The Flock Chronicles

Red House vs. White House at Cedar Paddock Hobby Farm Red House vs. White House Every autumn, the Cedar Paddock flock takes part in one of our favorite seasonal traditions — the Chicken Pumpkin Carving Contest. It’s the ultimate showdown between the Red House and the White House, and as always, the results were equal parts hilarious and heartwarming. This year’s competition began with two bright orange pumpkins placed in each coop yard — one for the Red House hens, home to Tr

The night settles over Cedar Paddock like a slow exhale. Crickets hum in the grass, a few leaves drift from the oaks, and the air still holds the last warmth of autumn. From the red house comes only the faint rustle of feathers as the hens shift on the roost. Travis gives one soft cluck, then stills. But across the way, the White House glows faintly under its yard light. Ricky hasn’t slept. All through the dark hours, his shadow moves back and forth, wings catching flashes of

The sun still hangs hot over Cedar Paddock, the air thick with the smell of dust and dry leaves. It’s the kind of Missouri autumn that glows like summer but hums with change — and in the White House pen, that change has a name. Ricky. Rooberty has taken hold of him like wildfire. His feathers blaze with iridescent sheen, his comb burns crimson, and every crow rips through the air with wild conviction. He struts, he paces, he throws his weight against the wire just to hear it

Travis calling the kingdom. The sun still burns warm over Cedar Paddock, spilling gold across the turning leaves. It is fall in Marthasville — the kind of season that fools you into thinking summer might never end. From the red house, Travis greets the morning. His crow rolls low and steady through the air — not as strong as before the fight, but rich with certainty. His leg still stiffens when he walks, but the hens follow him anyway, trusting his quiet rhythm. Each step he

The days are still warm in Marthasville — the kind of autumn that clings to summer just a little too long. The sun hangs low and lazy, stretching golden light across the paddock, and the chickens bathe in it like they know winter is still far away. But the peace doesn’t last long. Because this is the season of voices. It began quietly, almost shyly — a cracked, uncertain sound from the White House run. Bobby in the White House Bobby. Small but bold, he threw back his head a

Autumn in the woods of Cedar Paddock The paddock glows under the slow burn of fall. Sunlight filters through the oaks and maples, scattering gold across the runs. The air is warm still — sweet with dry grass and dust — but the leaves whisper of change. In the red house, Travis limps from one end of the covered run to the other. His stride is uneven, but his purpose is not. Each step is deliberate, each crow measured — not the booming call of conquest, but the low, resonant so