Little Farm in the Henhouse is Now Available!

Miss Broody—find her own little story below!

If you’ve dreamed about having a lively flock of chickens in your backyard, or you’re looking for tips to manage your laying hens, I hope you’ll check out my new book, Little Farm in the Henhouse: A True-Life Tale of Hen-Keeping Homestead-Style!

In this 4th book of my Little Farm in the Foothills series, you’ll meet our three flocks of hens—and discover all the joys and challenges my husband John and I experienced raising hens on our Foothills homestead. 

The book is in both ebook and paperback!

In “Henhouse,” I also share tips like:

*What to do when your hens stop laying eggs

*Dealing with challenging flock dynamics

*Managing broody hens…and more! 

It’s available in ebook and paperback—and you can request it at your local public library too! Here’s a sample of the book …

Little Farm in the Henhouse is now available at Amazon, Kobo and all your favorite ebook retailers. 

Miss Broody gets her own story

I promised you an update last week…

Being pretty busy, chicken people (and we know who we are) may not have time to read an entire book! So just for you, I’ve created a fun little bonus ebook, Little Hen in the Foothills: The True Story of Miss Broody, the Brave Little Blond Hen. It’s in The Chicken Issue, my March Little Farm Writer newsletter. Just scroll down to the PDF! 

If you like buying direct from authors, you can get a special price on the ebook, $3.50, from my website homepage…just click the brand-new online store link to buy from my little store. Within moments, you’ll receive the ebook in your email!

You’ll find lots more about our homestead in my monthly newsletter, which is free and open to all, so I hope you’ll take a look… Wishing you a happy month of gardening and/or chicken-keeping!

Miss Broody's Fate

Miss Broody enjoying the outdoors

I knew it couldn’t last.

Our one hen’s egg laying spree, that is. Miss Broody’s egg production this fall had been impressive: 19 eggs in 27 days! But as it turned out, the spree was very temporary.

This fall, our area experienced weeks of very poor air quality, due to wildfires east of us. The day the really bad smoke rolled in, she didn’t come out of the coop. 

Sure enough, when I went to check on her late in the afternoon, she was back on the nest. 

Laying hens, you understand, generally lay early in the day. They'll rest for a few minutes on the nest, then go back outside. So our girl was definitely not sitting on her nest to actually get something done…i.e., lay an egg.

Missy had returned to being Miss Broody again.

The smoke might have had something to do with it—maybe she was laying low to escape the worst of it. Just like the other birds and bees and bunnies around our place had been doing for days, staying in their hidey-holes.

Still, broody was broody.

In a previous Little Farm blog post, I mentioned my dilemma about Miss Broody’s future: a feeling growing stronger by the day, that it wasn’t right to try and keep her.

Chickens, like other farm critters, are herd animals.  I wondered if Miss Broody’s enforced solitude was also making her more broody than she would have been otherwise—no other hens to hang out with.

And her being alone day after day, month after month—especially if she wasn’t eating properly—would almost certainly make her simply pine away. The coming rain and cold would only make her solitary existence even more miserable.

Unless, despite all our precautions, a bobcat got her first.

After the other three big cat attacks on our flock, Miss Broody was constantly on high alert. And as the weeks passed, I think her anxiety had become entrenched in her muscle memory. Even many months after the previous attack that killed our hen Little Britches, poor Broody still could hardly eat or drink. 

Even when she was safe in her caged run, with me right there with her, she would continually cast nervous glances around.

I wondered if the bobcat was yet another reason she went broody so frequently—it's a hen’s instinct to be happily outdoors, scratching around and dust-bathing But for Miss Broody, being outside the coop was likely too nerve-wracking.

And I had this sinking feeling that eventually, the bobcat would kill her somehow: either attack outright—or scare her to death.

I didn’t want to lose her—I’d grown quite fond of Miss Broody, especially after all she’d been through. And I’ve long felt that a little flock of hens are the heart of your homestead.

Still, more than ever, I was convinced that this scrappy little hen needed a much safer, and companion-filled place to live. But where could I possibly find a good home for a hen that wasn’t even laying?

Winterizing Our Little Hen Operation

Now that the weather was turning colder, I was growing increasingly anxious about Miss Broody making it through the winter.

