Farewell, My Pretties

Tonight, I said goodbye to Celia, Gladys, Flo and Winnie. They have gone to an excellent home, with a loving and knowledgable keeper, and I know they will be well cared for. But, oh, the deep sadness at saying goodbye.

The Palace seems very empty now, and the remaining birds seem unettled at all the extra space. As I lifted each departing bird from the perch, I found myself remembering collecting them, and felt my heart give a little lurch. Even as I placed them in the carriers, I couldn't quite believe I was going through with it. I saw each bird in all her glory, and it made me want to weep. Celia's beautiful markings, Gladys' soft frizzled feathers, Flo's gorgeous colouring and Winnie's perfect shape. Gawd, I'm typing this and welling up.

This moving lark isn't easy. I always imagined that when I moved I'd be expanding rather than downsizing. Our new house is perfect for the human contingent, the puppy won't much care as long as he gets walked and sausages, and my new smaller flock will have a luxurious free ranging area. But it is by no stretch of the imagination the kind of house and garden that you can set up as a mini smallholding. Ten birds would have impacted on a brand new estate in an undesirable way, and I know it. But it's so very hard to say goodbye.

I love each and every one of my ladies, and remember those that have passed with deep fondness. Mini will always have a special place in my heart. Yet I feel enormous guilt that I had to choose some hens to rehome, and in reality the four I chose were the easiest to part with. But it still feels lousy.

It'll be a while before I post again.

Tough Times, And I'm Posting After Wine

This is hard to post, but post I must. After lots of tooing and froing both here and in real life, and much angst, I will be parting with four of my girls. Celia, Gladys, Winnie and Flo will be heading to pastures new as soon as a good home can be found. I've posted an ad on Preloved with a heavy heart, and once they are gone I will be selling the Palace and buying a smaller, less grand home for the remaining hens. I should also be listing the serama for sale, but at the last minute I just couldn't do it. Serama are so little, surely no one will even notice them?

I'm not sure what will happen next.

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.

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.

Eating Out, Chicken Style

Welcome, Madame. Would you like your usual space on the parched lawn? Yes? Very good. Will anyone else be joining you this evening? Ah, an indeterminate number of flock mates. Of course. Would Madame like to hear the specials? As well as the usual high quality layers pellets, chef has been busy making sure there are plenty of tasty leftovers for your perusal. Firstly, we have a portion of mashed poatatoes. Yes, Madame, I understand your excitement. There is also a small selection of rice noodles going spare, and a slotted spoonful of garden peas. Would Madame care for a sharing platter? Very good.

The food artfully arranged by our award winning chef. She also does a mean line in porridge with raisins and added mixed corn.

The diners get stuck in. Notice the oh-so-elegant face in trough technique. Sheer class.

Hilda wisely decides to leg it with a noodle.

Er, Maeve? Gladys? There's just a little something...yes...there...and there...in fact, your face is now more potato than chicken.

Hilda returns for more noodles.

Mabel manages to look graceful amongst the carnage.

This photo was taken approximately sixty seconds after dinner was served. They don't mess about, chickens.

Flo and Winnie make do with some crayons and an activity pack in the garage.

Thank you, Madame. But a tip was not necessary .

Chicken Prison

I released Hilda from the broody cage yesterday, fairly sure that she had got out of her broody psychosis. She was no longer chuntering, and when let out in to the garden spent several hours having a leisurely dust bath and hunting for bugs. So you can imagine my displeasure when I went to close up at bedtime and found the grumpy white one back on the nest and growling. Insert expletive here.

Anyway, Hilda will just have to get on with it for now. The cage currently has another occupant. Celia is ensconced in a corner of the cage. She is as flat as a cowpat and periodically ends up sitting in her drinker. She is deeply in the zone. Gladys is taking up space in the Palace's choice nest box, so hunched up that I literally can't tell her arse from her metaphorical elbow. I just waggle my fingers in her general vicinity and see which end tries to peck me. Vera refuses to share the serama nest with a still laying Betsy. Poor Betsy ends up laying on the floor in an effort to prevent a fishwife battle of 'Jeremy Kyle' proportions breaking out. All in all, the broodies are taking over.

