Along side of our chickens this year, we got a heard (peck? gaggle?) of Pheasant. They are really cool to watch, as these birds are still very much wild, having not been a farmed bird for long. They coo, chirp, buzz, all sorts of neat noises.
As official caretaker of all the fur and feather babies, I spend lots of time with these guys.
I have been noticing as the weather is warming, the males are getting more aggressive.
Mating season approaches!
We did read they would actually kill each other but had no idea how cruel these animals can be toward each other.
Over the past year, we’ve only lost one to what I’ll call comrade cruelty. It brought me to tears and shifted how I feel about them, allowing myself some distance emotionally. Which, since they are food, is probably a good thing.
This past week, I’ve noticed that we have one dominant male who is chasing the other males. In nature, the weaker males would fly away.
They can’t go far since they are in an enclosure and unfortunately that means they are unsafe.
The little guy pictured above is currently in our “garage hospice” keeping safe from the cats.
The dominant male pheasant has pulled all the feathers from his head and neck and actually attacked his body, pecking through to his back bone. Which you can see in the photo below.
This is the hard part of Hobby Farming. (Or farming in general) I have a lot of “I should have separated them” (not like I have any other place for them) going on in my head.
Jim will be home soon, but until he does, I’ve sprayed antibiotic on him and have him in a quiet, and safe space.
This weekend, we’ll be taking down the herd (gaggle, peck…) to only two males and a few females so will not have this happen again.
This has been one of those very hard lessons this year.
Having nearly completed our first entire year as Hobby Farmer’s we’ve sure learned a lot, not all good but not all bad either.
It’s a gift to be pretty self sustainable, it’s hard work, but every meal that goes on the table from our farm feels like it comes straight from God and not from some God-awful factory farm.
For that, I’m grateful.