Before last December’s extreme winter storm, when we had five healthy, active hens, John and I had invested in some new chicken equipment--improvements, I was sure, that would take our chicken-keeping to the next level.

Water availability for the girls in the cold was always a problem—their waterer would freeze solid. We’d bring a bucket of warm water from the house out every day, but that would freeze within hours too, even when we put the bucket in the coop.

So our first priority was keeping the girls hydrated. Off John went to the farmer’s supply store fifteen miles away. He sprung for an electric chicken waterer—it would keep the hens’ water thawed through the snappiest cold snap. While he was at it, he bought a new feeder too.

The design of this new one, made of light plastic, would twirl more freely as the hens fed, thus more evenly distribute. Our old metal feeder worked by simple gravity, and invariably the feed would get hung up in the center instead of swishing into the feeding tray. 

Add more damp and cold, with the finer bits in a metal feeder would be more prone to freeze solid, the feed would likely get hung up even more where the hens couldn’t reach it.

So armed with the new feeder, John and I thought: Old Man Winter, bring it on! We were set.

Well, guess what. The waterer failed during the first northeaster. We tried a different extension cord, and John fiddled with the wiring to the best of his ability, but nothing doing.  

We’d wasted our money: ending up with just a very expensive plain plastic bowl.

And the new feeder?

It twirled so efficiently that the screw mechanism holding it together would unscrew, then the whole gizmo would fall on the ground, scattering the feed. Then you’d have to sift through the grungy dirt in the run to find the various parts.

John put the feeder back together numerous times, tried a new screw, and a new washer, but nope. Finally, he threw up his hands in frustration and we went back to using the old metal feeder. 

In a very vague kind of way, I wondered if our failed improvements were trying to tell us something...

I originally posted "Miss Broody's Fate" in the December 2022 issue of my new Little Farm Writer Substack. If you’re interested in more stories from the Little Farm, you’ll find them in my Substack newsletter—you don’t have to subscribe to read it! 

In any event, watch this blog or my Substack for more about Miss Broody in the future!

Photo by John F. Browne

 

Miss Broody Rejoins the World

Bobcat at our place

I had given up hope.

Our one remaining hen has been on her nest all summer. She’d always been the broodiest of our flock of Buff Orpingtons, but I suspected this particular broody period of hers, which should have lasted maybe a few weeks, had become permanent.

I think she was completely traumatized by the last bobcat attack in June—so much so she would never recover. 

Up close, bobcats don’t seem that fierce, do they? But they are relentless chicken hunters. 

And when the cat carried off her chicken “sister,” our feisty Little Britches, our last hen decided to just spend the rest of her days in the coop.

Each day, I’d lift her off the nest—broody hens rarely get off their nest unless you make them— and put her in front of the waterer. I’d stick around until she drank, and coax her into having a little feed. Then, unless I blocked the hen door into the coop, she would run back inside.

This week, I figured I’d seen the writing on the wall. This poor little animal was eating just enough to barely stay alive. She was going to live out her days alone in the coop, pale and sickly, until she just gave up on life.

Of course she wasn’t laying, i.e., fulfilling her hen destiny. I figured she never would again, not without other hens and their laying-egg hormones around. But she also wasn’t scratching the ground, enjoying her feed, or chasing bugs.

Yet I was most concerned about her loneliness—hens are herd animals, meant to live with others. And without any other hen companionship, I couldn’t see any future for Miss Broody at our place—forever under the threat of a bobcat or other predators.

Two days ago, I was ready to ask some hen-keeping folks I know, who LOVE animals, if they would be interested another chicken—of course confessing that this one had quit laying. Or calling the Humane Society—maybe they knew of some people who ran sort of an old folks home for chickens past their prime.

I hated giving up on Miss Broody—but I was sure she’d be happier somewhere else.

Yesterday, I heard her chattering a bit—and wondered if she’d sensed a predator, which was nothing new. But I still had to yard her off her nest and get her to eat.

In the early evening, though, I peeked into the coop. Miss Broody was on the roost!

This was big—a normal hen behavior. And when I rattled her feeder, she actually came out of the coop and ate a little!

