicken coop.
The moon was huge that night and the yard brightly lit. To my surprise, I saw a coyote lying on his belly and slowly creeping up to the chicken coop. I yelled and immediately headed his way, leveling my gun on him. Of course, my scream startled him and he took off like a shot. I quickly surveyed my landscape, mostly to make sure there were no horses in my line of fire, and then took a shot. Judging by the yelping, I hit him, but he never missed a beat. In fact, he seemed to pick up speed as he ran away. By this time, I was standing beside our back porch. Our hound dog, the ferocious beast that he is (not), had apparently hidden underneath it. Startled by the gunshot, I assumed, he burst from underneath the porch bawling once again, from fear or bravado no one can be sure, running into my legs and getting tangled up in my feet.
My First Rodeo Page 11