Feathers and Puffy Eyes

Marriage Rule #74:
Don't talk about finances at 3 a.m. after one of you has been sleeping on the couch and just found out her hen has died.

You live, you learn.


Two weeks ago, one of our Barred Rocks became very lethargic and basically stopped walking. We put her in a box separate from the rest of the flock, got her antibiotics, gave her antibiotic-laced water with a syringe (and apple cider vinegar water), concocted various meals of Greek yogurt, apples, oats, gave her a bath of epsom salts... there was some intense nurturing going on at the Kolb homestead.

But still, her little toes were flaccid and while she gained weight and was healthy otherwise, her feet just weren't working. I was holding on hope she'd start walking, though.

And last night, she was taken from the coop by a predator. The coop, with its cracked-open door and a lack of adequate covering for her (we never leave it open so late, but we did last night). Andy returned from a friend's house at 2 a.m. (where he'd been learning investment tricks and debt advice), and he woke me up as I was sleeping on the couch. "Did you check on Henrietta?" "No..." "She's gone." Just a few feathers remained.

Was I irresponsible? Yes. Was she going to ever walk again? Probably not. I'm not trying to justify the negligence, but I can't help but hope that if her life wasn't ever going to be healthy, that she was part of the food chain instead of us having to cull her. We know that's a part of being who we are becoming... but divine intervention sometimes makes things easier for us.

So I was tired, and so upset with myself and at losing her, and poor Andy tried to bring up that we needed to seriously talk about debt reduction, and I just started sobbing--a few minutes for Henrietta, a few minutes for money, back and forth, back and forth. I went to sleep and awoke with a puffy face and eyes, the tell-tale emotional hangover.

We're just fine now, and these outbursts are necessary--at least that have been for me for as long as I remember. (One of my favorite stories involved my mom leaving me at my Grandma and Grandpa Kellmanns' house when I was two or three, and I proceeded to lie by the backdoor, kicking and screaming and sobbing for about a half an hour. When I'd finished, I walked into the living room and announced to my grandparents, "I don't know why I do that sometimes." That pretty much sums up me at times.)

So we lost our first hen, and one of our hens turned out to be a rooster, so we're down to seven future layers. My parents have a few too many chicks (Mom hatched them in her classroom), so we'll probably adopt a couple more Barred Rocks in the near future. Andy and Denver dug post holes and placed posts for the chicken yard, so soon that project will be finished (there is not much we don't do backward). Mason and Avy have taken quite well to the invisible fence, so their lives have improved ten-fold--lots of buddying around, running and digging and sleeping. (Yes, a year ago I would have argued that invisible fences are cruel, but that was before we adopted a dog who could climb over 5' fences and jump out barn windows. Another homesteading rule: You just do what you have to do sometimes. Pragmatism trumps idealism.) Seeing them run together, and greeting us when we get home makes me want to cry--the happy kind of tears.

It's been quite a weekend. Many projects are moving forward, but reality sinks in before we get too comfortable. We need to get serious about budgeting and being smarter with our finances. And I really, really need to weed the garden.