Today, I saw her out in her yard. This was really big! Of course, ever hopeful, I checked the nest. No eggs. If laying is indeed in her future, she probably has to regroup and eat for a few days before laying restarts.

Still, Miss Broody really has turned the corner—even if she's not laying eggs, she's come back to life!

For more about hens, broody and otherwise, I hope you’ll check out my past posts!

Copyright: Susan Colleen Browne

Photo credit: John F. Browne

Miss Broody Update

 

Hen riled up—making her warning call again

I thought it would take forever…but Miss Broody finally decided to leave the nest!

Every single one of our Buff Orpington chickens has been broody at some point or another. The broody stage of our other hens would generally last about 21 days, which I understand is pretty typical. Miss Broody retreated to the coop on the first warm spring day, around mid-April, and finally emerged from the broody stage last Monday—over seven weeks, which must be a record!

But…there were extenuating circumstances…

Around the three-week mark—around the time we would expect the broody stage to be over—her only remaining chicken chum, Little Miss Britches, was killed by a bobcat. I think at that point, Miss Broody was done with the great outdoors.

Every day, I would take her off the nest, and bring her out of the coop. I’d put some feed right under her nose, and for a minute or two, she’d peck at it. But then, she’d run straight back inside the coop.

Certain that the bobcat was an ongoing threat, I started putting her out in the grass, keeping my eye on her from the garden at all times. She would actually eat a little clover, and again, peck at the whole grains in the feed, and in between pecks, look around fearfully. All in all, though, she consumed very little food.

I think the real problem is that she’s been lonesome. Maybe she’s even had hen depression.

But I’m also inclined to think that being outside in the light for several weeks, surrounded by rich spring grass, finally worked its magic. When I looked across the yard Monday morning, and saw the vivid splash of blond roosting on the big maple stump, I thought, she’s baaaack!

But she’s still not laying.  

I wonder if she ever will. I’ve been checking the nest every day, only to be disappointed. It could be that laying hens need other hens around to keep their egg-producing hormones up to speed. And I can see Miss Broody is still anxious—while eating, she still looks around constantly for threats. 

Yesterday evening, she was making her buck-buck-buck-bu-GAH! warning call when the neighbor cat was in the vicinity. A frightened hen is not much of a layer.

Our nearest neighbors, Alan and Gretchen, who sold us our flock, are also down to one hen—the bobcat has really made the rounds around here. The hen is still laying, but Alan reports that she’s eating her eggs—very dysfunctional chicken behavior. She’s likely lonely too.

So, keeping only one hen has its problems. The thing is, I realized with our most recent flock of hens—nearly decimated by wildlife—is that once you start keeping laying  hens, your girls are the heart of your homestead.

Now that we’re down to just the one, nervous girl, I feel that hole on our place. In our hearts.

Hens on the Homestead: Healthy and Happy for Winter

When life feels uncertain, hanging out with your hens always lifts the spirits. 

At our house, between our area's recent severe floods, the new Covid variant, and my being away from home a lot caregiving for family, there's a lot to worry about. But I'm grateful that our five hens are taking the last rocky months in stride.

In a big November windstorm, a sizable Douglas fir fell onto the chicken coop. Happily, the coop was pretty much unscathed--and the hens appeared to have slept through the impact. 

That's one of the great things about laying hens...unless they're being stalked by a predator of some kind, they'll go about their little routines through thick and thin, without getting too bent out of shape.

I'm happy to report we haven't had a broody hen since mid-October--one less thing to fret about. We've had some broodies who lost a lot of weight and color in their combs. At times, one or two of them looked so ill and were so lethargic we were afraid she wouldn't make it though the broody cycle. Right now, I'm guessing the chilly fall weather has cooled their body temperatures enough to stave off the urge to hatch eggs. 

Not that there's much to hatch these days. This time of year, when the days are shortest, some of our hens are molting--losing their feathers to grow a new set. Commercial hatcheries will often keep the hens in bright light 24/7, so they will lay continuously.

Allowing your hens to go through this natural process means their reproductive systems get a little break, and the hens will have a much longer egg-laying cycle. However, during this time, egg production goes way down; our girls are laying at a steady, if unspectacular rate of 1 egg every other day. On the plus side, John and I have about 8 dozen eggs in the shop fridge, which we've accumulated over the last few months.

