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Rusty Roo’s Escapade August 2, 2010
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Greetings Friends of the Farm,

I knew something was not quite right. I’d just ladled out hen scratch in a pan, and directly on the ground, so the, ahem, hens could “scratch” it. Usually Rusty Roo is the first to observe that I am doing my job, and tells the hens, who of course already know that I am putting out the feed. Indeed they are already eating it.

Every day around 5 PM, I let the hens and Rusty out, to scavenge the farm for their greens, worms, and bugs. This day I did not, as I had raked up all their fervent disarrangement of the area around the kids’ dirt play area and the farm stand -- they had redistributed mulch to places it should not be -- and I knew I wouldn’t have time in the morning to tidy up for market. I like a halfway tidy environment for market, even though some debris is always totally visible to our visitors. I’m mortified that we expose our lack of culture so blatantly, but perhaps it gives folks comfort to know that we have refuse and defects.

Raking the ground, to me, is like sweeping out the farmhouse. Even with dust and cobwebby stuff lining the window tops and cosy-ing up under the couch, the place just looks better if I’ve swept the collection of grit, leaves, soil, and possibly “poo de poulet” that silently covers the floors and sent it all outside, where it belongs. If I don’t sweep everyday, soon we’ll have to farm the floors. However, there’s not enough sunshine in the house to successfully grow anything, and the kitchen lights irritatingly burn out frequently, so soil left in there is wasted.

I slung another tin can full of grain out on the ground and the hens industriously started their scratching. They like to scratch even though the grain is clearly visible and available. It’s just habit. I’ve questioned them about this habit though, as it seems to me that a lot of dirt gets mixed up with the grain, and eaten. They explained that it is grit, and chickens are supposed to have grit to break up the food once it is consumed. They were too busy at their habit to elucidate further.

Rusty Roo is a creature of habit too, and he strangely was not there. Immediately I entered the Run and canvased it to see if he had succumbed to the heat and was stroked out somewhere. He’s lost weight recently as the heat is hard on chickens. It’s especially hard on the elderlies, like the soon to be famous Tootie J Tootums. Once the seven-year old Head Hen finished writing her article for Edible Austin’s fall issue, typed by me of course, she started to act puny. Just sitting around in the shade, not wanting to go to work in the fields, not wanting to eat.

Rusty on the other hand, still wants to eat.

I called him over and over, but no answer. Soon Cousin Claire, asking if he’d been stolen (HA! Fat Chance!) joined in on the search, as well as the hens who had consumed all the hen scratch they could bear. They hoped I would now be looking for worms, turning over logs and junk. Perhaps roaches would be on the run and they LOVE to eat them!

I had earlier checked the old roll of chicken wire that Rusty had gotten hooked up in some time back but I saw no clues that he was interested in that again.

As I and some of the hens were looking underneath fallen China berry trees, Claire alerted me that a hen kept trying to tell her that indeed Rusty was inside the roll of wire. The hen had one eye on Claire and one eye on the trapped scratch adviser. She made a comment, probably about how delicious the scratch was today, and Rusty answered, with a little croak. Claire tipped up the end of the roll of wire, and inside he was faintly visible. His spur was caught by the wires.


While Claire reassured Rusty that all would be fine (I thought that I’d never be able to get him out of there and no, all would NOT be fine), I ran for the wire clippers that, wouldn’t you know it (a miracle), some farm man had carelessly left on the back porch bench. I had passed by the clippers on the bench many times thinking, well, in a few years, “he’ll” put them back where they belong.

But around here, when men use tools, they leave them where the last action took place. Larry explains this apparent lack of responsibility by saying, “If I need the tool, I just recall where last I used it, and there it is.” You have to admit that sounds reasonable.

All weekend, his socket set relaxed on the ground in the barn next to Lillian T. Tractor, who had developed a bad tire, while I was driving her. The tire had a “bubble” and Larry said to keep driving Lillian a while longer, as “when she’s down, you’ll be without her for a week.” She went down with a huge hiss on Friday. So Larry took off the wheel, using the socket whatevers, and transported it to the tire store for a new one, which would be filled with foam. The socket set braved two nights all by itself on the dirt in the barn. It was shiny, new looking. I worried that our young neighbors would have a moral break down and want it. I sent them “white light,” as recommended by Claire, to persuade them that (1) they did NOT want our socket set, and instead (2) they would BUY one for themselves, if they had use for one.

Larry, while not worried at all about luring the youths back into crime, finally tired of my harping, and put up the set Sunday night. Maybe, even he dared not risk another three unguarded days and nights for the sockets. He remarked, however, that the entire set cost only $7, Chinese. To me, though, the issue was not about that shockingly low price, but about the character development (or disintegration) of our neighbors. I didn’t want to tempt them. Especially after I’ve spent months sending them love, encouragement, and white light.

Meanwhile back in the run, Claire was sending Rusty Roo white light. Finally I returned with the slightly rusted clippers and cut the wires holding his manly spur. This spur is what hung him up the last time he was in the chicken-wire tunnel. On that first experience he was trapped at least twelve hours, while we were at the other farm. This entrapment was relatively recent, but if Claire hadn’t spotted him, he’d be a dead mystery pretty soon in this heat. (Larry advises that I cut off Rusty’s manly spurs to prevent a return to the roll of wire. Claire thinks we should “toss the roll” over the fence into the woods. But it’s heavy. Next time we’ll go right to it as we’ll remember where Rusty (male) last used it.)

I inserted my hands around him and pushed away the tangle of wire, while Claire held the end of the roll up. Suddenly he was able to get out the other end and he ran away from his benevolent rescuers and the horrid roll. After a few grumbling belches, which I wanted to believe were “thank yous,” but I know better, he headed straight away for the Hen House and the hen scratch! 


He told the hens that the scratch dinner was on, and they looked back at him with bored satiation and a bit of regret. They likely thought, do we really need him?

Carol Ann

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