The Tournament of Roses has its Rose Parade. Macy’s has its Thanksgivings Day Parade. The People’s Republic of China has its National Day Parade. However these meager festivities happen but once a year. Here at Rosemary Farm, we have a parade everyday. In fact many times a day. Just about anytime you go somewhere around the farm becomes a parade. With 45 very domesticated animals here it is hard not to look back and see a flock of chickens, a pack of dogs (with a few cats) or a herd of horses keeping in step with you. It’s like being at the front of a conga line at Auntie Hannah’s Purim Pageant.

Walking grain down the hill to the horses is a sure way to start a parade. The chickens love the scraps left by the horses, and seven or eight are bound to follow you, clucking and cackling as they waddle their way down the hill in formation. A dog or two is sure to wag in, bringing up the rear.

Human participation is not always necessary for parades at Rosemary Farm. Letting the dogs out is always a spectacle as the three canines bound across the party field usually followed by a cat or two; and frequently unintentionally led by a squawking chicken or two.

And then there are the times we watch from the window at the surprising sight of a band of horses, who have started their own parade down the middle of Roses Brook Road. Casper has taken to being the Grand Marshall of those parades. In perfect disposition they gallantly trot the road one in front of the other.  Where they are going is not important – it never is in a parade, the joy is in the act of getting there.

Indoor parades are also regularly scheduled in the farm house; person, dog, dog, cat, dog, cat, person – and in the library the bunnies join the fray.  The morning parade goes down the stairs to the backdoor.  The food parade is around the kitchen into cold storage and out again (that one is regularly scheduled twice a day.)  And then the evening parade back up the stairs. Of course, there are several bathroom parades throughout the day but we tend to discourage those.

The festivities NEVER END here at Rosemary Farm.  At least it’s never boring, and you’re never alone!

New year’s day brought the early arrival of the baby chicks, the progeny of our recently deceased rooster Byron. We had never incubated eggs and never seen a chick hatch, and you can imagine that I found it pretty wonderful. The effort it takes! Making those first pokes out of the shell, and slowly cracking it apart. And if you have ever tried to stuff 3 lbs of laundry into a 1 lb bag, you know how those chicks feel inside those shells!

Once hatching began, it continued quickly, with over 10 emerging in a few hours. The first was nearly white and huge; then some yellow chicks, tan, and pale mixes, and finally a few black ones, the baby-Byrons I had hoped for. I peeked in often, checking on hatching progress and moving the dry chicks out of the incubator. But then, suddenly, something was wrong.

One of the new black chicks had a pool of blood behind it; or a pool of something… it was the wrong color and consistency of blood. I reached in and picked her up, and the blood pool came with her. It was attached. Looking more closely I could see veins and knew that it was her intestines, coming out. I called Robert, who of course, got out the computer. A quick visit to google confirmed this fear. Apparently chickens have a sort of ‘belly button’, and it has happened before to other young chicks that part of their intestines get stuck to the shell as they hatch. This is what happened to her, and she was dying. The only possible solution was to try and push them all back inside. Of course I tried.

This chick fit into the palm of my hand, still sticky from emerging, with thin beginnings of feathers plastered to her body. I flipped her upside down and held her there, trying to figure out how this could work. Using a q-tip, I began, several fingers doing a complicated maneuver that held her body still, and her legs down. Slowly working, trying to push bit by bit on the elastic dark shapes, which continually slipped loose and slid back out, slowly trying to push them back inside. She would chirp and that would loosen them again. It took over 30 minutes to slowly work them all back into place. Then according to Google, her little belly button would naturally close. I held her for awhile and thought we might be ok, but then she tried to move and chirp again, and something dark would start to ooze out. My hands were covered in blood and stickiness. I tried again, pushing her back together. Again, she held for a minute, but just that. Google was wrong, my chick wasn’t holding together.

Using a piece of tissue paper stuck in the goo, I finally reached a sort of peace with the wound. Maybe it would hold. I tried letting it dry, all the while moving her into and out of the heat lamp to try and keep her little new body warm. It held, until it didn’t. Once she tried to right herself, the tissue tore away, and all the progress was lost. There were more intestines outside then in, and I had to start all over.

We were both tired and I could tell she was weak. At least I was better at it, and did manage to push her back together, sitting on the floor of the bathroom, listening to the chirps of the others in the makeshift coop in the tub (if you knew this house you would know that the bathroom is one of the warmer rooms). She was back together but neither of us could take another round. This time Robert suggested using a piece of gauze, cut into the tiniest square, to stick over the little hole in her belly, into the blood and goo. I held her still yet again, trying to speed the drying. Finally I was able to turn her upright, even as a few of her tiny feathers pulled off onto my hand. She was weak and quiet but the bandage held. Now I just had to wait.

In the meantime the rest of the chicks emerged, 15 all told. Six blacks and nine red-blondes. But just the one in medical need.

I mixed some anti-biotic and became the water pusher, always making her drink. She stayed in with the others, I figured if her life was going to be short it was best to spend with her family. For the first two days it seemed very iffy; she was not active like the others, not moving or growing. But slowly, she emerged. She began to stand, she drank more, and then finally she began to eat! Two days is a long time in a chickens early life, and a long time to keep watching, waiting, rooting for her survival. And survive she did. A week later, still half the size of her siblings, little Phoenix was acting just like any other chicken, fussing over being disturbed, scratching at food, running about the tub/chicken nursery. Now at 12 days, it is getting hard to tell her apart from the others, as she catches up in size and stamina. Unless you flip her over, where she still has a small stiff patch on her belly. I can only hope that it holds through a long and happy chicken life.

