If You Dont Save These Dogs We'll Kill This Chicken

Yes, that is a chest freezer acting as a backdrop.

For background, go to the comments section of my previous post:

So here's the deal.

If NESR receives checks and paypal donations totaling the amount of my one-ton feed order by June 30, Dale McNugget will earn a permanent sinecure among the laying hens here. I'll keep his picture on the blog

I will have the total on the feed order in a couple of weeks, but we are looking at between $ 210 and $250.

Contributions must be marked Montana Rescue -- SAVE DALE.

Otherwise -- coq a vin.

Put your money where your mouth is -- since none of you armchair chicken-lovers were willing to put up even an hour of fighting with barbed wire and multiflora rose

And yes, the headline both dates me and pays homage to The Greatest Magazine Cover in Human History.

I have been trying to get a frameable copy of this issue forever; no luck.

You Can't Eat Dale

I will pass through all thy flock to day, removing from thence all the speckled and spotted cattle, and all the brown cattle among the sheep, and the spotted and speckled among the goats: and of such shall be my hire.

Genesis 30:32

I know why we have animals that look like this:

Evil-ass tiger at Doc Shepard's place. Does not validate Belyaev's results. This cat scared the crap out of me.

And this:

Mandelbrot goat. No kidding.

A lot has been made of the Belyaev experiments, and how spotting and neotenic features are genetically and biochemically linked to tame behavior. Sure. Fascinating. One of my favorite things that I ever learned about. But there's another route to piebald. Because we monkey-folk, visual foragers in the deepest recesses of our brains, absolutely fixate on one of these things that's doin' it's own thing...

So, my broiler chicks came in the mail Friday morning.

I picked them up at the PO and moved them into the Green Giant potato box in the basement. (Shout out to my homie Ray, who scored me these boxes from his store. Best brooders ever.)



Most chickens raised for meat are industrial hybrid crosses of proprietary inbred parent strains, mutant half-naked obese Frankenchickies that grow to slaughter size in only six weeks, and spontaneously drop dead shortly after that point, if they have managed to stay alive and up on their bloated feet that long.

They look like this:


And mostly what they do, besides grow like mung beans and look for a comfortable place to die, is eat and shit and stink.

After seeing these pathetic creatures at the county fair (4H meat pen class) for years, and reading the descriptions of what it's like to raise them from posters on the Backyard Chickens forum, I really did not want to go there. I'd be embarrassed to have anyone see them on my farm. I'd be ashamed to look at them myself.

But, you know, we don't just like chickens -- we like chicken. Tastes like chicken, it does.

At the recommendation of several posters on Backyard Chickens, we got these.

The colored range broilers, aka "freedom rangers," are also F1 hybrids, and are arguably "industrial," in that the parent strains are not generally available for producers to breed their own. But instead of being selected and "designed" to gain weight at unnatural speeds while protected from the elements and constantly fed, they are selected to grow about half as fast, to forage for themselves on pasture and display normal chicken behavior, all while keeping about the same feed-conversion ratio as the industrial birds.

They are the same varieties used to grow premium label rouge poultry in France.

I expect them to be delicious.

Back to domestication, and spotty critters. These guys come in several color morphs -- most of them will be mostly red or yellow feathered, a few will have other colors and patterns. Like many hybrids, they may not resemble either parent. I don't know. I haven't actually seen pictures of the parent strains.

I settled the McNuggets into their brooder, and several hours later my mother went down to visit them.

Overheard her alternately cooing over the box of chicks and arguing on the phone with my brother:

Oh no, these are egg-laying chickens, not eating chickens.

Uh, Mom, these are our meat birds. What would I do with 100 laying hens?

Oh no! I already started naming them! You can't eat Dale!

Here's Dale sticking out of the crowd:



Most of the chicks are a fairly uniform yellow or orange. A few have some indistinct darker markings. One has a smudgy dark face, thus named Pigpen. Only Dale has very distinct chipmunk markings. He, or she, stands out in the mass of 100. It's easy to convince oneself that Dale has more personality than the other 99 chicks, more expression, more intelligence.

He gets picked up more often than the other chicks, so unless he has a more flighty-than-average temperament, he's more likely to be friendly and tame.

If one of the plain yellow chicks actually had some unique and charming behavior, how would we know? Is it the same chick every time, or just something that the yellow chicks occasionally do?

So originally, it worked the other way 'round. The mutant yellow chick in the brood of chipmunk-striped ones that grew into a distinctive white or red hen. The puppy with some white on his chest amid the wolf-sable littermates. The calf with the star on her forehead. All got favored treatment for the mere fact that they stuck out of the crowd. Got named Spot or Goldie.

And then got to live long enough to have babies. Because you can't eat Dale.