Naturally, although the girls aren't laying much, they still have good appetites. So, while they're not earning their keep, as it were, it's still nice to have them around for entertainment value! 

However, our flock seems a bit crankier than usual these days: one of hens keeps chasing me and pecking my legs. I understand hens figure out their world through their beaks, so pecking is a natural behavior. I think she's doing this so I'll give her extra feed, but today, she jumped against my leg and flapped her wings on me. Not too happy about that!

The alpha hen has also been snapping at a couple of others when I fill the feeder. They'll make these hilarious little "toots" like a horn--but hens are pretty scrappy and will sneak back the feeder when the top hen isn't looking. 

Going into winter, I've been giving the hens some scratch grains before they go into their coop for the night. I understand digesting the scratch raises their metabolism, so they will stay a bit warmer overnight.  

Scratching for grains in the snow

With our area's recent record rainfall, the soil in the girls' yard is absolutely sodden. They'll do their
usual dust baths, though, then go out into the rain--and all five are looking pretty grimy! While our girls mostly lounge under the roof of their run during the downpours, they're always game to dash into the open yard when the rain lets up. 

And during these very short, dark days--yesterday, it looked like dusk at 11 am--seeing that flash of blond across the garden brightens the day.

Back to predators: we haven't seen any big cats all fall, and haven't even heard any coyotes the last couple of weeks. It could be it's been so darn rainy they're just hiding in their dens. But now that the weather is drying out a little, it's probably time to keep a sharp eye out!

A side note: I'm trying to keep to my regular Thursday posting...but if I miss a week here or there, it's because I'm away again for family.

Whatever your situation--and especially if  you're going through hard times--I hope you're finding ways to keep your spirits up!     

Rude (Brood) Awakening...and the Economics of Keeping Hens

 The math just didn’t add up.

The egg production from our flock of five hens had been very irregular all summer--although for a few weeks we’d gotten two or three eggs per day. But lately, the hens had produced one egg a day—if we were lucky.

The organic, whole grain-and-legume feed John and I buy is a hair under $40 for a 40 lb. sack. It lasts a little over a month, about 40 days. So crunching the numbers, our 1 little egg each day was costing us $1…meaning the eggs we eat cost $12 dollars/dozen!

Now, we have no expectations of earning money from our homestead—it feels like a gift to both of us, raising food for ourselves and sharing what we can with our friends and family. Still, living on our modest income, $12/dozen eggs is a pretty big indulgence.

Realizing the economics of our little flock was a rude awakening for me.

For months, John and I had been dealing with broody hens. That’s when a laying hen’s chick-raising instincts kick in. Instead of laying eggs, all she wants to do is sit on eggs to hatch—it’s a stage that’s supposed to last about 3 weeks.

Problem: In our little flock, as this past spring turned into summer, it seemed like as soon as one hen emerged from her broodiness, another hen would start soon after. Weeks ago, after one particularly broody girl finally returned to hanging out with the rest of the flock, we had exactly one day without broodies. Then the very next day, not one, but two hens wouldn’t leave the nest boxes!

I was getting really frustrated. “This has gone on long enough,” I told John. “We’ve got to do something!” Or at least try to do something.

Actually, there are a few solutions—ways you can try to “break” a broody hen. The point is to get her back to the flock and laying actual eggs. Not just sitting on a nest in a broody trance. After I'd one some research, here's what we've tried:

*Take the hen off the nest, and close off the nest boxes. This is to encourage her to return to customary hen activities: Scratching the ground for bugs, dust-bathing, and especially eating regularly (broody hens seem to have very little appetite).

*Get her away from the coop. Hopefully her little bird brain can maybe forget about her nest and the imaginary eggs she's trying to hatch.

*Separate her from the rest of the flock and give her lots of treats to pique her appetite. Otherwise, any treat you give her will very likely be stolen away by the other girls.

The one thing we hadn’t tried was dunking a broody hen in cold water. A broody hen’s body temperature apparently runs somewhat above normal—again, to keep eggs warm. But to me, a cold dunk seemed so drastic. Cruel even.