Winnie and Flo are enjoying half of the flock being out of the equation. For a start, it means that there are less established flock members to give them a hard time. Somehow, though, I don't think that's the most enjoyable part of it for them. The two newbies are proving to be a mischievious pair. They have taken to sitting on top of the broody cage and pooing on the unfortunate occupant's head. Celia is now fairly well decorated, and looks more like a town square war memorial than a chicken. I repeatedly chase the youngsters outside, but as soon as my back is turned they're back to torturing the prisoner. Broody hens are rubbish at defending themselves against such underhand tactics, so it's left to me to use baby wipes on the afflicted hen and to flap tea towels at the naughty chicks. Celia is utterly passive. But deep down, I suspect she is taking notes. I doubt this mistreatment will be forgotten.

I am constantly turfing the broodies out of their respective nest boxes to make sure that they eat, drink and generally take care of themselves. They oblige me briefly, dashing from feeder to drinker to dust bath, all the while chuntering with anxiety that their non-existant eggs will come to harm. As I clean out the coop, there is a broody queue forming on the ramp ready to hop straight back on to the nest as soon as my human meddling is over.

It's been a long summer.

Rampaging Chicken Mauls Owner!

As the very last 'News Of The World' has rolled from the printing press today, I thought I'd give you a tabloid style headline. Its technically true, although I dont think you can legitimately claim that a chicken has rampaged. They just dont really have the capacity. I have certainly seen severe narkedness from a hen, and occasionally even full on high dudgeon. But actual rampaging has been thin on the ground. But as the photo below proves, I have in fact been mauled:

Now, you'd be forgiven for thinking a kitten, or a small dog had scratched me. But no. It was a tiny, teeny chicken. Namely, this one:

Yep, Flo. In her defence, she was trying to climb her way up on to my shoulder. From her perspective, perhaps I resembled a mountain which needed conquering, and she felt it necessary to break out the crampons. As she scaled my upper torso using her considerable talons for purchase, I had a small amount of time to wonder at the sharpness of her tiny baby nails. I don't think I've ever known a pekin with razor sharp tootsies before. These claws resemble more hawk than domestic poultry, and I find myself trying to remember when I last had a tetanus booster. I am considering flooring the run with sandpaper in an effort to make her less lethal.

Now that my hideous ordeal has been covered, let's move on to the almost unbearable cuteness of baby pekins. The new arrivals have settled in rather well, and we're all a bit in love with them already. Even the ever tolerant husband had a cuddle with the teeny Winnie yesterday evening. There is something about Winnie which reminds me of Maeve at the same age, so I'm expecting her to grow up in to a very handsome bird with a penchant for evil. Could be very interesting. Flo, as well as an enthusiastic climber, is quite noisy. I'm hoping this settles down, or else she and Celia will have to have a sing off.

Celia and Winnie eye each other up.

Flo and Winnie investigating the Palace, safe in the knowledge that the big girls are behind weld mesh.

The adorably tiny Winnie.

I'm off to rub savlon in to my wounds.

A Vacancy Has Opened

Doris was an extremely gobby chicken. She shrieked to be let out in the morning. She shrieked when she layed an egg. She shrieked when someone else layed an egg. She shrieked if the washing blew in her direction. She shrieked if she glimpsed a cat, or a magpie, or a vaguely disconcerting cloud. In short, Doris was an alarm chicken. She took it upon herself to let the rest of the flock know if something slightly threatening might possibly be happening, whether they cared or not. More often than not, they didn't.

Now that Doris has departed this mortal coil, I was expecting things to be much quieter in the back garden. Oh no. Apparently this isn't how it works. It seems that a flock has to have an alarm chicken, in the same way that it needs a top hen. And Doris has left a vacancy.

The competition is fierce. Mabel and Maude are far too high up the pecking order to bother with such a menial task, and Maeve is too much of an outlaw to care about her standing. She prefers to batter her way in to position than be helpful. She is the James Dean of chickens. So that leaves Celia, Gladys and Hilda.

After the early morning wake up calls of early spring, the hens had been relatively quiet. Within days of Doris's demise, that had changed. They now seem to be in competition with each other to be the first noisy hen in the coop. Hilda isn't really a serious contender, and her song is rather half hearted. Celia is taking it more seriously, but can't compete with her predecessors ear splitting shriek. Gladys can't do the baby seagull 'ark ark ark' sound necessary, but can do her godawful Skeksis squeal which sounds a bit like a car skidding played backwards. I realise that is a confusing description, but until I capture her doing it on film, you'll have to trust me that that's as close as I can get.

