As I mentioned, I had hoped to give you another update on the feathered flock of the farm last week. Events conspired against me, and instead I reported on the non-avoidance of the Fiscal Cliff and other more mundane matters which threaten the very Fabric of Civilization. I mean, really, can you even conceive of an Internet that is devoid of advertising?

I shudder to think.

Along those lines though, for those among you who are socially active – remember when that meant going out with real people face-to-face instead of just staring at a screen? I digress. For those among you who are socially active online there is a chance to win all sorts of fun stuff on the Fresh Squeezed Facebook page; up to and including a color eReader (Kindle Fire or similar) so that you’d have even more opportunities to shun the real world.

I know, I know. I’m whining again and I agree, I do really need to drag myself out of 2007 and into the modern age. My Ludditious complaining will serve no ends other than to make me even more smug when the power goes out. Not that I’d be able to tell anybody about how right I was.

Oops. I jumped the gun. We haven’t even hinted at the approaching solar maximum. Never mind, we’ll cross that bridge when I’m in my next “here comes the end of the world, again” mood.

But back to the chickens.

As told a couple of weeks ago, the fully-mobile, articulated, solar-powered, multi-kilovolt fenced, battery-charged egg production module is complete. It cost a freaking fortune and all of its high-tech security features were justified by the presence of the countless predatory species living nearby, raccoons and eagles being the highest concern. Not that I have ever actually seen a raccoon on the micro-farm, but there have been reports. I’m of the opinion that the confirmed presence of wily coyotes hunting in the meadow does something to discourage the raccoons. Regardless, one of the other micro-farmers in the commune, who, by the way, eats neither chickens nor eggs, but once raised chickens anyway, reported that her entire flock was decimated one night by raccoons. I’m thinking it might have been an insurance scam. However, the Fear had been implanted and so we felt justified in an expense so massive that it will take over 160 dozen eggs to pay for it.

But, even if the feathered denizens of the meadow fail to produce even one more egg, it will have been a worthy expense. Because, you see, the chickens have passed from being mere producers of ovoid protein modules to pets, and even – if truth be told – to friends.

It’s really amazing to see how their little personalities have developed. When we first got the chickens I wrote about how they were named, and why. Of the first batch – Ameraucanas, the producers of green eggs – two of them have developed into very mild-mannered, polite chickens while the third, Mocha by name, has taken up with the rabble. The second batch – the Iowa Blue breed – consisted of Solo, Middle, and Alpha. Alpha was so named because on first introduction the two day-old chick walked up to the much larger Ameraucanas and bitch-slapped them all into a corner of the brood box. Middle was just sort of there. But as she grew, she and Alpha became the delinquents of the bunch, as unfriendly as a wet cat, constantly hunting, and pecking your hand if you come too close. Solo, from the beginning, kept his own counsel and was always found sitting alone and aloof from the rest of the flock.

Yes, you read that right: “his.” Solo, it turns out, was the “Oops chicken.” Chicken hatcheries employ skilled observers of chickens who, as the tiny, soggy peeps struggle from their shells, snatch them up, cast a practiced – if somewhat bloodshot – eye on them and instantly declare them either male or female. This allows you to specify your order as either all hens, all roosters, or straight-run, i.e. who the hell knows. Bay Hay and Feed – my favorite store – always orders hens but, as with anything determined by people who sip their cocktails out of Mason jars while listening to banjo music, it’s not exactly accurate. In fact, Bay Hay and Feed warns you that there’s a 10% chance that you will get a rooster in the mix. We bought nine chickens, got one rooster. Oops.

This is why I stay away from casinos.

Our final additions, the Salmon Faverolle breed from France, turned out to be the darlings of the bunch. Named Fifi, Chiffon, and Macaroon, they are friendly, companionable birds who are not much different than two-legged, feathered Pomeranians, if you can wrap your mind around that image. When you approach the enclosure, the Frenchies, as we call them, come running over – which is a sight to see – to say hi and tell you about their day. They’ll happily sit with you, clucking contentedly, even allowing you to scratch their heads.

In fact, all of the chickens turned out to have pleasant personalities. When we go out to work in the yard they’ll come over to pass the time of day and watch what we’re doing. If I walk out to the greenhouse, several foraging chickens will look up, cluck a happy hello, and go back to scratching and pecking. Even if I walk across the lane, I’m sure to find one of our happy chickens out and about, just doing chicken stuff. I still don’t know what makes them cross the road.

Wait a minute. All those places are outside the high-voltage electric fence.

Bingo!

The chickens, it seems, don’t read the blog and are apparently unaware, despite repeated remonstrations, that when they’re on the wrong side of the fence, they’re going to get eaten by the eagle.

This has become something of a nuisance since they’re tearing the living daylights out of anything that is not made of rock. They fly up to the top of the star-gate, look around, and hop down. Fence, what fence? I figured I could outsmart them and so stretched a bungee cord across the frame about two inches above the actual gate. This forced the chickens to develop a more accurate landing but, otherwise, had no effect.

It’s those pesky wings. They flap them, they go up. Not very high and not very well, but high enough and well enough that they are easily able to clear the fence and crash back to terra firma on the unsafe side. So I set up a surveillance program with spotting scopes and clocks, and learned their little tricks.

What typically happens is that one of the Iowa Blue delinquents would be first over the fence, Alpha, predictably enough in most cases. Middle would follow and then Mocha. This would be enough of a flock to make Solo jump the fence which was the clue for the rest of the coffee-drinks and the Frenchies. At this point there would be a full flock outside the fence while, safe and cozy inside the fence sat the food and water.

With these observations in hand, I made a command decision: Get the scissors.

Birds, it turns out, lose the ability to fly once the ratio of wing area to weight drops below a certain Biblically (or evolutionarily, if you’re one of those) prescribed limit. By chopping off some of the primary flight feathers on one wing it is often possible to reduce that ratio enough that flying behavior is terminated.

Off I went to wrangle some chickens. I snatched up Alpha first, spread out a wing, Ishya took the scissors, and, in a single skilled move, snipped the feathers. Repeat as needed. The problem solved, the chickens were released back inside their pen where they rejoined the scratching and pecking, already in progress.

The next day, we looked out at the busy flock, which was two chickens short. It turns out that flight was not a prerequisite for escape as their legs were strong enough to leap the four-foot fence anyway. The landings weren’t pretty with the clipped wings, but it seems our free-range chickens took the “free” part literally and they’d be damned if we thought we could stop them.

So, once again, out we’d go to herd the chickens back into the pen. We’d get them close, open the gate, and guide them in. The gate would slam behind them and, like that, they’d hop back out. It got so bad, in fact, that when we’d open the gate to get them back in, any chickens remaining inside would pour forth like so-many feathered Huns and immediately take up scratching, pecking, eating bugs, and nipping the tips off tasty shoots.

We’d created a monster.

In our misguided attempt to make happy chickens by encouraging their foraging instincts, we ended up with a situation where the inside of the pen had been picked clean of anything edible, leaving something resembling the surface of the moon. Outside the chicken run the growth was lush, the turf teemed with bugs; paradise from a chicken’s perspective.

Now we’re at a loss. We can’t keep them in. Hopefully they’ll grow lazier as they get heavier, but, until that happens, we’ll just have to keep rounding them up when they get out and remember one important fact. The guy that came up with the whole “grass is always greener” thing.

He was talking about chickens.