We're Baaaaaaaaaack!

Oh, sweet, sweet broadband! After three months without a phone line, we are finally back in the technological age. And oh, dear reader, I have so much to tell you. So much in fact that I'm bound to forget something and need to add stuff. So please bear with me.

Firstly, some very sad news. I lost both my beautiful serama. Betsy went down with a mystery illness at the end of April. She was hunched and not eating well, so I brought her inside in the warm and nursed her. At first I thought maybe she was just depressed at being bullied, as she was very much the bottom hen. But then her neck was starting to go wry, and she was missing her food bowl when trying to eat. I suspect it was some kind of neurological condition. I treated her with baytril in the hope that if it was a bacterial infection she might pick up, but sadly she passed away on the first of May. None of the other birds seemed ill, but I added a tonic to their water and scrubbed the coop anyway.

We were away on June 5th when my lovely chicken sitter found Vera dead in the coop. There was no sign of illness, although her vent was a little mucky. However, this could have happened at the time of death and she was in fine form when I saw her two days previously. Her weight was good, there was no sign of injury and all in all it's a head scratcher. The other birds were afected by her passing, as she'd had the audacity to cark it infront of the pop hole. Pekins have such stumpy legs that they couldn't clamber over her corpse and had to wait until the chicken sitter's mid morning visit to get breakfast. I like to think that she did it on purpose. She had spirit, that little bird. Losing both girls inside of a few weeks was very disheartening. I now have four pekins left, Mabel, Maude, Maeve and Hilda.

As I watched my four remaining girls pootle around the garden it occurred to me that I have gone a full circle. I started off with four hens, and now I am back to four. Now that we have the nutty pup, I am not prepared to go through the trauma of new introductions to such an established group. So my new plan is this.

My remaining girls will live out their lives without getting to bully any newcomers. But they will do so in a smaller residence. Yes, with a heavy heart I have decided to sell the Palace. It's far too big for four birds, and in the winter they'd freeze. So I have purchased a smaller coop, not so different from my original Convent, which they will find cosy yet still adequately spacious. In fact, said coop has just been delivered in two enormous boxes. I am going to landscape around the new coop with the aid of a garden designer and make it a feature of the border. Hopefully.

And so, the girls. You'll be pleased to hear that my magnificent mille's are still going strong at 4 years old, and even still laying the odd egg. Sometimes very odd. One of them layed an egg last week which looked like it had been shot. There was a perfect, round hole at the blunt end, surrounded by a black ring which looked singed. I actually cracked it to see if there was a projectile inside. The egg itself was perfectly normal and the membrane intact. I checked both girls, too, and found no hidden laser stashed under anyone's bum feathers. Another strange chickenny mystery.

Hilda has been broody for a month now. I kick her from the nest regularly, dunk her in water and basically wait for her to snap out of it. If last year is anything to go by, that should happen when she moults. So around August, then.

In much scarier news, the fearsome ASBO Chicken has also fallen under the broody spell. So narked is she if disturbed that she has taken to lunging at the pup through the mesh of the run if he gets too close. I swear there's some rottweiler in that bird's DNA.

It's good to be back.

There Is No Such Thing As Perfect

This is now my mantra. There is no such thing as the perfect garden. I tell myself this as I survey my small outside space and witness the scattered stones, holey borders and lopsided shrubs. Once upon a time, ten small chickens were my garden vandals and the damage was relentless but easy to repair. Now there is a dog. Enough said.

There is no such thing as a perfect hen house. I tell myself this as I climb in to the Palace with a long handled broom to get errant poo from the far corners. To be fair, this is the only criticism I have of the Palace. And really it's my problem. I have stumpy arms.

There is no such thing as a perfect flock. Since the very beginning of my chicken keeping adventure, I have yearned to have a picturesque huddle of hens, all in fine health and feather, arranging themselves artfully around the borders. This does not happen. One hen will always be moulting or purple from Gentian Violet after a punch up. Artful arrangement will go to the wall as they dustbath all of your plants out of existence. And don't get me started on their appalling toilet habits. A hot, sizzling curry poo on the back step in July soon evaporates any ideas of genteel beauty, let me tell you.

There is no such thing as a perfect integration. There will be squawking, and screeching, and someone will end up being systematically sat on by everyone else. I write this knowing that right now that someone is Betsy, as all ten birds are currently shut in the Palace. The weather has turned cold and I'm worried for my delicate serama. If the pekins can grudgingly accept them and let them move in, they will have eight snuggly duvets to hide under. But as I said, no integration is perfect. They may end up back in their hutch after all.

Meh, perfection would probably be dull.

When Two Worlds Collide

The puppy has been here for nearly two months now. The chooks have gone from utter panic every time they catch sight of the crazy mutt to mild annoyance when he leaps at the Palace walls. In fact, now they tend to tell him off in very scolding tones and continue preening/eating/gossiping. He is a slow learner, however, and still likes to leap up and get them flapping. Naturally, this particular integration needs very careful handling. After all, this interloper has a long snout full of teeth and the urge to chase. Even the fearsome ASBO Chicken might have a problem pecking him in to submission. So, operation Desensitise Jasper has begun. It basically involves this:

Sophisticated, huh? Yep, I tether the puppy to the outside tap while I'm cleaning out the hens. The girls avoid him at all costs, and he is rewarded every time I walk past if he is sat quietly and not slathering at the chops with murder in his eyes (Disclaimer: I have never seen murder in his eyes, more 'Ooh! Feathers! Moving! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee!'). So far, so good. Today was the third time of trying this out, and he barked and fussed much less. Phew.

The girls are watching these developments with a beady eye. I am placating them with tinnned sweetcorn and extra deep bedding. No one has left home yet.