Other predators notice difference, flash, spots too. That's probably why an owl took my "lilac" (silver-grey) guinea cock and left the natural-colored "pearl" cock. The lilac bird fairly glowed in the moonlight.

Humans started preserving the flashy animals when we domesticated them, and weren't just aiming our spears at the funny-looking one. We had to be in a position to protect them from other predators, too, a struggle that continues to be more difficult with flashy domesticants.

A species' natural coloring is natural because it works. A domesticated species' unnatural coloring also works, because the guys providing the food and protection fixate on it.

Nevertheless, we will most likely eat Dale.

Easter

Easter put her slim hand on the back of Wednesday's square gray hand. "I'm telling you," she said, "I'm doing fine. On my festival days they still feast on eggs and rabbits, on candy and on flesh, to represent rebirth and copulation. They wear flowers in their bonnets and they give each other flowers. They do it in my name. More and more of them every year. In my name, old wolf."

"And you wax fat and affluent in their worship and their love?" He said, dryly.

"Don't be an asshole." Suddenly she sounded very tired. She sipped her mochaccino.

"Serious question, m'dear. Certainly I would agree that millions upon millions of them give each other tokens in your name, and that they still practice all the rites of your festival, even down to hunting for hidden eggs. But how many of them know who you are? Eh? Excuse me miss?" This to their waitress.

She said, "You need another espresso?"

"No my dear, I was just wondering if you could solve a little argument we were having over here. My friend and I were disagreeing over what the word 'Easter' means. Would you happen to know?"

The girl stared at him as if green toads had begun to push their way between his lips. Then she said "I don't know about any of that Christian stuff. I'm a pagan."

-- Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Have the faith, have the fun.

Velociraptor: Teenage Confusion

If I work on my laptop upstairs in the mornings, my eye is constantly being drawn to the west-facing window as chickens and guineas walk by, flap around, scratch for bugs, and discuss their interpersonal issues on the front lawn.

Isn't that what lawns are for?

Later in the day they generally move further afield. I suspect they are hunting for earthworms in the more closely mowed lawn area. The first time I saw a hen pull one out, just like a robin does, I was quite surprised. Didn't know they did that. Once the sun is well up, the worms go below and the chooks go looking for other things to eat.

This morning the fog was so thick in our little cleft that, despite the dogs' early patrols, I didn't let the birds out until about 9. Was aware of the usual activity in my peripheral vision as I returned email, then did a quick whiplash when this walked by:


It was still quite foggy, so the picture quality (even with electronic enhancements) is not great.

He's a young jake, and he was checking out the two hen guineas. By the time I ran downstairs, got the camera, ran back up and threatened the dogs with lifelong enrollment at a PetsMart clicker class if they didn't keep their gobs shut, the hens had moved off a little, possibly having concluded that the New Guy was a boring geek.

But my largest guinea cock had not:


The guinea is mostly feathers, and is fluffed up in a threat display. The jake, though not a big turkey, is probably three or four times his body mass. The guinea is no older than, and probably several months younger than, the jake.

Nevertheless ...

A little mean guy on his home turf can trump a lot of muscle.

I can't wait to see what transpires as breeding season approaches for both species.

Not to mention, what happens when we get our domestic heritage-breed turkeys in.

Extreme Poultry Cuteness II: Mountain To Muhammed

It's too cold and wet for the duckies to play outside in the just-greening-up lawn.

But I believe in exposing them to natural forage as early as possible.

So since Muhammed could not come to the mountain ...


Two big spadefuls of just-sprouting hayfield sod -- grass, weeds, worms, the works -- makes a very fine ducky snak-pak and play structure.



A fine place from which to proclaim unto the heavens.


Or thoughtfully contemplate the Nature of Life and Orchardgrass.

Poultry Population: Extreme Cuteness Warning

Twenty-one Khaki Campbell ducks came from JM Hatchery this morning.

The photos do not do justice to their tiny adorableness. They look kind of shaggy in the photos, when in fact they are velvety-perfect in person.

After a bit of drama over missing car keys, they are safe at home. Everyone came out the box vigorous and cheeping -- and very thirsty!

They scarfed up water with a little sugar in it, and then set to work spreading mess.

Their job here, aside from laying eggs and keeping up with the water weeds, will be to work as stockdog training assistants. Ducks flock well, move relatively slowly, and do not fly as readily as other poultry, so they are often used to train young dogs. Khakis are a popular breed for dog trainers.

People who have never raised poultry are amazed that one can order chicks (and ducks and geese ...) through the mail.

This only works with day-old hatchlings of precocial fowl. These guys hatch out with a couple days supply of food from the egg yolk already stored in their bellies. They are designed to go 72 hours without eating or drinking.

