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.

So, That Was 2010

Happy New Year! Nearly. As we approach the end of 2010, I find myself looking back at an eventful year in chicken keeping. This year, I lost my beloved Mini which was rubbish, but hatched my first ever chicks, which was amazing. I said goodbye to the Convent, and hello to the amazing Palace. I waved the Silkie sisters off to their fab new home, and welcomed four new girls. One of which was my much coveted frizzle. I performed emergency first aid on ASBO Chicken and kept all of my fingers (I am particularly proud of that). Yep, it's been interesting.

So, what does 2011 have in store? It's probably best that I don't know to be honest. I find that things run more smoothly if disasters are sprung upon me rather than giving me time to panic. Doris is currently sporting another bubbly eye minus any other symptoms. Rather than running off to the vet, I've decided to ignore the attention seeking faker and see if it miraculously improves. Just so that you don't think I am completely heartless, you should know that Doris has form. She also has a massive amount of tonic in her drinking water right now.

I hope this year has been kind to you, and that 2011 is downright generous.

Maeve aka ASBO Chicken and her incredible swivelling neck.

Gladys at her frizzly best.

Purdy, the only layer at time of writing (so she's my favourite).

Doris, Maeve and Mabel.

A super curious Hilda.

My beautiful Maude.

Purdy and Mabel.

Hilda demolishing my alpine trough. Sigh.

Celia was knocking about, but managed to evade the camera. Her broodiness seems to be over. At long bloody last.

The Palace Is On The Move

The chooks are now happily settled in to their new abode. They adore the run perches, and scratching about in the aubiose. However, they are less enamoured of the sleeping area. The coop is huge compared to what they're used to, and very, very dark. When they need to lay, they timidly scuttle in to the nearest nest box from the pop hole, expel the egg and then run hell for leather back outside. Only the newly broody (again) Kiki shows any willing to spend time in the spacious indoors. At night, Margot goes in to join her flockmate, but the others snuggle up on an outside perch.

So, at dusk, I trek out to the Palace, and stuff birds in to the pop hole. One by one, I shove them inside. As they're in their sleepy trance state at this point, they don't happily wander over to the indoor perches. They stay plonked just inside the door. As subsequent birds are deposited, the preceeding hen is shunted across the coop floor. What you end up with, is a hypnotised conga line of chickens. I then turn a torch on inside the house, which wakes them up a bit. The sensible Mille's shake themselves and climb aboard the perch block. Doris slowly comes round and joins them. Maeve's first instinct on waking up is to duff up Celia and Purdy, who leg it in to the furthest nest box. Once all of this has calmed down, I turn off the torch and lock them in. I'm really hoping that they get over this fear of the great indoors quite rapidly.

The Palace was always destined to stand on the new patio. However, after just a few days it's become apparent that it needs to move. Much as I love hens, they are not tidy creatures. Within minutes of being released, they tend to kick bedding out of the door and poo a lot. The ever tolerant husband made an executive decision, and began digging out the border. I frantically removed plants before they fell foul of his spade and hurried to replant them in a safer place. The girls watched all of this activity from their lofty vantage point, occassionally shrieking encouragement. The ever tolerant husband just loves being serenaded.

By early evening, he had managed to lay four enormous paving slabs, and called it a day. As soon as he went inside to clean up, I released the chooks. With great joy, they ran/flapped over to the newly excavated ground and happily ate their own body weight in bugs. Unfortunately, in doing so, they managed to scratch earth everywhere and half bury the painstakingly layed slabs. Ahem. I hurriedly excavated the site with my foot.

The Convent was sold yesterday, for the amazing price of £122. The buyer was so keen, he actually drove an hour along the motorway to collect it as soon as the auction finished. I watched it go with a mixture of relief (Yay! My garden back!) and sadness. After all, it was the coop that began my chicken keeping journey.

I wish its new owners well as they begin theirs.

The Chook Palace Has Arrived!!!

So, the day has finally come. The magnificent Chook Palace has finally arrived. After months of researching, planning, umming and aahing, and wheedling, my ladies have their posh pad. I have to say, I am rather pleased with it.

I had planned on moving the girls in immediately, but it is still a bit wet from its dip in a large vat of creosote substitute. Therefore, unless it dries out really quickly today, it'll be tomorrow before my girls can officially take up residence. They are studiously ignoring it at the moment, although I suspect that Maeve's curiosity will get the better of her before long.

In other news, I managed to wedge the pop hole well and truly shut last night, so we were not woken by the squawking silkies. They have won themselves a brief reprieve. I trekked around to all the neighbours yesterday, issuing heartfelt apologies and boxes of eggs in equal measure. Hopefully, this damage limitation means that there will be no official complaints.

I am dying to decorate the new Convent.