So now they shriek to be let out. They shriek when they spot a threat, even a flapping dressing gown. They shriek when anyone lays an egg. I glare at them from the kitchen window, praying that the new alarm chicken will be chosen by democratic process quickly. One hen that I know won't get the job is Vera. She tried to throw her hat in to the ring yesterday when a magpie had the temerity to hop along the fence. Just as Celia reared up to give it some, she was pipped to the post by the 'chicken on helium' squeak of the black silkied serama. Vera managed to get a couple of repetitions in before the other contenders descended on her en masse and gave her a severe duffing. She extracted herself from the melee with difficulty and hot footed it back to the hutch, no doubt doing the chicken equivalent of sniggering.

Wicked sense of humour, that tiny chicken.

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.



The First Broody Of The Season

Hello! I can only apologise for my longer-than-average silence, but I have been gallavanting with the ever tolerant husband. Normal service will now resume, you lucky, lucky people. So, a quick round up.

Everyone is now in lay. I am, on average, getting 4 eggs a day from my flock. However, as Betsy is still laying ridiculour five pence piece sized eggs, we're not really counting hers. Which is a shame, because she always looks so incredibly pleased with herself. The pekins are all happily laying, and despite showing some signs of going broody, Celia has so far resisted. Unlike Vera.

Yep, the tiny serama has gone hormone mental. She is sat huddled in her nest box, no bigger than a pair of rolled socks. If I lift her out, she makes the anxious keening noises familiar to me from my broody pekin ladies, but in a higher octave. In fact, she sounds a bit guinea-pig like. I have on occassion left a broody pekin for a bit before breaking her, but I will not be taking any chances with Vera. She is so tiny, I'd be quite concerned that sitting for any more than a few days could seriously affect her health. So, if she hasn't got over it by the end of the week, she'll find herself in the slammer.

I was away for four days, and my lovely chicken sitting friend took care of the girls impeccably. Still, leaving them is always difficult. As I watch them mooching about the garden and attempting to breach the barrier when they think I'm not looking, I find myself smiling with pleasure and relief that everyone is in rude good health. Despite travelling a fair amount, I have yet to have any problems int he flock while I'm away.

They seem to wait until I'm around to fake their own deaths.

How To Wash A Chicken's Knickers

It's a beautiful spring day here and uncharacteristically warm. On such days, my mind rather strangely turns to knickers, and the washing thereof. For you see, chickens have a design flaw. They have lots of fluffy feathering around their bum. And that means that they get mucky on occassion. Being without the ability to use toilet roll, the clean up operation falls to you, dear Chicken Keeper.

I use a large builders bucket, and fill it with six inches of warm, soapy water. I then try and look innocent as I amble towards the dirty hen. Unfortunately, chickens aren't nearly as stupid as most people think they are, and if they've already had experience of the bidet they will not be overly cooperative. Today I had Mabel, Hilda, Doris and Celia in need of a spa treatment. I collared Hilda first, and she managed to thoroughly drench me by splashing about in the water and shrieking like I was attempting to drown her. Once she'd calmed down, it's a fairly simple procedure. I just work any dirt out of the hen's feathers gently with my fingers. The warm water makes this a fairly easy if unglamourous task. Once Hilda was clean, I placed her on the patio. She stalked off wetly, leaving a trail of bubbles in her wake. A wet pekin is a sorry sight, and rather resembles someone trying to walk in snow shoes.

The other hens were rather less dramatic and it was all over and done with quite quickly. The hens who had escaped the bath sat smugly on the perches in the Palace run, preening their fluffy tail feathers. Hilda sat next to them, hunched up like a vulture, and periodically shook her tail and sprayed the dry hens in an act of pure vengeance. Much muttering ensued.

This isn't just an aesthetic procedure. As we move in to spring, the fly population will be on the increase and it isn't just rabbits that can suffer from fly strike. My advice will always be: see a dirty pair of drawers, fetch the builders bucket. They won't like it much, but it's a basic welfare issue. It's also worth noting that feathers are like hair, they can be cut with no pain to the owner. If you have a particularly bouffant chicken bum in your flock, sometimes a quick trim can cure the problem. They do look odd when you do this, though. And disgruntled.