Just to prove that no one has been eaten, here are some pics taken on this grey yet freakily mild November day:

Celia, Maeve and Maude. Only Maude looks her best at the moment, as she moulted a few months ago. For some reason, the camera always turns Celia in to a ghost chicken. As you can see, Maeve is much reduced at the moment, and seriously annoyed about it. Hidden from view in the nest box behind Maeve is a still broody Hilda. Sigh.

My lovely, camera loving Vera.

Flo, almost grown up. The face furniture is reddening nicely, but I'm not expecting any eggs until early next year. You can just see Winnie's flares in the top right corner. She does not like her picture being taken.

Mabel and Betsy are also alive and well, they just were just too busy eating the leftovers of Jasper's breakfast to pose. Revenge is a dish best served from the dog's bowl, it seems.

Jasper munching a raw carrot, while Flo, Winnie and Gladys eat his kibble. That'll teach him.

By the summer, I expect to be able to live in a harmonious household, where chickens and spaniel coexist and share grapes. Maybe.

That Was Close

Now, there are many things I could be accused of. Being slightly animal crackers is definitely one of them. However, I am not blind to my animal's faults. So as much as I adore our puppy, I know full well that he is a wolf in Spaniel's clothing, and given half a chance would scoff my chickens for a laugh. So you can imagine my horror when the little demon worked out how to open the back door when the girls were free ranging yesterday.

I was first alerted to something being amiss by a desperately squawking Betsy. Mind you, Betsy often loudly complains if any of the other hens get too close, so I didn't run immediately. It took a moment for me to realise that I was hearing that squawk a little too well. Getting up from the sofa, I saw that the back door was open and the dog was outside. Oh buttocks.

The chooks were nowhere to be seen, but offended chuntering was coming from the coop. I still couldn't see the puppy. Rounding the corner of the house, I heard a commotion coming from the garage and discovered a desperately flapping Gladys trying to achieve higher ground while a jubilant puppy yapped and jumped below her. The pup, being only 14 weeks old, is not great at following commands so my 'No! Leave it!' fell on floppy but deaf ears. In the end, I snagged the furry terrorist by the collar and hauled him in to the house. Shutting him in, I dashed back to Gladys's aid.

I found her perched on top of the fridge freezer, preening her tail in a most aggrieved manner. At first she resisted my attempts to rescue her, and squawked loudly at me instead. I imagine I was being royally told off for bringing the chicken worrier in to the house, and was probably getting a few chicken expletives thrown in for good measure. Eventually I coaxed the frazzled frizzle in to my arms and began the trek across the lawn to the Palace. At exactly that moment, the demon pup escaped again and began charging towards us in a frenzy of clumsy baby dog legs and gnashing needle teeth.

There was nothing else for it. Going purely on instinct, I stood in the middle of my garden, in full view of all of my neighbours, and barked and growled at the puppy. This strange behaviour brought him up short, and he stared at me in fascinated horror. Even Gladys considered me in a careful manner, as if appeasing a person who has just broken out of a mental asylum. Now that the chicken was safe and the dog had stopped in it's tracks, I realised I could probably...stop.

No harm was done to chicken or puppy, but I can't say the same for my local reputation.

Moving On Up

The two newest recruits, Flo and Winnie, have been with us for a couple of months now. They're still some way off laying, but Flo has already found her big girl voice and Winnie's is on its way. It's a curious time for a chicken when they switch from the babyish 'meep meep' to the adult 'bok-ARK'. They often look rather startled themselves when a 'meep' ends in a 'ARK', and the transition lasts a couple of weeks. So I suppose you could say that the two newbies have now hit adolesence. And that means one thing: moving out of the nursery.

The baby pekins have resided in the garage in makeshift accomodation up until this point. They have made firm friends with the serama, and often pop over for dinner. But ultimately they need to integrate with the big girls. I have locked them in to the Palace for short periods before now, and although they get chased a bit and the odd bum tail feather pulled, no serious harm has been done. So today I have bitten the bullet. Flo and Winnie are moving up in to the Palace.

So far, no major confrontation has taken place. The newbies have kept one step ahead of the established flock members, and there has been no coordinated effort to mash them in to the aubiose. But as with all things chicken, I can't exhale just yet. The next few days will be fraught for both human and chickens alike. Hopefully, though, at the end I will be left with a cohesive pekin flock (The serama will stay in their hutch home for the forseeable future due to the pekins' desire to turn them in to scatter cushions given half a chance).

How about a few pics?

Mabel, mid moult. She is not impressed.

Maude, post moult, and looking beautiful.

Hilda, looking quite nared at the new introductions, and in a pecky mood.

Nearly grown up Winnie and Flo. Flo is getting darker as she matures.

The greeting party. They mostly come in peace.

Maeve showing off her bosoms like a Boss.

You looking at me?

Vera appears to be going broody again. Excuse me while I bang my head against a wall.

Betsy pops up to say hello.

Now I just have to wait for sun down to see if the new girls are brave enough to try sleeping with the enemy.

Stuffed Animals, Maude And The Chickens With No Arse

When I was at school, the Headmaster had several creepy stuffed animals dotted around. One was a fox, one was a badger and one was a pheasant. Us 'orrible children used to dare each other to touch these macabre ornaments. The fox felt greasy, and the ultimate act of bravery was to put your chubby child hand between his snarling chops. The badger felt wiry and looking at it made me feel sad. But at least these two specimens were mostly intact. The pheasant wasn't so lucky. It's plumage was tatty from years of having small people running their hands through it. Feathers would sometimes fall off the dusty bird, and we'd stick them back haphazardly. Why am I telling you this? Well, because Maude has looked like that straggly pheasant for a long time now. Her moult seems to be taking forever. But just as I started to worry, she is once again beginning to look magnificent.