The Wind And The Chooklets

Having been away for a few days, I was delighted to come home to find all chooks hale and hearty. My friend who has recently aquired her own ladies was looking after them for me, and a sterling job she did. When we got in yesterday evening, the girls still had an hour of daylight left to explore the garden and I was more than happy to oblige. Over the two days I was absent, they managed eight eggs between them. A most satisfactory haul.

Its a particularly blustery day here, which is great for me as I have a washing mountain to climb. The chooks are less keen. Small, light, feathery hens tend to get buffeted by anything stronger than a moderate breeze. Lots of mad dashes in between gusts have been undertaken, from Convent to dustbath, from dustbath to border, and from border to decking. Amusing to watch even if the girls enjoy it significantly less.

The chooklets are still living in the garage, and will be until the chook palace is installed. Opening the garage door, I propped the door open with the rake as usual. Big mistake. The chooklets hopped over to the door way and then my view was obscured by the slamming garage door. I admit to feeling a little queasy at this point, and could only envisage horrors now residing behind the closed portal. Gulp.

Gingerly, I reached for the handle and simultaneously said a little prayer. The door step was empty. A quick scan of the garage revealed Purdy sitting atop the lawn mower with a startled expression on her face. No sign of Celia. Not good. A quick search revealed no silver partridge chooklet, and I began to consider the possibility that she had been totally vapourised leaving no trace. Not even a solitary feather. Of course, at this point Celia waddled out from under the wood shavings bale, cocked her head at me and sneezed at my general incompetence.

There is now a very heavy wheelie bin holding the door open.

Winter: The Sequel

As we blearily pulled back the curtains this morning, we were greeted by an alarming sight. It had snowed during the night, and two inches of the white stuff covered everything. I couldn't believe it. Usually, snow is greeted with excitement and joy, but this winter there has been so much of the stuff it made me want to weep. We are on solid clay here, and the ground is still water logged from all the snow and rain back in January. This will not help.

Even the children have lost their enthusiasm for snow. Neither of them ran about in it on the way to school, preferring to keep their feet warm and dry. Everyone looks vaguely crestfallen at this step backwards. I was planning on getting outside to pot up some seedlings today, but have had to shelve those plans. Oh, to feel the warmth from the sun!

The chooks took it badly, too. Hearing me undo the door to the run, they excitedly bowled down the ramp from the coop, scrabbling over each other in their eagerness to get out and destroy the garden. With marvellous comic timing, they all screeched to a halt at the threshold of the Convent, and muttered about the cold stuff. Margot stretched her ostrich-like neck out and pecked at it, then reeled her head in again to report on the fact that, yes, it really was that cold, wet stuff again. Much chuntering amongst themselves ensued. Kiki bravely stepped out of the door way, and hopped about a bit. The others watched with interest. Kiki stepped from one spindly leg to the other, alternately holding her foot up to her body. This quickly turned in to a hopping dance, and she legged it back on to the warm and dry aubiose.

Mabel considered all the evidence, and then regally turned and glided back up the ramp for the safety of the coop. The others watched their illustrious leader, and then followed her lead. Celia and Purdy stood on the doorstep to the garage, craning their necks down at the unfamiliar ground covering. They watched Kiki's war dance, and then the retreat of the big girls. With some pathetic bokking, they re-perched on the side of the brooder.

No one is coming out to play.

In Fine Voice

When you keep hens, you don't need a calendar to tell you that spring has sprung. For one thing, the eggs starting piling up in the nest boxes. For another, the girls become rather, erm, frisky. Maude has been waddling in front of me and crouching for weeks now, and is beginning to get frustrated with my lack of compliance. She fears not for her own safety, and I have narrowly avoided squashing the daft bird several times. Mabel has taken to flattening the others in an extremely disciplined and systematic way. Its got so that the next hen assumes the position as soon as she clocks Mabel approaching.

All of this fertility is the very essence of spring. In an attempt to find an obliging male suitor, the ladies have taken to bokking their heads off at regular intervals (I have taken to rushing outside and flapping a tea towel at them in an effort to shut them up. They watch this with interest, and then take up their song as soon as I retreat indoors). One chook starts the fracas, usually because she's laid an egg. It is soon taken up by the others, as one by one they fall under the spell. I listen to all this racket anxiously, and send boxes of eggs to the neighbours by way of an apology. Even the chooklets are getting in on the act, despite being several months from maturity.

I remember this phenomenon from last spring, and if memeory serves me it should all calm down again sometime around May. Probably just in time for the first hen to catch broody. In the mean time, I shall continue to waft my tea towel and throw slices of bread out of the back door.

Some exciting developments with regards to the chook palace. My Dad has agreed to take a look at my favourite (expensive) design, and let me know whether its doable. I am both excited and nervous, as I haven't yet told him that I want a hanging carved sign reading 'The Convent'. He will definitely think I've lost the plot. The benefits of having the palace built bespoke means that I can get the exact dimensions I require.

Dimensions which would be suitable for ten small hens....