As one of the older hens, Doris has learnt a few tricks. When released from the bucket, she shook herself and then ran straight down to the greenhouse. She is currently laid out on the greenhouse path, enjoying her own personal sauna. It's rather disconcerting from a distance, as she rather looks like a discarded feather duster. However, in an hour or two she will unpeel herself from the ground and will be back to her glamourous and bouncy self.

Where as I think Hilda's vulture stance is here for the day.

Only Girls Allowed

Now that our brief stint of cockerel ownership is over, I can reflect on the experience with some clarity. It was lovely to see Rocky fussing around Betsy and Vera and finding them tidbits to eat. He was charming in his behaviours and hugely entertaining. However, the early morning crowing outweighed all of the positives. I spent a week living on my nerves, so now it is lovely to go back to just enjoying my ladies.

I was a little concerned that Betsy and Vera would miss their suitor, but in typical chicken fashion they are simply enjoying the extra coop space. One thing he did manage to do was to coax the serama out of the garage. Even without their bodyguard, they are now venturing out in to the garden more often. I am still shutting the pekins in to the Palace run for the afternoon to allow the micro chooks a chance to explore unmolested, but most of the pekins seem bored of the 'eat the mini chickens' game. The 'most' was deliberate.

Anyway, today has been a warm, glorious spring day and the girls have all been making the most of it.

ASBO Chicken monopolises the dust bath while Mabel looks on.

The most unintentionally hilarious pic of Celia ever. Just how surprised does this chook look?

Betsy and Vera standing still long enough for me to get a shot. A rare occurence.

And busy stripping the border of all vegetation. Sigh.

A grubby Hilda waiting for me to turn away so that she can jump in the laundry basket for a poo. Don't ask me why, the crazy hen seems to be litter trained.

So now to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. At least until the new hatching adventure begins.

The Great Escape

The Barrier has been in place for several weeks now. It has been pretty successful in keeping the marauding flock out of the flower bed, and I am now able to look out of the kitchen window and see some early tulips and daffodils being battered by the force 9 gales. Still, the colour is pleasing. This morning, however, I had a mystery on my hands.

A mere ten minutes after letting the girls out to free range, I spotted a soil fountain behind the rosemary bush. On closer inspection I found Maeve happily dust bathing. Carefully, I extracted her from the border and plonked her back amongst the flock on the lawn. She was most disgruntled, and I earned myself a swift peck on the heel for my insolence. I returned to the house, assuming that the determined ASBO Chicken had managed to scale the fence with a gale assisted flap.

A short while later, I discovered that Maeve was back in her favourite spot, and this time she had company. Hilda and Celia were busy attempting to dig up some late flowering bulbs. With a muttered 'bloody hens' I traipsed back out to remove them all. They didn't put up a fight and all just sat waiting to be transported. Which was odd. I mean, usually we have a bit of a flap at an eviction. But nope, they were all a picture of serene good naturedness. So naturally I was suspicious. I decided to watch them to see if I could find their access point.

After twenty minutes of watching the girls mooch about looking innocent, I decided to empty the dishwasher. This took approximately five minutes, during which time all seven pekins breached the barrier and trampled over the new poeny growth. At this point I thought darkly about wing clipping, or perhaps leg weights. It turns out, however, that I was completely on the wrong track. After turfing them all back on to the lawn, by chance I turned around just at the moment that Maude walked back through the barrier, like some cyborg, 'Terminator' chicken. Now chickens have many interesting properties, but the ability to pass through a fence via osmosis isn't one of them.

On closer inspection, I found that the netting had frayed. But it had frayed in a most interesting way. The hole was exactly at the spot that I have a heavy plant pot weighing down the fencing, in a bid to stop chook tunnelling. It is perfectly placed for a small, canny hen to jump up on to the plant pot, and then squeeze through the gap. And the gap is virtually undetectable unless you are actively looking for it (or see Maude going ghost). It's all just a bit too....convenient. I find myself contemplating just how long it would take a determined hen to saw through nylon strings with their beak. I find myself thinking of 'The Shawshank Redemption', and shuddering. Using some garden twine, I have resealed their point of entry.

