Tora Tora Tora!

The Tora Tora Tora group at Oshkosh 2013 was pretty impressive. Here’s a bit of it, it’s always so hard to believe these days being attacked from air. You really have to feel for the normal folk who really went through things like this, I can’t imagine living through the Battle of Britain, the bombing of Germany, you name it.

We were on a rowboat on Lake Wingra when that B-17 flew over on its way to the airshow. Glad it didn’t bomb us!

Bees need honey

A new study appears to have come out supporting the belief that you shouldn’t feed bees foods other than honey. Honey contains chemicals in it which strengthen the bees immune systems. Take that away and bees are more susceptible to disease. Ours bees certainly have been doing fine on a honey only diet. Of course you get less honey but you keep the bees around which is a decent trade-off.

A couple of related links if you want to read more:

Ars Technica

Science World Report

The End of an Era

The Gentle Giant died today. As with most deaths, though, it was a little more complicated than that.

The Gentle Giant got frostbitten every winter. This winter was colder and wetter, so it was worse. In January, his comb was frostbitten, which I expected, but then his foot swelled up, and he began limping around in the most pathetic fashion. Chickens are essentially cruel by nature, and everyone in the coop began to pick on him- literally. We have a little coop next door to the regular coop, for sick chickens and young chickens. So, I put him in the little hospital coop, expecting him to get better, if left alone.

When I carried him to the new coop, I examined him. His foot was swollen, but I couldn’t tell why. He was dirty. His comb was frostbitten and a little scabbed over.

Every day, I would visit him for a few minutes, and he would hobble around a little and eat and drink. Little Z went in and pet him and encouraged him to get better. Time passed.

Every time I saw him over the past few weeks, he was holding his bad foot up in his feathers, standing on one leg, eating, or he was just nestled in the hay I put down for him, relaxing. Something about him, though, was starting to seem really pathetic. He was not getting better.

I think I suggested a mercy killing about a week ago. But then, we were all thinking, what if it warms up and he just gets better?

We decided today. It was time.

I didn’t really know what was wrong with that foot. It could have been frostbitten or some sort of terrible, flesh eating fungus for all I knew, so I wore goggles, a face mask, and plastic gloves, as well as a washable rain coat over my wool sweater when I went out and got him. Normally, I hold chickens firmly by the feet, but I thought that would hurt him. I just hugged him gently. I did, however, look at “the foot”, but the foot was gone. He had only one foot. His other leg just ended in a little round nub. All those times I thought he had his foot up in his feathers, I was wrong. There was no foot.

And then I had no doubt. The Gentle Giant was not going to get better. There just is no place in this world for one footed roosters.

There was definitely some part of me, actually a huge part of me, that was terribly disturbed that someone – a chicken, but still – could just lose an entire foot within the space of two months! And I was suddenly really glad I was wearing all of that protection.

The march to the cone took quite a while. There I was, hugging my sick, favorite chicken, walking all around the sheep fence, because I accidentally partitioned it poorly, so that it was almost a quarter of a mile through deep snow to the killing tree. My goggles fogged up, and I staggered blindly up the hill, avoiding barbed wire and blackberry bushes. It was at this point that I thought of the book I’d read recently, The Endurance by Caroline Alexander. The book is about an expedition to discover the South Pole in 1916. The men on that expedition ended up stranded on an ice float for 17 months or so, eating penguins. So, when I was blindly staggering through the snow with my soon to be dead chicken, sharp knife tucked under my arm, I thought, at least I’m not stranded on an ice float, living on penguins. This really isn’t so bad.

The knife is one I inherited from Grandpa Al, who was a chef at Mel’s Diner in San Francisco. His name, “Al”, is carved into the handle. It is an excellent knife. I sharpened it this morning. And so, I can thankfully say, when we got to the killing tree, it was quick, it was clean, and the deed was done as well as it could be done. The Gentle Giant is, as they say, “in a better place” now. He was cremated, due to illness. His foot, though… I hope I don’t have another story about where his foot went.

Cleanliness and allergies

So I don’t know how well known or believed this is but I believe it. The cleaner we get as a species the more allergies we have. There is likely some good to having eaten dirt as a child. Little Z doesn’t seem to have any allergies and she gets plenty of contact with the dirt stuffs out here.

Anyhow, here’s a book review at ars techinica about An Epidemic of Absence: A New Way of Understanding Allergies and Autoimmune Diseases. 

So far this winter

We’ve lost 1 chicken, down to 21. Must have been a hawk that got it.

All 5 of the hives and all 6 of the sheep are alive still. There wasn’t much question about the sheep but the bees somehow seem sketchy. Tom and Hen the turkeys are fine too.