Most of the fluffy underfeathers have finally become untangled, and her new feathers are unfurling. She now looks like Maude again, but with a shorter, funkier hair do. Maude has been smart. Her moult will be but a memory when the bad weather rolls in. The rest of the flock will no doubt sit in the coop, bald from the neck down and shivering come October. Then Maude will strut about in a smug manner, flaunting her high tog duvet and mocking the sparrow sized serama.

Actually, I'm a bit concerned as to what the serama will look like when they moult. Half their body size is in their upright tail feathers. A bumless serama is going to look odd. And probably a bit like a quail. Don't worry, I will gets photographs for you amusement. I have already found a few black silkied feathers in the nest box, so I suspect that Vera is about to shrink substantially. The youngest showed concern at the idea of the serama moulting. As he put it, what if they simply poof out of existance like 'Angry Birds'? It got me thinking. Perhaps that explains why there are so few of them about,

Now that August is drawing to a close, I've decided to give up on the summer. It's been long, and dry, and sometimes unbearably humid. Today is the first cool day we've had since early June, and it's actually raining. The ground is that dry that I swear I can hear it sucking up the moisture like a two year old with a straw. We have been in drought here in the midlands. Even the hens ventured out for a splash in the puddles. Granted, it didn't last long. Pekins hate getting their feet wet and serama aren't very waterproof what with the silkied feathers. But I think they enjoyed a brief freshen up nonetheless.

The integration plans for Flo and Winnie are going ahead. Ideally, they'll be fully fledged memebers of the gang by the end of September. They've spent quite a bit of time in with the big girls now with minimal interference. They get the odd bit of chasing, but nothing substantial and they're smart enough to keep out of pecking distance. I've had to stop plans to add Vera and Betsy to the main flock now, though. It tuns out that pekins are hideously species-ist. They seem to know that the serama are Not Their Kind, and for some reason really have it in for Betsy. They ganged up on her in a way I've never seen them do with any other potential flock mate, and if one caught her she couldn't get away. The others then all stood around taking it in turns to pluck her alive or issue a stabby peck at her head. Of course, I rescued her and abandoned all plans of moving the serama in to the Palace. They will remain in the garage hutch. Strangely, when they all free range together there are no problems at all. Betsy often pops in to the Palace for a quick shifty, or to grab a drink. That seems to be tolerated, so I suppose they are integrated enough. And Vera is still micro-managing the pekin youngsters, so I'm hoping that that particular serama/pekin alliance will continue.

Now if I could just stop thinking about that creepy stuffed fox...

Sometimes, It's Just A Pleasure

Yesterday was a bit stressful for me and the chooks. I basically bunged them all in to the Palace for two hours and sat next to the weld mesh waiting for a riot to break out. Surprisingly, it didn't. I mean, of course there was some stroppy squawking and chasing, but on the whole it was strangely peaceful. Betsy and Vera mainly lurked in the coop, occasionally venturing in to the run when they felt like tormenting one of the bigger girls. Winnie and Flo managed to keep mostly out of beaks way, and when Maeve did corner Winnie she merely issued a couple of half-arsed pecks before ambling off to eat something. This is very encouraging.

But today, I didn't feel like giving myself a stress fuelled heart attack. So I just let them get on with it and attempted to tidy the garden. So often as a chicken keeper you can be focused on this ailment, or that broody, that you can easily foget to simply enjoy the greedy feather bags mooching about the garden. You should sit back and smell the roses, as it were. So today I sat back and smelled the evil broody poo.

Maude is coming through her moult at long last, and is as beautiful as ever. Now that her quills are through she isn't in any discomfort and I can breathe a sigh of relief at another non-fatal moult. Mabel is holding on to her top hen status and continues to be a benevolent ruler, only sometimes feeling the need to flatten an underling. She doesn't bother with the newbies at all. Celia is still determinedly broody despite my best efforts. I am continuously turfing her out of the nest box and smothering her in mite powder. She stares at me glassily and coos at her imaginary eggs. Loon. Our beloved ASBO Chicken continues to skulk like a feathery ninja, and stages the odd ambush. She isn't particularly fussed whether her victim is human or chicken, but has a particular fondness for hiding under the trampoline and pouncing on the children's feet as they dismount. That's my girl.

Gladys is found next to Celia in the nest boxes, and her back end is indistinguishable from her front under all of the frizzling. She does have the sense to wander from the nest several times a day, though, so I'm more confident that she'll snap out of it of her own accord. Hilda is currently sporting exquisitely well manicured fingernails, as I gradually file them down. Her weeks of being broody led to crazy talon growth, so now when she walks across the patio she sounds like she's wearing heels. Now there's an image.

Betsy is still laying the odd egg. Very odd. If it isn't soft shelled it's the size of a five pence piece. I have given up worrying about it and just assume that Betsy's egg laying gubbins is wonky. She is not in the least bit bothered. Vera is still herding her giant babies and busy telling them off at every possible opportunity. It's really rather sweet. For their part, Winnie and Flo are wonderfully tolerant of the barmy Serama. Flo made her first proper 'bok-ARK' yesterday, and was exceedingly pleased with herself. She is growing in to a real beauty. Winnie is still playing catch up, but is a gentle and quiet pullet so far. I can see her being bottom of the pecking order, but not really minding much.

As I watched all ten of them scavenging the wheat I'd just thrown on the lawn, I thought to myself: I must post about this. That it's not all tragedy, illness or comedy gold. Sometimes it's just bloody lovely.

So go and watch your chooks and remind yourself why you bother.

