So we did the test. The worm test. Vermicomposting worms. The kind that eat table scraps and leftover vegetable bits and human flesh. (No, I’m making that last part up.)
My wife said: “If we can keep worms alive then it will be a great test for how we’ll do with chickens.”
Chickens have been her dream for years. Laying hens. Big, fluffy fowl that you wear on your shoulder like a parrot. Who guard your house while furnishing you with eggs. Who bring love and joy and eat everything in your yard, down to the bricks, which they would also eat if only they had sledgehammers.
So first we did worms to see how we would manage. To see if we could do it. To see if we could keep them alive.
And … well … we killed them all!
Not on purpose. We’re not bad people. We either let them get too much sun, or not enough. Or too much water and it fermented with all those vegetables bits, getting them deathly drunk on rotten veggie whiskey. Maybe they just packed up and moved to Tulsa.
Regardless, it’s safe to say they’re gone. That we failed the test. That we’ll never be able to care for chickens. That there shouldn’t be chickens in our future, and certainly not in our downstairs bathroom … like there are … right now … somehow still alive and not drunk on vegetable whiskey.
Are we crazy? Can we do this? Have they heard about the worms? That would be embarrassing.
We did keep a dog alive for 14 years. That’s pretty good! And our daughter. She’s five and thriving. So a few thousand worms died in our care. It’s not like we let them smoke and go out at all hours of the night. Maybe we’re just bad worm farmers. Chickens are different. They’re “real” animals.
And they’re here. Three of them. They arrived in the mail — a box with straw and holes in it — three weeks ago. They were chicks — little yellow balls of fluff. They peeped, like they do on cartoons. They scooted about in the pine shavings and huddled under the heat lamp when they got cold. And they pooped! They pooped like they’re being paid a dollar a dropping.
I never thought I would take to chickens. I figured they were like fish or hamsters. Fun to watch for 15 seconds, but then your mind trails off and you start to wonder about other things, like why you don’t clip your fingernails more often. Or why yellow is called “yellow.”
But chickens are different. Chickens are a hoot! They have wonderful personalities when they’re not eating and pooping and pecking at things. Their names are Ruby, Louise and Winfrey, and three weeks later — miraculously! — they’re all still alive and growing.
They’ve taken up residence in our bathtub. They’ll be leaving soon. I’m setting up Shangri-Chicken in the shed. They’re getting a decent-sized chunk that I’ve partitioned off so they can’t play with the power tools or ride the lawnmower. Chickens can’t be trusted around gasoline-powered equipment. As soon as it’s all done, they’re evicted from the tub. That way my bathroom can stop smelling like a petting zoo.
I’m rushing to get it finished, and not too much is left. Cut the door to the run. Get the trim done. (Yes, these chickens are getting trim.) Make sure the heavy-gauge, welded wire is secure over the window. (Yes, these chickens are getting a window.)
“I know an incredible amount about nesting boxes and hardware cloth,” I told my wife the other night. “Think any of that knowledge could be profitable?”
Probably not, but we’ve had to learn about it all. We’ve had to study and stay up late at night researching. We don’t have a good track record right now. Those poor worms hang heavy on our shoulders. We don’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past. These chickens need us, and too much fun awaits if we do it right.
There’s too great a learning experience for my daughter, and besides, these girls need to start paying off that window with some eggs.
So goodbye worms, and hello chickens. The new test has begun … to see if one day we can raise a cow.