So here we were, still stuck with our 1 egg/day problem.

Last week, when John was at the feed store, he told the clerk about our broody problem. She asked, “Have you tried a cold water bath?”

He confessed we hadn’t. But by yesterday, spending so much of my gardening time shifting hens off nests and trying to get them to eat…well, I was at my wit’s end. I decided it was time to get serious. A dunking we would go.

Dunking a broody hen

I didn’t know what to expect, but I dressed for the job: goofy hat I wear to clean the coop, John's old raincoat, rubber gloves and muck boots, and my trusty Carhartt work pants. 

John was on standby, and to record the event—but mostly for moral support. We hauled a tub and hose into one of our orchards, which was fenced off from the other 3 hens. I filled the tub with cold water. Everything was ready.

Fetching one hen out of the nest, I held her firmly, hands holding down her wings.

For a few seconds, the hen didn’t react, then suddenly she squawked, struggled, and before I could keep her down she jumped out of the tub. Who knew a little 5 pound hen could be so strong?

Still, I think she was in shock, because I was able to grab her quickly and try again—although when I got water splashed on my face I was grossed out. And this process did feel cruel. But the $1 per egg strengthened my resolve.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t hold her down for long. In a flash, she was out, and ran to the edge of the fence, seeming to watch me warily.

Ready to dunk Broody #2

By now, my pant legs were wet, I had more water on my face, and I was really annoyed. So all fired up, back I went to the coop for the second broody and proceeded to the orchard.

I grasped her as firmly as I could, and lowered her into the water. Now that I knew how strong little hens are, I held her down with all my might.

Can you believe it? I could not keep that five-pound “weakling” in the tub!

Squawking and wings flapping, she splashed in the tub, dousing my face, neck, and glasses. In one second flat out she jumped, running away before I could catch her.

By now, I was thoroughly disgruntled—and feeling filthy and far too ticked off for another go at the tub. I had high hopes that this would cure the broodiness…but time would tell if the cold water bath worked.

In a word…Nope.

The next morning, when John went out to toss the girls their morning scratch grains, four hens came out of the pen to greet him. Maybe we’d cured one hen? Both would have been great, but…

The 4^th hen ended up going back into the coop. Long story longer…we still have two broodies.

And later, when I lifted the broodies off the nest, they struggled a little, which was a first. They’d gotten scared of me.

Ultimately, I don’t think the cold water bath was worth stressing out the hens, and also irritating the heck out of me. So John and I aren’t sure where to go from here.

We may try obtaining a different breed of hens, which aren’t so prone to broodiness as our Buff Orphingtons. Still, integrating a few new pullets into an established flock would be very tricky.

Otherwise, I guess we’ll just have to live with the situation. With hopes that fall and cooler weather will bring a break from broodies! 

You can find more about broody hens...just check out my May and July 2021 posts!

Bad Vibes? And a Bear

Hen jungle gym

The hens had stopped laying.

Our five Buff Orpingtons were only 16 months old. And as far as what I’ve learned about laying hens, they should have a couple of years at least of steady egg production. But in this hot and dry July, each day when I checked the nest boxes, I would be disappointed.

We’d already experienced weeks of only 1 egg per day for the whole flock. Then two weeks went by with no eggs. Zilch.

When it comes to factors that might impact laying, John and I reviewed the usual suspects:

Was it the heat? Our girls definitely had not been acclimated to extremely hot weather when the big heat wave hit at the end of June. And since then, the weather has been very warm or even hot.

Was one hen, or several hens molting? Molting is a phase when nature gives laying hens a break for their reproductive systems and they don’t lay eggs for a while. Also, a hen will lose a lot of feathers—and there had been loads of feathers all around our girls’ pen.

Fright? I thought I’d heard the hens making their alarm squawking frequently the last few weeks, so maybe some wildlife was getting a little too close and fear was impacting their laying. In this busy summer, John hasn’t gotten to weed-whacking the underbrush next to the pen. Unfortunately, that means there’s plenty of good cover for a stalking coyote or bobcat.

Despite all these possibilities, I figured I knew the most likely cause: Broodiness.