The Professional Mother

Vera is a brilliant chicken. A brilliant, and tiny, chicken. She gets up to all sorts of mischief, torments the pekins and regularly breaks in to the house to steal stray cheerios. In short, she has character. She looked after her serama eggs brilliantly, and proved herself to be a caring and attentive mother. Ok, so when one of her babies died and the other one was rehomed she didn't bat an eyelid, but when they were right in front of her, she cared. So I probably shouldn't be too surprised by this turn of events.

When the broody domino effect was in full swing a couple of weeks ago, Vera jumped on the bandwagon. I caged her for two days at the beginning of this week and on her release she appeared cured. So it was odd to hear her doing the 'broody chunter' from the garage as I was pottering in the garden. I don't want Vera to be broody really. I worry about her. She has tons of personality, but only 275 grams of physical presence. I walked towards the garage mentally preparing the broody cage. But Vera was not in the nest box. Oh no. Vera was sitting on Flo and Winnie.

The baby pekins were huddled in the corner of the serama hutch and Vera was balanced on top of them like an ill fitting hat. I can't be entirely certain that the pekins were comfortable with this arrangement. But Vera seemed exceedingly pleased with her position, and stared happily in to the distance, riding a sea of maternal hormones. Flo gingerly attempted to rise to her feet and was greeted with a disciplinarian shriek of warning and a scrubby wing thrown over her head. Mother had decided it was bed time. At 4.30 in the afternoon. Oh dear.

When we first collected Flo and Winnie, Flo was about the size of the serama, and Winnie a bit smaller. But they've been here 5 weeks now. Flo is currently twice the size of the would-be mother, and Winnie a little bigger. In short, they tower over the silkied serama hen, and don't really need to be shoved under anyone's wings to sleep. Especially wings that barely stretch across their heads, let alone their abundantly feathered bodies. I lifted Vera from her awkward perch and allowed the pekin babies to escape. Vera muttered with concern as her young charges waddled out in to the sunlight. As soon as I put her down, she charged off after her adopted chicks, chuntering and fussing like the proverbial mother hen. Betsy watched this from the border dust bath with her beak open. I'm sure she was just panting in the heat, but it did really look like her gob was hanging open in disbelief.

Flo and Winnie seem to have accepted Vera's attentions with mostly good grace. They aren't so keen on being sat on, but are quite happy if their adoptive mother finds something delicious,  breaks it in to pieces and calls them to eat it. Vera watches them hoover up the treats and chunters encouragement. She then herds them from food to dustbath and back to the garage. I had to rescue them this morning from the serama nest box where she sat guarding the doorway. This is the first time I have had a broody hen take mothering duties upon herself. Usually, my broodies get over their hormonal mentalness and start chasing any newbies about in order to restore the status quo.

I think she'll have her work cut out when they hit the teenage rebelliious weeks.

The Great Corn On The Cob Heist

I went out for dinner yesterday. If you're interested, I had a pasta dish. The eldest had spaghetti, which oddly, came with a random corn on the cob. The eldest doesn't like corn on the cob. The corn sat on the side of his plate, taunting me, for the whole meal. But I didn't want it. I don't think corn on the cob is a natural accompaniment to pasta, as it happens. However, I knew several someones who would very much enjoy that corn on the cob.

As the ever tolerant husband was busy sorting out the bill, I seized my chance. I casually picked up a napkin, gave a quick glance around the table to make sure I was unobserved, and went to grab the corn. Unfortunately, the waiter chose that exact moment to reach forward for the plate. He hesitated as I clutched my prize, and instead of simply ignoring the whole awkward situation, I blurted out for no apparent reason 'It's for Maeve. She's a chicken'. I actually felt the ever tolerant husband wither and shrink in to his chair.

When we got home, I triumphantly presented the corn to the inhabitants of the Palace. They had already retired for the evening, but the whiff of luke warm corn lured them back in to the run briefly. Chickens generally pig out before bedtime, so they had already filled their crops with pellets. After several gluttonous pecks, they admitted defeat and went back to bed. I had no doubt that they would dream of crispy, fresh corn and wake up raring to scoff.

Of course, as well as being eating machines, chickens also have pretty rubbish attention spans. So this morning, the half eaten corn lay neglected under the Palace's ramp. It hadn't been spotted by the usual suspects at breakfast, and now that they were all out free ranging it was all forgotten about. That is, until the new pekins spotted it.

Winnie and Flo regularly stroll in to the Palace at this stage. If a regular spots them, they will give a half hearted chase. But on the whole, they're ignored. So imagine the sheer joy they experienced when they found the corn. Flo actually did a lap of excitement, flapping and bouncing around the run like the total nutjob she is. They pecked at the corn gingerly, not really understanding their prize but twigging that the other pekins wouldn't want them to have it. With this in mind, they took it in turns to drag it to the run doorway.

Just as they were about to commence dragging their treat across the lawn, they were spotted by the serama. Vera has given up being broody for now, and she and Betsy clocked the newbies Getting Away With Something. They came over to inspect. Flo dropped the corn and pretended she was very interested in the grass. Winnie decided to perch on it, in an effort to hide it under her voluminous knickers. The serama were not fooled. They pecked at the corn a bit, then commenced muttering. I don't speak chicken, but it seemed to me that Vera was issuing instructions. After a quick conference, Operation Rob The Corn was back underway, now with the serama helping to drag/push/peck the corn towards the garage.

I watched all of this with a smile on my face and a cup of tea in front of me at the garden table. The pekins were mooching at the bottom of the garden, and I was frankly amazed that the tiny thieves hadn't been noticed. Of course, I should have known better. As the corn got within a metre of the garage door, Maeve ninjad out from behind the rose bush and landed in the middle of the cooperating outsiders. They wisely scattered. ASBO Chicken strolled around the corn, marking her territory. She gave the silently creeping Vera the beady eye and chuntered in a menacing manner. Defeated, Vera, Betsy, Winnie and Flo went off to dust bath.

