Fresh eggs and squirrel gravy

A casual chat about chickens with an almost neighbor whose dogs come to my house to get their nails done and a bath awakened in me a hunger for free range eggs. Although she was happy to bring some eggs at her next visit, I wasn't satisfied with anything less than a flock of my own. When Easter rolled around, the toddler and I selected a half dozen little balls of fluff. They soon matured into three Leghorn hens, a pair of giant roosters, and a big hen who collapsed and died. A search of CriagsList found a local farmer trying to sell a few young birds and I added a pair of Silkies and a pair of Rhode Island Reds to the flock, although it was just really good luck that we chose a hen and rooster of each breed. I also rounded up a rogue hen who was roosting on a former neighbor's car every night. She began laying right away, but for a long time the brown egg she left in the small house every other day was all I gathered. Instead, I gave away the giant roosters and spent a lot of time catching my Leghorns and clipping their wings. Silkies don't fly and the Rhonde Island Reds have never flown either. Now all the Leghorns are laying and the other two young hens are occasionally contributing a little egg here and there.

I love my chickens, but I really love the eggs. I also love to hear the roosters crow. The Silky has the deepest voice, although he's the smaller of the two roosters. He also pursues the hens with a passion. All of them. And I do mean passion.

The extra weight on the birds as they've begun laying mean that only one still feels the need to spend her nights on the four-foot fence that protects them from dogs and wild animals. She always returns to the lot in the morning so I haven't clipped her wings in a while. Our biggest issue now is that they want to lay under my the deck, which means crawling through the muck to get the eggs each day. When warm weather comes again, however, they'll be confined in the smaller lot with their house. Now they need access to the heated water bowl, and it's in the upper lot. By next winter, however, I'll have another plan for that.

As fall has turned to winter, and the hens have matured to the point that they prefer grains, the daily feedings attract more than the chickens. At first it was only one brave little fellow who was chased away by the red rooster shortly after he began eating. But he soon bought friends. The roosters and hens now ignore the little gray interlopers, although when the squirrels are joined by crows they sometimes chase the black birds away. Other birds also come and eat, including doves, blue jays and cardinals, and the chickens don't seem to mind. I don't mind the creatures of the wild joining in the meal. After all the birds eat in a feeder in the front yard all the time. But my favorites have to be the squirrels, who are becoming so tame that they no longer flee when I step out on the back porch, and sometimes stay in place when I start down the hill to feed the little flock.

Sometimes, however, when I look out the window and see a whole contingent of the little fuzzy creatures eating, I imagine what my grandparents would have done, even though it's not something I would ever do, or even enjoy. I find myself imagining a meal of fresh eggs and squirrel gravy with cathead biscuits. And even though I've never wanted to eat squirrel, I'm betting the grainfed little boogers would be good.