Alaska Chicken Care

My sister provides  “Four Seasons” Hotel treatment to her pets.  My animal husbandry, on the other hand, is more rudimentary.  Maybe a "Motel 6" analogy is appropriate, or, since eventually, we kill and eat our animals, perhaps, the Bates Motel.

Son with chickens

She has a dedicated LIVING ROOM for her huge puppy, and thrones in each room for both dogs so that they can survey their domain, as well as supervise the ministrations of their human minions.  The puppy attends Doggy Day care one day a week to enhance his socialization with peers.  Her dogs take allergy medication.  I think they may have health insurance, too.

For her guinea pigs, she provides freshly laundered linens EVERY SINGLE DAY, and delivers organic cilantro, no doubt picked by happy, free-trade farm workers. 

If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I want to return as one of my sister's pets.

Here:  not so much.

The chicken coop looks cute from the outside, but, like a lot of cheap motels, it  is pretty modest within, as are caretaker services.

Chicken coop with run in winter

For the chicken version of a combination deodorizer and bath, I dump a bucket of cold ash in the run and coop every week through the cooler months.  It is surprisingly effective and popular with the hens.  The dust baths clean their feathers of mites and other parasites.

 I refresh the water almost every day  and toss the straw that frequently, too, but I only add fresh straw every few weeks, and deep clean  seasonally (mulching the gardens with their straw).

Only one (heat) lamp works at a time, to save power.

Like the crummy coffee and old Danish for humans on some shabby lobby counter, I share leftovers every day:  hard pizza crust or crunchy rice from the bottom of the pot.  They LOVE any fat trimmed from meat and will chase others away so they can gobble up the freebies.  I chuckle at the milk “mustaches” surrounding their beaks when they dip into old yogurt, as well as when they delicately swipe their beaks clean on the snow or straw.

Most human motels include TV for their guests’ entertainment.  For my chickens, I offer “hide and seek.” In winter, I toss the food treats here and there in the run and coop so they can scratch and look for them, which is their natural tendency anyway.  In summer, I trim lower branches of bushes so when they free range, they have places to hide out of sight of avian and mammalian predators.

Just as traveling people are likely to ask the proprietor for nearby restaurant recommendations, my hens follow me around when I weed and prune, figuring that I may know the location of something worth eating. 

Usually, my girls are quiet, but every once in a while they erupt into a prolonged period of incensed squawking.  I scurry outside to see if they are bothered by the unwanted attention by uninvited visitors, which, in our Alaska location, include wily weasels and martens as well as coyotes, bears, owls, and eagles.  I survey the vicinity and try to make it safer for them.

For this modicum of care, the six hens pay me with an average of 4 eggs per day.  Fair compensation.  Much appreciated.