Yesterday morning I had to lay to rest one more of our farms beloved creatures. It has once again brought me squarely face to face with the downside of dealing with a lot of livestock – deadstock. I am not at all trying to be funny. It is something a neighbor warned us about early on in our adventure here at the farm and it resonates with each passing. The issue was brought to our attention in reference to the practical problems in dealing with a death since at the time we were burying a neighbors pony for him using our tractor. But there is also the emotional side of being faced with death so often. Most of us are not. And when we are personally touched it often a singular life changing loss. But with so many creatures passing through our lives now we have found we need to learn to quickly accept and move on – as there are so many alive here still counting on us. This doesn’t mean we do not feel the loss – we simply try to replace it with the memory of life. And so in that spirt, I wish to share with you the memory of some of the friends we said goodbye to through the last seasons.
Grandpa Bunny (Cinnamon) came to us from a neighborhood boy preparing to go off to college. The boy had had the bunny since he was eight. I don’t think anyone imagined the would have this problem. Ten years old is very old for a bunny, but Grandpa Bunny (as we dubbed him) seemed in fine health and the boy did not want to put him down. We had a lone bunny, Easter, a Brooklyn rescue and we wanted a friend for her. So it worked out great – especially for Grandpa whose last six months were spent lustfully with his new friend Easter. He passed peacefully in his sleep the other night.
Byron and Emmett came to us from Brooklyn as caged birds.
Byron	Emmett
Byron, a small bantam roster, became the head of our flock and was a proud and noble leader. Yes I just described a chicken as proud and noble. That is because of all I learned from Byron. Most of the chickens in this country spend their lives in cages smaller than shoe-boxes – never to see the light of day. Because of that, people claim roosters are mostly unnecessary except for making new chickens. But in a free range flock roosters are the caretakers, providers and protectors. Byron was the perfect example and even though he was raised in a cage in Brooklyn he took handedly to his new responsibilities. Byron would collect food for the hens, round them up, make sure they were in at night and ultimately, he protected them with his life. Emmett was his second in command and he too helped in the duties above. One late afternoon in late fall Byron and Emmet defended the flock from a wandering predator. Byron fought to the death. Emmett got away but ultimately died from internal wounds. The rest of the flock was safe – including the two proud roosters Byron and Emmet raised from chicks who have now take over the jobs of their fallen leaders. We lost a couple of other hens to predators this past summer – one of the downfalls of a free range flock. But believe us when we boast to having the happiest chickens on earth. Death is a risk worth taking while living life to the fullest.
By far the hardest loss for me was that of Tigress, my beloved friend of thirteen years.
	I have had Tigress and her sister Nikki since they were kittens. She slept with me, worked with me and rode my shoulder around the many houses I’ve had in the past thirteen years. She was a wonderful companion, always there for me and a cherished member of our farm. We lost her to cancer this year. We had to put her down – one of the hardest choices I had to make. You are sorely missed Tigress.
But life is a circle. And whether you believe it random or designed, life will fill in the empty spaces. During Tigress’s last months with the disease, we found a kitten in the barn while throwing hay. She was no more than a week old and fit in the palm of your hand. We took her in and she and Tigress became friends. Cosmo now carries on Tigress’s duty of staving off mice with Nikki.
After the tragic incident with Byron and Emmett and we gathered up eggs from right before and after their deaths and decided to try to incubating them. That is a tale unto itself.
	Suffice to say we have fifteen tiny chickens in our bathtub – six of whom look suspiciously like Byron – or Emmett. We shall see.
And I hear today that Sean Cassey Animal Rescure, from whence our Brooklyn creatures hailed, has a big white bunny that is desperately in need of a home. Looks like Easter Bunny is going to be getting a new friend too!

To get to Rosemary Farm, of course.  If you have a farm you’ve got to have chickens.  So off to TSC for there annual batches of baby chickens.  We started with fourteen because thats about all our bathtub can hold comfortably.  That is until our brood of hatchlings become roosters and hens. (At the rate they are growing I expect that to be no more then a month or so.) So the next big project – build a chicken coop.

After some discussion of the best and most convenient places on the farm to build a coop, we settled on the old maple barn.  A smaller out-building about the size of a three-car garage with a small upstairs.  The first job was cleaning it out.  The barn had become a trash depository as had every building on the property.  That only took a day and as far as designing and building the coop, we had some time…

Until we saved Byron!

Byron (as we named him) was a rooster a friend found in his backyard in Brooklyn.  Not knowing who else to call, he called us.  We had him call a local animal rescue to capture the chicken until we could get down there and pick him up.  Of course, my wife returned with Byron, Emily, the Weird Sisters and Bunny Tuscadero!  (A rooster, three hens and a HUGE rabbit.)

OK – we need to step it up on the coop.  Until then the chickens go in the Hobbit room – a room in back of the house that has low ceiling and a small door that comes out of a cabinet in the hallway.  The bunny went in the sun room, of course.

We picked a corner of the Maple barn that looked finished enough and decided on an eight by fourteen coop.  (That should hold the chicks too when they are ready as my wife does not “plan” on keeping all fourteen – right.)

So I quickly built this little coop from a bunch of old lumber and a battered (screenless) screen door.  I used some roofing tin from another barn we had to pull down for the ceiling.  So all we had to buy was some extra chicken wire and this is what we got.

Byron is now lord of the manor.  And in another few weeks he will have a dozen or so chicks to add to his flock.