Maeve watched me work with glittering, interested eyes.

Micro Chickens, Meet The Flock

Maude clocks the new mini chickens sauntering towards the coop. Celia does an ostrich impression.

A quick conference is called.

The flock decides to send out it's secret weapon: ASBO Chicken. Betsy looks wary.

Maeve's slow saunter fools no-one, and Vera and Betsy keep their distance.

I think Maeve looks more curious than murderous, but the mini chooks are taking no chances.

The others gradually emerge for a closer look. Doris is more interested in the porridge.

Gladys looking marvellous, just because.

This is the closest pic I can get of the serama posing.

Betsy and Maeve size each other up, while Doris takes her snout out of the trough long enough to look on.

Out of curiosity, I weighed the serama today. My pekin girls weigh around 600g each. Betsy weighs in at 375g, and her tiny pal Vera is 275g. I think this makes Betsy overweight according to breed standards. I won't tell her though.

I don't want her to get a complex.

February Dawns

At last, the dreaded January is banished from the calender. Hoorah! As we greet February, the snowdrops and crocuses are beginning to slowly emerge. At least they are this year, because they are safely ensconsed behing the Barrier. The hens can only eye them with longing, instead of scoffing them with abandon. Ha! In your chickenny faces, ladies!

The hens are still playing by the new rules when it comes to the border. I am, frankly, surprised. Usually they find a way around any obstacles pretty quickly. I can only assume that they are content to lull me in to a false sense of security. No doubt as soon as the border is erupting in to colour, they will break in and rampage around like a load of drunken students, demolishing all plant life in their path. No matter. For now, I am happy to imagine that this might work.

Spring is a strange thing in the chicken kingdom. While I can see spring on the horizon, I'm not expecting it's arrival for a few months yet. The chooks sense it is much closer. Hilda and Gladys have begun crouching, and their first eggs are imminent. At the moment, it's still only Purdy in lay, but any day now I expect her to have company. Combs are reddening up, the odd scuffle is breaking out and Doris is once again doing her deeply annoying baby seagull impression. Seriously, when I think about how I wouldn't dream of inflicting a cockerel on my neighbours, I can't quite believe that no-one has reached over the fence and stuffed Doris in a casserole dish. That hen can be shrill.

Over the winter, the pecking order stays static. There is little in the way of dominance displays, and Mabel very much retreats in to the general flock. But as soon as the days start lengthening, she feels the need to knock the flock in to shape. Many startled hens have been happily minding their own business only to be flattened to the floor by our Illustrious Leader. She is coming up to 3 years old, and is showing no signs of giving up her throne.

Maeve is watching the two youngest flock members keenly. Gladys seems quite content to stay near the bottom of the flock and does her best to avoid confrontation. She isn't bullied in any way, and is obviously a quiet character. The same cannot be said for Hilda. Hilda has decided that she likes the look of the upper echelons of chicken society. Purdy, Celia and Doris have all been challenged, and I can see her sizing up the world famous ASBO Chicken.

I am watching this with trepidation. Maeve is biding her time, and ignores the young upstart unless she sashays past a little too close. A well aimed hiss tends to make her sashay faster, but she doesn't break out in to a full blown waddle. This displeases Maeve. I suspect that any day now, Hilda will launch a full assault. Indeed, sometimes when Maeve is eating Hilda has the metaphorical balls to stand next to her and eat like her equal. This is currently being tolerated, which makes me distinctly nervous. I only hope that when Maeve eventually loses her patience she leaves the younger hen enough feathers to keep her warm for the rest of the winter.

I might end up fashioning a chicken jumpsuit.

My Head Has Been Turned

Don't tell the flock, but I have had my head turned. I have been introduced to another breed. A teeny, cute rare breed. I have eyed them for some time from a distance, but now the fates have conspired and I have the opportunity to acquire two pullets of my very own. I may soon be the owner of a Malaysian Serama. Or rather, two.