Maeve didn't tell the rest of the flock, and stripped the corn bare on her own like the boss she is.

Almost, But Not Quite

In all the excitement of being hideously mauled by a tiny chicken yesterday, I forgot to tell you about my almost bravery. I have to say almost, because when push came to shove I bottled it. But, we very nearly had serama/pekin integration yesterday evening.

It's not unusual to find the serama in the palace when the hens are all free ranging. And now that Vera is without her chicks, integrating has once again become a real possibility. Why would I bother, you ask? Well, my serama girls are tiny and silkied. If we get another harsh winter I'm not entirely sure they'd be ok in their garage hutch. If I had a few more, they could huddle together and produce more heat. However, I've decided to stick to my two serama girls for now. The hutch really isn't big enough to house more ladies at this time, and my garden isn't big enough to take another palace type set up. So, it's a case of expecting the serama to spend some of the winter in the downstairs loo perched on the radiator (which would be rather off putting, apparently), or try and get them pally with the pekins. A pekin is basically a high tog duvet on legs. Despite temperatures getting down to -14c last December, my pekin girls were toasty warm.

So, I was cunning. I tempted the entire flock with some cleaned wheat, and threw it in to the palace run. The pekins waddled in and began scoffing. The serama road runnered in behind them. And then I closed the door. As the bolt shot in to place, Betsy and Vera stood upright, looked at each other, and then looked back at the closed door. Chickens don't have obvious Adams apples, but if they did I imagine I'd have seen a deep swallow in a 'Oh, crap' manner.

The pekins were too busy eating to bother with the tiny trespassers, so with characteristic stealth Betsy and Vera gingerly picked their way through the chowing hens, and then hot footed it up the ramp in to the coop. I hovered anxiously in the garden, half heartedly pruning things and weeding. About five minutes after the micro chickens had hidden inside, Hilda began ascending the ramp in to the dark house. Gulp.

Initially, there was no reaction. Perhaps she didn't see them. I have no idea whether chickens have decent night vision. However, something alerted her to the intruders and she began screeching her head off. I peeked in to the coop and saw that Vera was perched on the edge of the preferred nest box. Betsy was actually in the preferred nest box. Hilda was apoplectic, and took to shrieking her displeasure in between tearing up the newspaper floor covering.

The other hens took the bare minimum of notice at the increasingly hysterical Hilda. The serama seemed unbothered by the kerfuffle. I retreated slightly, wondering if chickenny vengeance would soon be wrought. I heard the unmistakable thump of a pekin advancing. At the last minute, the pitter patter of a serama reached my ears, and I breathed a sigh of relief. They had seen sense, and moved. A quick peek inside revealed that Betsy had seen sense. Vera was still perched on the nest box edge, and was almost eye to eye with the fluffed up, growling Hilda. The tiny hen was making herself as tall as possible and attempting to intimidate the much larger chicken. Vera has small man syndrome.

Just as I expected Hilda to eat Vera, both hens seemed to back down. Hilda stepped back uncertainly, and Vera attempted a casual stroll away from the nest box entrance. She joined Betsy on the perching block, and Hilda clambered in to the nest with her legs crossed. Peace reigned again. This seemed significant, so I left them all to it. I even left the serama in the palace while I popped out for an hour. They occasionally made forays in to the run, and were chased about a bit in a half hearted way. I seriously considered leaving them in there overnight. The only reason I didn't, was because at this time of year I have to close the coop door in order to prevent a 4am dawn chorus. I didn't fancy the teeny chooks' chances if closed up with bored, hungry pekins. So they went back to their hutch last night to sleep.

Eventually, I'm going to have to bite the bullet.

I've Done It Again....

Yep. I can't be trusted. My 'look' at a breeder's baby pekins turned in to a 'buy'. Want a look?

The buff girl is now called Winnie, and she's about six weeks old. The charming blue and white little lady is Flo, and about eight weeks old. They are both utterly adorable and squidgy (Disclaimer: Do not actually squidge baby pekins. No good will come of it.)

The rest of the flock seem only minimally interested, although Betsy really wants to get at the growers pellets.

If I so much as look at hatching eggs, slap me.

Strawberry Fields...Are Nasty

While rootling through the fridge yesterday I discovered half a punnet of strawberries. They were just at the point of going soft, so there was no way the children could be tricked in to eating them. I usually give the hens the tops as a treat, but with a dozen fruits going to waste I thought I'd spoil them. Feeling very generous, I gave each hen her own strawberry to eat, including the serama. Oh, what a mistake.

Chickens love most fruit, and they eagerly devoured them. There was so much strawberry juice flying about, it began to look like a massacre. As several fruit-crazed hens dashed past the kitchen door, their faces splattered with red and specks of strawberry flesh clinging to their feathers, it was all a bit 'Chicken Apocolypse'. The determinedly broody Hilda looked the most sinister, as her entire head had become a delicate shade of pink. After several piranha-like minutes, things settled down and I pretty much forgot about the treat.

So when I went out the following morning to open up the Palace, I was unprepared for the sheer horror of the strawberry scented poo lake under the perching block. Good Lord, never has a substance more heinous been created by a still living beast. The hens flapped and jumped from the perches to the pop hole, eager to escape in to fresh air. They sat in the run, staring at me with haunted eyes, seemingly unable to believe that they had produced something so noxious. Trust me, no one wants to deal with fruit induced chicken squits at eight o'clock in the morning. Not even this Madchickenlady.

