Good Broody / Bad Broody

Pearl and Beryl are both broody.

Both are fluffed up and hot. Both think that they have to hunker down in a nesting box in order to incubate (non-existent) eggs. But that’s where the similarity ends.

Beryl is in an angry, bad mood.

Pearl sits placidly on the nest.

Beryl can’t bear to be moved. When I let the hens out to free-range, I disentangle the two broodies from their boxes and toss them outside, too. Beryl chrrrrs in frustration and runs back inside. Pearl goes for a stroll and takes a half-hour to scratch and eat.

Broody Pearl on an outing.

Then Pearl takes a dust bath.

Eventually Pearl returns to her nesting box and gently settles her fluff and heft back down. Meanwhile, Beryl, in her crazed state, has shoved Ruby out of a box and has smashed an egg before settling in.

And that is why, although Pearl is not laying, that I will leave her be. She is the perfect broody. If my coops weren’t full, I’d get her some chicks to raise. Beryl is the bad broody. She is now in the anti-broody coop.

She’s eating with gusto, rattling her feathers and chuck-chucking the entire time. It’s been two days and I’ve noticed a slight change. I’m hoping that she’ll be back on the roost with the others tonight. Or tomorrow.

If you want to know more about this condition, I’ve posted a new FAQ about broody hens. Who’s broody in your coop?

The Broody Hen

A hen goes about her day, sleeping, eating, dust bathing, scratching the ground, and generally doing chicken things. She’ll lay an egg daily, or at least  several times a week. She’ll take a break to molt in the fall, and won’t lay again until the darkest days of winter are over, but, generally, she’s active and productive. So, one day in the summer, when you step into the coop and your chicken is flattened like a platter in the nesting box, and she makes a horrid rasping noise, you worry. You pick her up and set her down on the ground and she remains fluffed out to three times her size and doesn’t move. The other hens either avoid her or rush up and peck her comb. She hurries back into the nest and yells at you. She does this day after day. She pulls the feathers out of her breast. You worry that she’s not eating. She’s certainly not laying.

A broody hen filling out a nesting box.

She’s not ill. You have a broody hen.

A broody hen is one who thinks that she is incubating eggs to hatch. It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing under her, although sometimes there is. She’ll sit on eggs that the others have laid. Sometimes a broody will kick a hen out of a nesting box and in her deranged state smash the very eggs that she’s claiming. Sometimes a broody will even sit on top of a hen that is laying. Incubation is three weeks and a broody hen might stay in a box for that entire time. Or longer. Some hens are genetically programmed to go broody. Some never do. There are breeds more prone to broodiness, such as the Cochins, Silkies and Buff Orpingtons.

You might not see her do it, but once a day a broody hen will get up and out of the nesting box, leave a ginormous stinky pile of poo, and eat and drink. She might even take a dust bath. Then she’ll go back on her nest. She’ll sit there, even on dangerously hot days when everyone else is staying cool in the shade. She won’t starve, but she will lose condition. You’ll want to do something.

If you’ve always wanted to hatch chicks, then this is your chance to do it without an incubator or a brooder. She’ll do the job. Just remember that at least half of the chicks will be boys, and you’ll need a plan about what to do with them. If this broodiness happens to coincide with an arrival of an order of day-old chicks, you can pop them under her at night and when she wakes up in the morning, she’ll be tremendously proud of herself. (Actually, there’s more to it that this – the broody that is going to care for chicks should be in separate housing.) However, this post isn’t about raising chicks. It’s about what to do about that angry, useless hen that is now taking up space in your coop and annoying anyone within a hundred yards of her.

You can ignore her. At some point she’ll stop being broody. That’s what I do with Pearl, the most perfect broody hen in the world. Pearl is a cochin. She spends the majority of her time filling up a nesting box. But she also gets up and out several times a day, especially if she hears that there are yummy things in the compost pile. She dust bathes. She takes a half-hour to free-range with the other girls. She doesn’t threaten any of them. She’s not laying, but she’s so content and true to herself that I let her be.

Broody Pearl on an outing.

 

Unfortunately, most broodies aren’t perfect like Pearl. Instead, they’re horrors, like Topaz. Topaz is a Buff Orpington. When she goes broody she becomes henzilla – the angriest hen on the planet. She smashes eggs. She growls at hens and people alike. Lulu, a Speckled Sussex, was equally bonkers when broody.

Broody Lulu

 

To break the spell, I put the broody hen into the anti-broody coop, which was originally an old rabbit hutch.