The serama is the world's smallest chicken. Exhibition birds tend to be around the size of a coke can (plus a tail). They are all about the bosoms and being extremely upright. Wings should, ideally, be vertical. In short (ha ha) they are, in my opinion, an odd looking show bird. However, a not quite ideal specimen is a very pretty bird. They look proud and dignified. Males have a frankly pathetic crow on the whole, although of course there is variation across the breed. I am extremely tempted.

So at the end of the month I have a decision to make. I can collect two very pretty pullets, or I can be sensible about things and decline. Of course, I don't want to decline. Yet it is the responsibility of all chicken keepers to put their birds' welfare first. It may be possible to integrate two tiny hens in with my robust pekin girls, but it cannot be assumed. There is a good chance that the others will take one look at the tiny newcomers and decide to eat them. Or squash them. Or in some other way terrorise them. Especially ASBO Chicken. If this happens, the serama would require their own lodgings. Luckily, they are so tiny that they can be kept quite happily in a rabbit hutch as long as they have access to an outside pen. A rabbit hutch would fit quite easily in the garage....

Anyway, back to the existing pekin kingdom. Doris appears fully recovered, which is a huge relief. I am still not quite sure what is going on with that hen and her eyes, but it has been suggested to me that she has an allergy. I rather hope that that is the case. Celia continues to shed featehrs like a speed stripper. She is thoroughly miserable at the moment, and spends a lot of time snuggled next to a more well covered flock mate. I have to say that the other hens are being remarkably kind and allowing this heat sharing. Even Maeve.

Last weekend, all of the girls got a pedicure. The mud and wet means that they are inclined to pick up mud balls on their feet which need soaking off. When you first approach a bucket with a chicken, they become understandably agitated. But once they are soaking their feet and getting a toe massage, more often than not they relax totally. Which can be awkward because you're balancing them in one hand. Maude even went to sleep, and she's no light weight. After a quick once over, I discovered that it was only Celia that needed her nails clipping. As she clacked away across the patio, the others watched presumably expecting a tap dance. They were disappointed.

Any thoughts about the serama would be appreciated.

A Possible Murder Mystery

After two and a half years of chicken keeping, you tend to think you've probably seen it all. Just as you start to feel smug, your birds are certain to throw you a curve ball. And this one is a doozy.

In between rain showers, I headed out to clean out the coop. The hens were all happily forgaing in the border. I opened up the Palace and removed the perch. And then I paused. Because the perch was dotted with blood. In fact, a good half of the perch had splashes and dots of blood on it. Setting it aside, I studied the floor and walls of the coop. More blood dotted the newspaper under the perches, and large splatters of blood sprayed up the walls. Dear God it was even on the roof. Taking a deep breath, I did a rapid head count of the girls. All, thankfully, present and correct. And watching me now with interest.

Verifying that the nest box was blood free (Purdy had produced one of her perfect eggs), I began my investigations. Maude was injury and blood stain free. As were Doris, Gladys, Hilda, Purdy, and Celia. Mabel glared at me from the back step, apparently injury free. Which left Maeve.

Maeve had one tiny dot of blood on her comb. I inspected it carefully, and realised that there was no injury. She looked at me impassively. The evidence seemed to suggest that ASBO Chicken knew something about the blood in the coop. But she wasn't talking. Maeve is jet black, so frankly she could have been covered in dried blood and it would be hard to spot. Still, I looked. I found nothing else.

So now I'm left with a mystery. Eight hens, all injury free. No one is gasping or bubbling blood out of their nostrils. Yet the coop looks like something met a very sticky end in there. It's made me a little nervous of turning my back on them all, tbh. Especially Maeve.

I'm fairly sure I know whodunnit, I'm just not yet sure who the victim was.

(In other news, the inspection highlighted a few mud balls beginning to form on feathered feet, so tomorrow they'll all be having a foot bath. It also brought Celia's freaky feet to my full attention. Celia has twisted and fused toes, so her nails grow sideways and twisty. They are now beginning to get a bit long (not helped by her long broody spell) so she requires a pedicure. That should be fun.)

Doris Returns

After five days of being force fed Baytril, Doris has finally returned to the Palace. Her eyes are considerably better, she's eating and drinking and to be honest I doubt she's infectious. The other hens are all symptom free, something which I am thanking my lucky stars for. With an indignant squawk, Doris fled her garage quarantine and landed amongst her flock mates. They barely looked up to welcome their sister home. Business as usual, then.