I retreated to regroup my senses and work out what to do next. Naturally, my first concern was for that of the birds' welfare. However, on inspection I found that they all seemed well and remarkably slick-free. I imagine that the explosion was so violent that it didn't even get a chance to cling to any feathers. As a precaution, they all got a bum wash regardless. This wasn't greeted with any enthusiasm, and Mabel was particularly aggrieved. Considering that this was her second bath in a month, perhaps she had the right to squawk indignantly throughout. Once the hens were dealt with, I braced myself to return to the scene of the crime.

I considered my options. Carefully, I rolled the newspaper carpet towards the door. The poo lake rolled towards me in a wave. I decided that rolling was a bad idea. After some thought, I used most of my newspaper supply to soak up as much of the catastrophe as possible, pushed the whole lot in to a bin liner and then threw buckets of water and disinfectant in to the coop until my nostril hairs stopped burning. Those seven strawberries cost me an hour of hard, stinky labour. The girls watched me from the border, where they considerately jumped up occasionally to chew on my roses.

Eventually, the job was done. There was still a vague stench of strawberries in the air, but the worst of the biohazard had been tackled. With a resigned sigh, I trudged towards the garage, fully expecting to have to hose out the serama hutches and parakeet cage. I found Betsy and Smudge contentedly eating breakfast. There were a few loose droppings, but nothing like the horror in the Palace. I had, thankfully, only given Vera and the chicks a tiny piece of strawberry between them, and their hutch was therefore clean. From this, I can only conclude that pekins, while bigger and definitely greedier, have a more delicate stomach than the allegedly fragile serama. Regardless, strawberries are off the menu for the forseeable future.

I may need counselling.

Here Comes The Sun

The sun is shining, the weather is sweet. If you're a serama, its time to lay about on the lawn looking untidy.

Betsy catching some rays.

Smudge cautiously approaching me with the camera.

Vera and Hoppy. I need a new name for this chick.

Vera, Hoppy and the newly named Silvio. If you look carefully, you can see the difference between the month old babies in this pic. Silvio is definitely a boy, and I'm hoping that Hoppy isn't a late developer.

Amusing 'chick running' shot.

Vera makes sure that Betsy knows the score. She is getting less protective of the chicks, and to be fair the other two hens show little to no interest in the fluffballs.

Smudge. I think that once her headgear grows in, she'll look less gamey.

A running Smudge. She tends to roadrunner everywhere at the moment. The others aren't chasing her much, but I think she just likes running.

Vera tries to catch a few minutes of sun worship, while Hoppy uses her as a climbing frame.

Smudge de-mossing the patio. And making herself a rather fetching butterfly effect picture.

I imagine that this is Vera asking if Betsy will mind the kids for a bit, and Betsy is basically saying no.

I would have got pics of the pekins, but they rather sensibly had retired to the shade of the Palace. Even the possibility of chasing the micro chooks wasn't enough to tempt them forth. Hilda has gone in to the broody zone again, so had an appointment with a bucket this morning. She seems undeterred, but soggy.

It's one of those lovely days where I can't imagine not keeping hens.

Garden Timeshare

Right now, I have several poultry factions to manage. I have the pekin hordes in the Palace, Vera and the chicks, Betsy, and the new girl, Smudge. Letting them all out together is out of the question. My pekin ladies are most put out at the arrival of more micro chickens, and are unlikely to roll out the welcome mat if given opportunity to get within duffing distance. Betsy is trying to be friends with her pal Vera, but Vera's mothering instinct is strong and she's extremely defensive of her young. Throw the new pullet in to the mix, and I expect things would get ugly very quickly. So, I am juggling garden time.

The pekins get to free range in the morning. They rampage about the place, digging up my plants and attempting to gain access to the youngest's birthday present, an 8ft trampoline. So far the enclosure has baffled them, but any day now I expect to find Maeve sunbathing in the middle of it. She watches the children bouncing, and I see the wheels in her tiny chicken brain squeaking around. Some time around lunchtime, I entice them back to the Palace grounds with a treat.

Once they are safely locked away, I free Betsy and Smudge. Serama integration is nothing like as fearsome as Pekin integration. They have postured at each other a fair bit, and there's the occasional feather pull, but they seem to forget that they're supposed to be fighting for their position in the pecking order and end up mooching about the garden together or sunbathing. After several peaceful and companionable minutes, one or the other remembers they're supposed to be fighting to the death. But it's all very half-hearted, and I'm quietly hopeful that they'll be able to live together within the week. At the moment, they are still housed seperately at night.

While the micro chooks get to know each other, I put Vera and her babies in the run. They are now four weeks old, and still keeping schtum about their possible gender. They bumble about the run, eating things and chasing each other while Vera sunbathes. She occasionally squawks at them as if correcting some undesirable behaviour, but on the whole she lets them get on with it. Vera and I have obviously read the same parenting books. After a few hours, I return Betsy and Smudge to their secure units, and I allow Vera to free range with Hoppy and Sylvie. The chicks are getting very curious now, and I have to stay out to watch over them. It's amazing the amount of trouble a tiny chook can get in to. I have so far had to rescue the chicks from a lavendar bush, a tennis racket, a stray sock and a shallow puddle. I will be incredibly glad when they reach a less labour intensive phase of development. Vera tends to just squawk at them a bit, show them food, and then leg it to the dust bath. She has been an exceptional broody, but I think her patience is beginning to wane.

When my nerves have had enough, the serama family are returned to the run, and Betsy and Smudge released again. Smudge and Vera spend some time attempting to duff each other up through the weld mesh of the run, which seems pointless to me but they seem to be enjoying themselves. Hoppy and Sylvie watch this with interest but no apparent alarm, which makes me wonder if it's a training exercise. Eventually, Vera gets bored of butting her head against the bars, and assumes the position. A sunbathing serama is an amusing sight. One skinny yellow leg is always pointing skywards. If the sun is out, they all seem to congregate together, one leg aloft. It's like a mini forest of twiglets.