Domestic poultry are almost all precocial birds; I think the only exception is pigeons. Altricial young are much more difficult to raise without their parents.

When a momma bird is hatching her clutch, this allows her to stay on the nest with the first hatchlings until the late-hatchers are all out and dry and ready to roll. Humans have exploited this window of self-sufficiency via the postal service. It's a much surer thing to ship day-old hatchlings, which are fairly sturdy little beasts, rather than eggs for the buyer to incubate. The postmaster keeps the box in the warm office, and calls you to come pick them up. These guys got here in less than 24 hours because the hatchery is not terribly far.

The chicks need to keep warm, so there is a minimum order so they can huddle. I ordered the minimum twenty duckies; #21 is an extra tossed in for mortality insurance.

It's normal to expect some mortality in the first couple days after hatching, whether the chicks are raised by the hen who brooded them, or boxed up and sent several hundred miles. Hatching is hard work, and not everybody recovers. Birds lay more eggs than they can typically raise to fledging.

I don't need this many ducks, so after I grow them out some, I'll sell or trade the extras.

Since I don't have a broody hen volunteer at the moment, I'm brooding the ducklings artificially, with a heat lamp:



They have room to get away from or into the heat, food and water, and the cardboard is a shield against drafts. The towels are down until they figure out the difference between food/not food. When they are all eating starter crumble well, I'll swap the towels out for wood shavings.

They grow shockingly fast, and will be making a (bigger) mess of our pond area before summer. We can't let them swim until they are feathered out. Ducklings who are artificially brooded, or raised by a chicken momma, don't get the feather oil from a duck mama that allows them to avoid chilling when they get wet.

I'm converting an old pumphouse for their ultimate housing. It has a stone foundation, and we'll be adding higher walls and a new roof.

Puppy Laundering

Best Friends Animal Sanctuary: Fatuous or calculating?

In an earlier post, I discussed the case of the inconvenient Katrina pit bulls that "went away" when BF paid a criminal posing as a dog trainer to tell them what their donors wanted to hear.

One of Don Chambers' ethical lapses was breeding "designer" mongrels and then offering them for adoption sale on Petfinder -- which makes a good faith effort to ensure that only legitimate shelters and rescues get listings.

Now Best Friends is back at it, endorsing the same scheme in its storefront manifestation.

Seems they've been picketing pet stores that sell puppies in Los Angeles, with the goal of shutting them down or persuading them to stop selling puppies. Well hoo-feckin-ray! A fine idea. Go to it. Drive 'em all out of business. A pet store is no place to buy a puppy, and a goal of everyone who cares about animal welfare should be to make the dealers for the puppymill industry dry up and blow away. Right?

From Best Friends' own press release:

Best Friends has been hard at work to find an alternative, and collaborated with Woof Worx (formerly Pets of Bel Air) on the idea to sell wonderful, healthy, purebred puppies that come from local shelters. For a mere fraction of what it would cost at a traditional pet store, people can adopt one (or more) of these dogs, support a business that’s doing the right thing, and save a life

.

We are meant to believe that this is a transparent account of a viable business model.

That in Los Angeles, there are so many "wonderful, healthy, purebred puppies" stacked in bulging cages at the shelters, that it is not only okay, but commendable, for a chichi for-profit pet store to somehow acquire them and sell them in its storefront?

Puppies mind you. Purebred puppies.

And we know they are wonderful and healthy how ...?

The usual way to verify the wonderfulness and health of a purebred puppy is to visit the home of the puppy's doting breeder, and meet her vigorous and exemplary parents.

Pups acquired from shelters are typically mixed breed, may not be in the best of health vis-a-vis parasites, nutrition, and infectious disease (almost all stuff that can be fixed, most of the time) and are much more of a gamble in terms of their potential for whatever wonderfulness the owner requires. All of which is fine, and no reason most people who are looking for a buddy and family pet can't get a great one at a shelter and justifiably feel that they are performing a mitzvah by doing so.

So where are these shelter-refugee purebred puppies coming from?

Are they individuals cherry-picked from shelter populations, hooked out of the adoption pool, declared "purebred," then marked up for sale?

Will a campaign of humane raids (and "humane" raids) on breeders provide a supply of puppies for sale?

Or are the "shelters" something else entirely -- maybe a breeder puppymiller who calls him or herself a "rescue?"

From the consumer's self-interested standpoint, doesn't matter. Any pups that end up in the "indoor dog park" at this boutique will have come from puppymills -- they'll have all the deficiencies of the same pup sold at Petland, plus maybe more time in a stressful, disease-ridden kennel environment.

Puppymill puppies go in one end, come out the other as politically correct "rescue."

Puppy laundering.