Celia is now decidedly straggly. She has taken to hiding in the coop out of the elements, and perhaps embarassment. Her deleted plumage really is a very sorry sight. No matter how much she attempts to arrange her sparse feathers, there's no disguising the bald patches. Celia is half the chicken she was. As yet, her new quills haven't made an appearance so she doesn't seem in any discomfort. I predict that next week she will need some tlc.

It's very windy and dark here this morning, and on their release the girls spent a scant five minutes being blown about the garden before giving up and retreating back to the shelter of the Palace. Hilda made her customery exit from the run, which is a frantically flapping fly/long jump. She generally lands right in the middle of the gently ambling flock and causes chaos. Today the wind carried her a little further, and she strutted about a bit feeling quite clever. She was roundly ignored. Chickens aren't big on praising individual achievements.

For now, all is calm.

Ooh, Videos!

I have thought long and hard about uploading films to my blog. I am no Scorcese, and more pressingly I sound like a four year old on helium when captured in video form. Still, just for chuckles, here are a few short films.

A quick intro to the flock, minus the quarantined Doris.



Just to show the space available. You really don't need acres.

The hospital wing, and a disgruntled Doris.

And yes, I know I held the camera the wrong way up. Doh.

Painful Separations

Doris is now in residence in the garage. The hospital wing has swung in to action and she is not overly impressed. Since thursday evening, I have been squirting .2ml of Baytril down her throat twice a day, and she has been making her displeasure known. Her condition seems no worse but no better. She seems to spend most of her time sitting in the mini coop and I can't be sure that she's eating or drinking unless I put her out in to the hospital run. Then, she pecks about a bit, drinks and nibbles at her food. This could be a sign of serious illness. Equally, it could be a sign of a depressed hen who has been separated from her flock.

Her demeanour isn't hunched, and she is still carrying her tail high. I don't think she's lost any weight, and she doesn't feel thin or scrawny. I feel sorry for her, locked away on her own in the garage to be honest. However, I know that the best way of ensuring her recovery, and the rest of the flock's health, is to continue as I am. The rest of the girls seem well, but I am keeping a close eye. They also seem oblivious to Doris being missing. Chickens are not generally sentimental creatures.

Celia has finally given up on being broody. I was just congratulating myself for this development when I spotted a huge pile of feathers in the corner of the Palace. Celia has chosen January to go in to moult. I swear that bird's biological clock is wonky. She is back mixing with the flock, and belatedly duffing up Gladys and Hilda. When she can catch them. Which is not often. Those hens can move. I was stroking her yesterday while she chatted away to me when something rather embarassing happened. I tickled her under the chin, while surruptitiously checking her general condition. Being broody for weeks on end rarely results in a beauty queen. I gave her a quick once over and was pleased to find her healthy, if just a bit scruffy. I ran my hand down her back and through her tail. And when I lifted my hand, most of her tail came with it. It was like a dandelion clock getting caught in a strong breeze. I looked down at my hand full of feathers, and looked at the hen in shock. For her part, she seemed to register from my reaction that something was up. Straining her neck around, she clocked her own bald bum. I've never seen a hen do a double take before, but Celia was clearly astonished. She looked at me, looked at the empty air where her once fine cushion had been, looked at the feathers in my hand and then squawked with horror. We both felt a bit awkward at this point, I suspect. I couldn't very well stick Celia's bum back on, and she couldn't easily walk away with any dignity. It was a stalemate. Being the human, I decided it was my responsibility to bring this encounter to an end. I took my handful of Celia to the composter, giving her the perfect opportunity to scuttle away in to the shrubbery to inspect the damage.

I later saw her rearranging what was left, much in the way a balding man might try and fashion a comb over. Poor chook.

(In completely unrelated news, I wanted to let everyone know about Hedwig. Hedwig was the little frizzle cockerel I hatched in the summer who I initially christened Nigel. He went to live with a lovely Twitter friend and was spoiled rotten. Sadly, Hedwig was found dead yesterday. With no obvious signs of illness, and no sign of attack, it seems it was just his time. My sympathies go to his owner, who I know adored the crazy little shuttlecock. I'll admit to feeling a little sad at his passing, but also know that his short life would have been extremely priviliged.)