Now, for a bit of self promotion. If you've come to this blog as a new keeper, or you're a more experienced poultry person, I would heartily recommend the Poultrykeeper site. There is loads of information about common poultry issues, advice about ailments and even a monthly 'What to do this month' bit by yours truly. It's definitely worth a look.

Now, back to micro-managing a garden which has to hold 7 pekins, 5 serama, a trampoline and my sanity.

Well, Betsy Was Lonely, So......

It was my duty, really, to get her a pal. This little lady is a mottled, straight feathered Serama. And her new name is Smudge. On first sight, the ever tolerant husband thought she resembled a dairy cow, so we did toy with the idea of calling her Daisy, or Ermintrude. But ultimately, to me, she looks like a Smudge. So Smudge it is. She's approximately four months old, probably rubbish type, but a sweet little thing. Well, I thought so. Betsy took one look at the newcomer and leapt on her back in a frenzy of talons and feather pulling. Thankfully, Smudge retaliated in kind. After a brief skirmish, the two micro chickens circled each other warily and kept a respectful distance. I'm hoping that given time they will be firm friends.

Smudge the incredible one legged chicken.

She is refusing to pose at the moment, but I'm hoping that she'll settle in quickly and then I can get some better pictures.

As Betsy shows, after settling in Serama are generally nosey and friendly.

The pekins look on the new arrival with an air of resignation. No doubt they will give Smudge the 'chase them 'til they're sick' initiation as soon as allowed.

Meanwhile, the serama chicks are now four weeks old. I'm no nearer to working out which flavour they are, and have a sneaking suspicion they'll keep me guessing for a while yet. Some strains mature at a slower rate than others, and I think I might have a strain that matures at about the same rate as glaciers inch their way down the mountain side. No matter, they're a joy.

A camera shy Hoppy peers out from under Vera while a more confident Sylvie gives me The Look.

Hmmm, Sylvie, are you a boy?

This week, I will mostly be juggling free range time. I might need a spreadsheet.

Day 21

Yep, today should be hatch day. Yet there is nothing to report. Despite knowing that serama are hard to hatch, I confess to feeling a little crestfallen. As I watch Vera determinedly clamped to her five eggs, I can only wish that at least one of them makes her a chicken mama. She has been an excellent broody, and it seems such a shame that after all of her diligent care she ends up chick-less. If it was in my power, I would rush out and get her some day old serama chicks to nurture. Unfortunately, getting hold of serama chicks is a bit like getting hold of moon beams. So, I continue to sit at the nest side, straining my ears and hoping against hope that I'll hear a cheep, or a crack, or something.

It's quite windy today, so the rest of the flock are a bit put out. They dislike being blown up the garden, and it doesn't make sunbathing pleasant. Betsy is refusing to leave the garage, as anything more than a slight breeze tends to toss the serama about at whim.

If anything happens, I'll let you know.

Waiting Is the Hardest Thing

Despite my concerns on Monday, absolutely nothing has happened with regards to the serama eggs. Vera is still sat patiently upon them like Terry Wogan's wig made sentient, and interesting rustlings are still issuing from beneath her. In fact, last night I spent a good five minutes nose to beak with the sound asleep hen contemplating all of these interesting sounds. As she is utterly still, yet the eggs don't appear to be doing anything, I can only draw the conclusion that chickens can, in fact, fart. And like pregnant ladies everywhere, Vera has given up trying to remain lady like.

Betsy is missing her pal enormously. If you step outside, you are greeted with the tippy-tappy sounds of a very small chicken speeding towards you looking for company. As I type this, Betsy is sitting on a garden chair and the youngest is hand feeding her individual blades of grass. He is also regaling her with tales of Doctor Who, and she is doing a good line in 'interested'. She seems to appreciate and approve of this treatment, obviously considering herself to be chicken royalty. She can't fool me, though. I have noticed flecks of bright yellow dried on her beak and on one chickenny eyebrow. Betsy lays infrequently, and they are either tiny, five pence piece sized fart eggs or larger softies. I suspect that she has noshed a softy this morning, which is an undesirable trait in any hen but on this occassion I shall turn a blind eye. Some allowances must be made for royal chickens.

The pekins have finally made peace with being shut in to the coop until a reasonable hour, so I can now breathe a sigh of relief. Spring still has their sap rising, though, and there has been a lot of chasing and pecking order shuffling. Hilda's spell at being broody seems to have badly affected her standing in the flock, and for now she has to tolerate even her old best mate Gladys squashing her a bit. For the most part, she takes this quite well. I did have to rescue her yesterday, however, as her own egg was chasing her up the garden. Or this is how it appeared to the most disconcerted hen. In reality, the egg was firmly fastened to her ample behind by a particularly unpleasant poo. It was a team effort to free her, as she pulled one way and I another. The egg came free still attached to several feathers. Hilda turned around to examine her new waxed bits and scuttled off up the garden in high dudgeon. The egg was discreetly disposed of.

We now enter the critical phase with the serama hatching experiment. I check Vera regularly, and strain my ears desperate to hear even the merest hint of a cheep. But so far the only sounds are Vera's dubious rumblings. Today is day 19, so pipping could occur today or tomorrow.

Cross your fingers for me, eh?

Being Broody Makes You Unpopular

Hilda is still broody. This isn't an unusual situation when it comes to pekins. In my experience, they are a tag team of nest hoggers. Of course, this brings it's own problems. A broody hen takes up space in the nest box, and that gets right on the other hens' bosoms.

Naturally, Hilda has set up her hormonal vigil in the favourite nest box. Never mind that there are four, yes, four, nest boxes to choose from, given half a chance they all prefer the one furthest from the pop hole and nearest the coop door. And now when the rest of the flock goes in to lay, there is an inflatable white pekin filling it up with her craziness and growling. Initially everyone took this with good grace, or at least the minimal of grumbling. But now Hilda has been broody for nearly a fortnight and their patience is running out.