This summer, we’d been dealing with one hen after another turning broody. When a hen is in egg-hatching instead of egg-laying mode, she doesn’t lay eggs. I had to wonder, if each broody hen was giving off some kind of pheromone/broody chemical that was affecting the other girls.

In other words, bad hen vibes.

Needless to say, I was getting discouraged. Days on end with all the labor of hen-caring, but without the reward of fresh eggs!

A little history: Before we got our first flock, John built the whole hen-pen complex around a huge, old, big leap maple stump. What can I say? It was on the site we’d selected for our hens, and we figured the craggy stump would make an entertaining climbing structure for hens. And I have to say, all our hens do like to hang out on it.

More importantly, though, the stump was way too huge to try and remove or dismantle in phases… Or even prune.

Plus…it’s maple! A super hard wood. And despite various parts of the stump that were decaying, lots of other parts of it were live wood. So that stump was here to stay.

The stump’s elderly age, though, hasn’t kept it from sending out shoots of new growth. And even the smallest branches are too hard to trim without a giant pair of loppers.

Anyway, recently—again, the busy summer—I’d let the new growth get a little out of control.

Then last week, I was doing a thorough tidying up of their pen. Worming my way behind the stump and the new branches, I checked for any droppings I’d better pick up. I looked down and Lo and Behold: a cache of eggs!

A wintertime view of all the stump shoots

Those darn hens had been laying this whole time, but not in their nest boxes. For some reason, their tiny bird brains told them to lay in this new, hidden spot!

So maybe there really was something to my bad vibes and broody hens theory…Because interestingly, this little egg-laying hideaway was the furthest spot away from the nesting boxes the broody hens were always sneaking into.

So there I was, finding 8 eggs that I had no choice but to throw away. As I understand it, the shells of farm eggs are covered with a kind of “bloom” or a layer of protection that’s washed away during egg processing. As a result, farm eggs are far less perishable than store eggs.

Still, by my calculations, some of these eggs had been out in the heat for weeks—I couldn’t imagine that they would be safe to eat.

So, 8 eggs wasted. Now it was up me to set the girls straight. I crammed a bunch of small wood debris in their laying spot, to direct them back to the nest boxes. I figured I had solved the problem.

Are you hearing a “but”?

Yes. Well, the hens did not return to their nests—all 3 of which stayed empty the next 2 days.

Instead, they shimmied their way past the wood debris and found an even more secluded hidey-hole to lay in. I know this because yesterday, I found 4 more eggs behind the stump!

At this point it was dawning on me that hens were a lot smarter than anyone gave them credit for.

I complained to John, our in-house keeper of common sense, and naturally he had an easy solution. “Why don’t you just put up a fence barrier?”

Feeling stupid, I said, “Why didn’t I think of that?” Wisely, John didn’t reply.

So yesterday, I got a bunch of poultry wire fencing and crammed it into the space, covering every inch of the hidey hole. 

And ta-da! Today I found 2 eggs. In the nest boxes.

Early this morning, I'd seen a hen from my kitchen window up on the stump, appearing to look forlornly down at the hidey hole--the she jumped off the stump. I’m not going to get too cocky, though. I’m sure the girls will come up with a way to make extra work for me!

PS…Bears. If you’ve followed this blog for awhile, you’ll know I’ve mentioned seeing black bears in the neighborhood. Our private lane has new bear scat on it nearly every day. But in our 16 years in the Foothills, I’ve seen probably 10 or so bears. Young bears, big bears, Mama bears with cubs.

But all from a comfortable distance. Like 50-100 yards distance.

Not today. A couple of hours ago, I was riding my bike out on the main road, about 1/3 mile from our private lane when to my right, I saw something black in my peripheral vision. I glanced over, and there was a large black bear up on its hind legs, no more than 20 feet away!

It was close enough for me to see its eyes, glittering dark in the midday sun.

I instantly recalled hearing that black bears can run 40 miles an hour. That meant it could have reached me in seconds, far faster than I could pedal away.

But before I could react, as soon as the bear saw me it dropped to all fours and lumbered further into the brush. I've also heard black bears are shy; still, one thing’s for sure: I’ll be sure to be extra attentive on that stretch of road!