Turns out, I’m not the only one at my house who’s eager to dig in the dirt. The chickens want to be scratching outdoors. Having outgrown the basement bathroom, they are now housed in the garage in four giant dog crates. I think of it as a staging area for their final move to the yet-to-be-built “Coop de Ville” in a couple of weeks.

Martha Graham (left), Darla (with beard) and Isadora (front) . Betty the rooster is on the perch at the back of the cage.

The last time it rained, we made the mistake of gathering up some worms from the paved road and offering them to the chickens. They loved them, of course, but now they are sure our fingers are fat yummy worms.

Feeding time has become challenging. Yesterday, one of the chickens grabbed my finger and wouldn’t let go. The chickens are also fascinated with my polarfleece shirt, zippers, buttons, rings, watches and anything else that could possibly be interpreted as a bug. Those old grain crumbles you’ve been feeding us? Blech! Bring on the grubs and wiggly things!

P.S. My boy Trouble is doing well, but another chicken beat him to the first attempt at crowing. “Betty” wins that award. Now, what are we gonna do with more than one rooster? (I know, I know, don’t say “stew pot”)

Meet Trouble. He rules the roost.

Yes, he.

I know. We only ordered female chicks. Chicks that would grow into pullets and then hens and lay eggs. Make no mistake, Trouble is no hen.

He was the first chick to find his way out of the kiddie pool home and go exploring in my office. While the other chicks were busy eating, Trouble was always busy earning his name. He wanted to be part of anything going on. Well, not just a part of it. He wanted to be in the middle of it. Bold, brash and full of his bad self, Trouble was not like the other chicks. I think it took me three days to decide he was, indeed, a he.

“If we end up with any roosters” said my partner, “they are going in the stew pot!”

Big words. But somehow, I don’t think they are going to apply to Trouble. It took awhile, but I’ve grown very fond of the way he hops out of the cage, up my arm, onto my shoulder. And the way he is everywhere all at once when we bring broccoli bits for the girls. And the way he looks at me, like he just knows that we’re pals sharing some endearing secret.

Yeah, Trouble is my boy. Now I’ve just got to convince my partner and the neighbors and the hens.

Or…Something new to grow

The ringing phone startled me out of a deep sleep at 6 a.m. It was the Scandia post office calling to say they’d just unloaded our chicks off their mail truck! Ohmigosh! We scrambled to get ready, but within the hour, we had 27 chicks settled into their new (thankfully, temporary) home — a purple plastic kiddie pool in my home office.

Little puffs of soft and fuzzy fun, the chicks explored their new digs for a few steps and then collapsed in an exhausted puddle, like Frosty melting on a hot day. It was March 3 when we joined the legions of like-minded folks who want to have their own fresh eggs.

We’d only wanted about a dozen layers, but the hatchery had a minimum order of 25. So we got 9 kinds of chickens, all females, all known for being good layers and able to withstand cold weather. There were yellow ones, black ones, blue ones , ones with spots (not any with chicken pox, though), and some that looked like little owls. And one little gal had feathered legs, looking much like pants. Hey wait, I didn’t order any chickens with pants!

Since that first day, we’ve learn a lot at our house. For starters, we learned that hatcheries toss in a few extra birds sometimes (H’mm. What do you bet they are roosters?). We now know that chicks are dusty and frankly, rather messy. And most importantly (especially if you’re a chick), it is a fact that broccoli is the best thing in the world and if you get a piece, by all means, run around your pen and gloat and make all your flock friends try to catch you.

With any luck, these gals will be outside in their fancy schmancy hen house (dubbed Coop de Ville) in a month. Ok, so it has to be built first, and this weather isn’t exactly conducive to pouring a concrete floor. But by July, the eggs should start rolling in. Brown and tinted and white. Big bright yolks and fresh, fresh, fresh. Did I mention, darned local too?

I can hardly wait!