Increasingly a commotion can be heard from the Palace as a narked hen wedges herself on top of the broody Hilda to lay her egg. As the laying hen leaves, she is wont to give Hilda a sharp peck to the comb, just to show her displeasure at the lack of privacy. As a result, Hilda's comb is beginning to look a little...nibbled. She isn't seriously hurt, but it could tip over in to violence at any time.

Under normal circumstances, I'd have broody caged the errant hen over the weekend. However, we won't be here so I can't. For the next two days Hilda will have to stay broody as I can't ask my chicken sitter to don the gardening gloves and broom handle necessary for handling a psychotic chicken. But her broody days are numbered. As of Monday, she's in the slammer.

Vera is still sitting tight to her eggs. I am trying very hard not to interfere in any way, but must admit I am struggling. I'm worrying that she isn't eating enough, or drinking enough, or pooing enough. She is such a tiny little thing, I won't take any chances with her welfare. However, every time I open the hutch to peer in at her, she glares at me in a distinctive 'Naff off' manner, so I suspect she is doing everything just as she should.

Betsy is missing her pal enough to attempt making friends with the pekins. Despite being chased and generally having iot made clear to her that she's not welcome, Betsy proves determined. She follows the flock about like an annoying little sister and even makes herself at home in the coop. The girls watch this audacity with slightly stunned inaction. So far, she has avoided any repercussions because of her 'Roadrunner' abilities. Serama are speedy.

Two weeks until hatch day.

Quick Edit: I have separated Hilda. I couldn't go away knowing that Maeve was attempting to eat her from the comb down. So now she is on the floor of the garage covered with a broody cage, most put out and kicking her water everywhere. I hope my chicken sitter doesn't kill me.

The Waiting Game

Well, here we are two days in to the serama hatching experiment. The incubator is busy whirring away, and rotating the eggs every forty minutes. When it does this, it sounds a tinkling alarm which has never failed to make me jump, and make the ever tolerant husband roll his eyes. If he thinks that's annoying, just wait until I break the news that any resultant chicks might have to live in the downstairs loo.

Vera is so far sticking with it. Up until yesterday, I was lifting her from the nest to make sure that she ate and drank, but today I have just observed her. She seems to come around from her broody trance around lunchtime for about ten minutes. Today, I just so happened to be in the garage when I heard the trademark anxious broody chuntering, and saw Vera pacing at the hutch door. I opened it for her, and she leapt on to the floor and scarpered out of the garage door. I confess that at this moment I had a moment of panic. I needn't have worried.

Vera ran straight across the patio to the lawn and ripped up great beakfuls of grass. Bolting it down, she legged it over to the dust bath and rolled about for about thirty seconds. Personal grroming dealt with, she shook herself  on the patio and assumed that look of pensive contemplation that chickens make before they poo. Having evacuated a dropping almost as big as she was, she ran to a puddle to drink. Betsy was following her pal around the whole time, but backed off considerably upon the arrival of Giant Evil Faeces Monster. Can't say that I blame her.

Thirst slaked, Vera stood tall for a moment, surveying the garden and the other hens. Then she chuntered and ran back to the garage, jumped up in to her hutch and returned to her nest. The last I heard, she was fussing around her eggs and getting comfortable. Betsy arrived at the garage door, and we looked at one another. Vera's appearance had been short and sweet, and I imagine that the way she had packed an entire day of chickenny activities in to five minutes was rather bewildering to her micro chicken friend. As a gesture of sympathy, I gave Betsy a few grains of corn.

I'm not too concerned that Betsy is lonely, though. She is showing an amazing amount of pluck. Over the last few days, she has begun sneaking in to the Palace run and sitting on the perches. Sometimes the other hens wander in, and she stays still and silent, watching them. Yesterday, Maude spotted her sitting there and I thought we might have a bit of fisticuffs. But after a moment, Maude went back to slurping from the drinker and then mooched back out. This morning, I could hear Betsy but not hear her. I found her sitting in the Palace on the perching block, chattering to the grumpy and stubbornly broody Hilda. Hilda glared, but made no move to eat the little hen so I'd say that's progress.

Perhaps acceptance is in the offing?

As Promised, Some Pics

A gorgeous spring day here, and perfect for taking some pictures.

Nine serama eggs now slowly rotating in the new incubator. As this new Brinsea Mini Advance does everything bar top up the humidity pool for you, I'm feeling a bit redundant. I had to practically sit on the pekin eggs last year.

No, this is not what Hilda usually looks like. This is the new, hormonally psychotic, puffed up, 'I kill you' Hilda. She is narked because I keep turfing her out of the nest box, and when she legs it back in there I am. Again.

In this pic she is considering goiung all ninja on my arse. I am wearing gloves.

Celia and Maude caught red handed happily throwing the contents of the border all over the patio.

And Mabel is busy stomping some alliums in to paste. Thanks ladies. Your gardening help is always appreciated.

Gladys dust bathing. No jokes about KFC, please.

This is Betsy playing in the garage. She seems completely oblivious tot he fact that it isn't a chicken adventure playground.

A broody Vera sitting on her three eggs, and some rolled up socks for comparison. See? There's not much in it. I'd like to add that shortly after this picture was taken, Vera gave me such a look of contempt that I removed my socks and slunk away.

Another pic of the inflatable Hilda, just because I have never seen such a puffy pekin.

And a non-puffy Doris laying her egg and ignoring the nutjob Hilda.

The non-laying, non-broody girls really getting to work with some serious garden vandalism. Maeve is attempting to dig to Australia.

Happy spring everybody.