Barb Bierman Batie

Each fall as my new pullets come into production, I begin culling the old hens. Some find their way to my freezer as stewing hens for future use in chicken soup and other tasty dishes during cold weather. Most others are sold to customers in town to be turned into tamales, ethnic soups and other specialty meals.

When I have thinned the population enough to have extra room in what we call the “big chicken” house, I move the pullets from the brooder house into the “big chicken” coop. This simplifies morning and evening chores as I only have to deal with one set of feeders and can consolidate the water into one big waterer. Plus, I only have one coop to clean every two weeks instead of two.

Another advantage is when the weather turns colder the bigger house and concentration of hens and new hens means they can generate more heat to keep warm and I can put in a water heater to keep water from freezing.

But to achieve the sales and the move requires handling each hen and pullet and that poses a risk of seriously irritating said birds. The consequences can sometimes lead to encounters of the bloody kind.

While catching some hens last week for a customer I accidentally raked myself on a sharp edge of the metal nests in the big house. Sadly my 65 years also mean I have much thinner skin than in my younger years and the scratch, while very superficial meant I looked like something out of a horror film by the time I could get to the house and clean myself up.

Hubby helped me move the pullets one night after dark this week and that chore was successfully completed without drawing blood. However, we certainly raised plenty of dust in the process and sneezing our way back to the house we both headed straight to our respective showers.

The first night after the big move usually means a large group of the pullets hunker down outside their former home or take to a nearby cedar tree to roost in protest. A trip to Lincoln for me meant Hubby had to corral the wayward chickens himself. We had moved 41 pullets and one rooster the night before. Slightly more than half, 24 to be exact, chose to a sit down and roost out.

To save them from any hungry varmints he had to catch them and carry them back to the big house. He was successful in snaring the protesters without a scratch.

The next night, however, I did not fare so well. While only 11 pullets continued their protest, they all chose to sit in the cedar tree. Most also took to the higher branches. Hubby was at a meeting (I think there was an ulterior motive on his part), so I was on my own.

Despite being six feet tall I really had to stretch to reach the feathered fiends. I managed to get the five on the lower branches caught without more than some exaggerated flopping and squawking.

The higher I had to go though; the birds really let me know how irritated they were at being forced from their former abode. As I grabbed birds five and six, I raked my right arm on a poky cedar branch. I could tell this wound would probably require attention. Birds eight and nine attacked my left arm with knife-like precision of their toenails. By the time I had 10 and 11 caught and thrown in the coop I bolted to the house for emergency first aid. Hubby came home shortly after I managed to self-apply antibiotic and a huge gauze pad on my right arm and strategically place two bandages over the scratches on my left wrist. “They’re YOUR chickens,” was all he said. I’m hoping tonight the remaining protesters will waive the white flag so I can concentrate on healing my wounds and return to enjoying collecting eggs in peace.