How to get chickens out of your basement
I love autumn. Our yard is a riot of color, the gardens have been put to bed, the garlic is in the ground, and, best of all, there are no more chickens in my house.
To clarify, we aren’t the type of family that has diapered chickens wandering happily through our living room – not that there is anything wrong with that if that is your thing. With a Border Rotti, a god-knows-what, and a cat that thinks she’s a panther, it simply would not end well.
From early April until the end of September, we had a series of chicks bunking in our basement brooder. They definitely made lockdown more interesting…and then it just…got really old.
It all started as a plan to keep the lad focused on something other than the fact that the world had come crashing down just in time for his 5th birthday. Of course, I managed to come up with this brainstorm right around the time that people decided hoarding chickens was the new toilet paper. What we thought was going to be a simple trip to tractor supply turned into an all-out quest. I put the call out to friends, we put in an order (or two), and still nothing for a while.
Luckily a fellow homesteader friend had just started hatching her own and hooked us up with three lovely little barnyard blends just before Easter. The lad quickly named them Roo, Pooh Bear, and Tigger (who was later renamed to Mohawk when it developed a rather surprising hairdo as a teenager and was re-homed due to a collective conviction that she was a rooster. Her new owners say she’s a terrific layer. Did I mention we’re not that great at homesteading, still?). This was our first time raising chicks. I can’t say we were flawless at it – obviously.
Less than a week after we got those three settled in the coop, the order we had placed at a local hardware store finally came through with two adorable Buff fluff balls, and two purple-faced Rhode Island Whites. Yes, purple. They were adorable…and slightly neurotic. Since Frozen II was still on high rotation in our house, the buffs were quickly named Anna and Elsa, and the whites were named Olaf and Sven. The lad had just finished school and work was winding down for me, so these four were showered with affection. The buffs were tiny snuggly teddy bears and we were determined to win over the whites. We also knew they were our last chicks for a while so we wanted to soak up every moment. We snuggled them, played with them, sang to them – they were spoiled rotten.
Right around this time, I started to notice that my spring allergies weren’t going away. This was super unfortunate because they had started earlier than usual as well, and having allergies during a pandemic just plain sucks. Then we went camping at the end of June and my symptoms miraculously disappeared…until I came home.
There’s something that not everyone tells you about chicks. The amount of dust and dander those little fluff balls generate is obscene! And my respiratory system was not ok with it. As much as we adored “The Chicklets”, as we had dubbed them – because “the Frozen chickens” just paints an entirely different picture- the mission soon became to get them out of the house as soon as possible.
July 24th was a glorious day. After a couple of test days in the coop, The Chicklets were ready to move out for good. I was in the process of getting the last of their things out of the basement and starting the cleaning process when I got a text from my husband.
He had just gotten 5 free, day-old Rhode Island Reds from a friend and would be picking them up on the way home.
No, he wasn’t joking.
I’m not sure if you’ve been able to do the math. We had three adult chickens at the beginning of all this. 3+3-1+4+5 = 14.
Yup. We now have 14 chickens. That’s a fair bit of feed and the maximum number that fits humanely in our coops and runs.
How many eggs are we getting now, you ask? Two. a. day.
The older chickens were not impressed with having their palatial space invaded and have apparently gone on strike. The Chicklets should be laying by now, but given that the days are shorter and colder they appear to be waiting for spring. And The Reds – who only sort of have names since you can’t tell them apart and did not get anywhere near the love and attention lavished on The Chicklets – are so neurotic I’m doubtful they will ever produce eggs. Roo and Pooh Bear, our little barnyard blends, are the only chickens who seem to know that they are actually workers on this homestead and not just fat, pampered guests.
I’m holding out hope that at some point we will be drowning in eggs. The lad has been told he can sell the extra eggs as long as he continues to help out with feeding and caring for all 14 chickens. He has plans. We’re not entirely sure what they are.
In the meantime, I can at least breathe easier now that the chickens are all out of my basement. I’m also turning the brooder into an indoor winter garden just to make sure it stays bird free for awhile.
I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts. Apparently, next spring, we’re getting more ducklings…