Anti-broody coop.

I supply the hen with food and water. There’s no place to nest and nothing to do. The wire floor allows for air circulation under her. This is essential, as broodiness is tied into an elevated body temp, and bringing it down will help to break the broody cycle. Some people claim that you can do this quickly by giving the hen a soak in cold water. I hosed down Topaz’s butt. It did nothing but make her wet and angrier. Some people say that you can slip a cold pack (or package of frozen peas) under her in the nesting box to chill her off. I did this and Topaz was delighted to have something to brood and it did nothing to break the spell. What does work is three days in the anti-broody coop. You’ll know your hen is back to normal when she greets you with normal clucks and is back to having her feathers at her side.

Some hens are persistently broody. After time in the anti-broody coop, Topaz will return to normal and lay eggs, and then a few weeks down the road will go broody again. She is a serial broody. Some will go broody only once and that will be it for the season. If your broody hen lives into old age, at some point she’ll stop going broody. Twinkydink was six the first year that she didn’t hunker down in a

. In her seventh year she started laying eggs again (sporadically, but still, she laid!) So, you never know.

My Lunch Box

When I was in grade school, my mother made my lunch every day. Tuna fish sandwiches on white bread. A pickle spear. Potato chips. A pink marshmallow covered cake (not homemade.) Sometimes it was bologna and pickle sandwiches. Sometimes meatloaf. With ketchup. You get the idea. These lunches were squishy and smelly. This was in the days before plastic zipper bags. The dill pickle was slipped into a wax paper bag that was, maybe if my mother remembered, twisted closed. The sandwiches, too,were wrapped in wax paper. Then it all went into a thin, inexpensive, small brown paper bag, which was too full to fold over. My name was written on with a marker. By the time I got off of the school bus at 7:45 the edges of the bag were damp. By the time I fished it out of my desk for lunch there was a soggy hole in the bottom of the bag. I don’t know why I didn’t have a lunch box and tidy Tupperware containers. Other kids had tins with the Monkees embossed on them, or Batman, or Flipper the dolphin. I had a small, crumpled, paper bag. This went on for years, until, gratefully in junior high, I was allowed to buy cafeteria food. Having lunch in a school dining hall with several hundred kids was horrifying enough, but bringing an odiferous, falling apart paper bag to the communal table would have made the experience unbearable. How I appreciated getting my meal handed to me on a neat tray!  I no longer wished for a lunch box. Anyway, at this point, lunch boxes were not cool.

Recently I bought this lunch box. I wonder how different my life would have been if I had carried my salami sandwiches to school in it.

It would not have made me instantly popular, and I still probably would have eaten by myself, but I would have liked having this goat for company.

I would have told stories to this dog.

I didn’t know any real chickens, but I would have enjoyed these. I would have named the horse.

I wonder who carried this to school. Was he or she proud of it? Or, is it possible that the child who owned this box wished for a brown paper bag that could be tossed right into the trash so that nothing had to be carried back home?

Did you have a lunchbox?

 

I Spy

Every year in the spring my father planted a vegetable garden. The rows were straight and the tomatoes grew out of holes in plastic sheeting. By June the garden was ignored. By August it was a tangle of plants and weeds. He’d stand near the edge and look at it. Nothing here to harvest, he’d say and turn back to the house.

I learned to ignore him and look under the leaves.

I Spy something yellow and orange in the squash patch.

Look closely!

I Spy something munching in the flower pot. MANY somethings munching. How many do you see?

Look closely!

I Spy something noisily cheeping in the garden shed.

It’s not in the nest.

It’s a fledgling on the can!

What’s that I Spy on the fence?

Another fuzzy-headed Carolina Wren!

There’s so much to see. You just have to look. What have you spied today?

 

Incredible Expanding Goat Bellies

My goats’ preferred food is bulky and coarse (and thorny!) I don’t have a large pasture for the boys, but I do have a small meadow that I manage with a portable electric netted fence. I let them eat one section down, while the other becomes overgrown with what you might consider weeds, but that they see as gourmet fare. I recently moved the fence to let Pip and Caper have access to brambles, grasses and flowers.

The boys could never be considered svelte.

Yet I am always amazed at what happens to their bodies when they eat – which they do, with much loud munching and burping.

Look at Caper’s asymmetrical shape after a half-hour of grazing! (That’s his rumen – one of four stomachs – jutting out.)

I guess that when a belly gets that full, that one gets itchy. Lucky Caper, the rock in the paddock hits exactly the right spot.