Tracking Down The Perfect Palace

Now that the decision to stay put has been made, I have spent the last week trying to organise a new abode for the ladies. The six older girls currently reside in the Convent quite happily, but there is not room for the chooklets to join them. The Convent run is approximately 20 sqaure feet in size, which is adequate for six small hens as long as they get plenty of free ranging opportunities. Adding two more to the current set up would be overcrowding, and lead to stress in the flock. Stress leads to health problems and bullying (I'm sure I don't need to go in to the evils of battery farming chickens here, so I won't).

Therefore, I have been looking at my options. In an ideal world, my chook palace would be walk in, with a six foot ceiling height. With a footprint of approx. 6 x 9 feet, it would give my girls a floor space of 54sqft. This is a decent amount of space for birds that might never free range (although my girls will always have the opportunity to undo all of my gardening efforts). It will also be built like Fort Knox, allowing total peace of mind when we travel.

I managed to find a few examples online, but the price made the ever tolerant husband go a funny colour. Thinking outside the box, I decided to make contact with a few local joiners, in the hope that they could build me exactly what I wanted for a slightly less cardiac arrest-inducing price.

It often slips my mind that other people aren't chicken obsessed. Its become such a normal part of our every day lives to step over squatting hens when hanging out the washing, or to find random feathers under the sofa, that I just assume that others also know everything there is to know about chooks. So when I started blathering on about pop holes, nest boxes and wind breaks to the joiner stood in my kitchen and he looked at me like I was slightly mad, I think it was a shock for both of us. I resorted to showing him an expensive online example. He was still a little nonplussed, and muttered about research before hightailing it for the safety of his transit van. His quote came in the next day at several hundred pounds over budget. I suspect that he didn't really want to build my chook palace.

The second joiner was much more enthusiastic, and even made several sensible suggestions himself. When he left, I felt a warm glow of satisfaction that my needs had been understood. Unfortunately, it was a fleeting satisfaction, as his quote came in at over a thousand pounds. I didn't even show the ever tolerant husband that one.

The third joiner has disappeared in to the sunset with his tape measure and sketch pad, never to be heard of again. Well, by the madchickenlady anyway. Honestly, you'd think that people had never seen a chicken before. Admittedly, Maude did try to sit on his shoulder, but shes a sociable bird. Also, he was wearing a hoop earring. Maude likes earrings.

So, it looks like the expensive internet options are actually the more affordable. Amazingly, the ever tolerant husband seems resigned to having his wallet hoovered out in the near future. I am determined to have the chook palace in situ by the end of May.

We are no longer moving, but the girls are.

Raiders Of The Lost Bok-ARK!

It's very blowy here today. At last the snow has gone, unfortunately it has left this dull drizzly weather behind it. Usually in such conditions the hens would stay coop-bound, but after all the rotten weather it probably seems positively spring-like to them today. They have all ventured out to scratch about in the flower beds except the babies, who are incarcerated in the garage and engaging in a dirty protest.

Maude is determined to spend some time outside today, even though the others are beginning to flag. One by one, the other hens have conceded defeat to the strong gales. Being a small, light, but very feathery hen can have severe disadvantages in very windy conditions. In attempting to amble nonchalantly across the lawn in a straight line, you can find yourself incomprehensively half running in a diagonal trajectory aimed straight at a wall. Mabel suffered this indignity, peeled herself away from the wall and legged it for the safety of the coop. Even the silkies can only take so much wind battering. However, Maude is grimly determined.

She attempted to sit on the bench, only to be taken by the wind, over shoot her landing site and disappear through the gap in the back. She strolled out a few moments later, as if that had been her goal all along. Hens hate to lose face. However, she has met her ultimate wind related nemesis.

The children have a light plastic football which the hens are always suspicious of. In the lightest of breezes, it can wobble threateningly. When this occurs, the girls congregate together and mutter darkly. Out on her won, Maude didn't stand a chance. As she sat on the lawn, stubbornly ignoring the rain, her nemesis began to move. Coming from the opposite flower bed, it managed to get up a fair bit of momentum. Seeing it thundering towards her, Maude leapt up and ran as fast as her short pekin legs would carry her. She veered to the left in an attempt to shake it off! But, no! In a weird twist of fate, the wind also gusted in the same direction! Maude began sprinting towards the back door, where I have to confess I was hysterical with laughter. All I could hear in my head was the Indiana Jones theme tune. Give that hen a hat and a leather jacket and she could be a star! Skidding to a halt before she ended up splatted against the glass, she took off again for the Convent. The ball harmlessly bounced against the door frame. Maude eyed it from the door of the run, turned around and sauntered inside.

The comedy value alone makes hens brilliant.

Hormonal Harpies

Spring is definitely in the air. I am averaging one egg a day now, so laying has recommenced. Maude and Doris are definitely in lay, and one of the silkies was, I suspect. Probably Kiki, as she has once again decided to go broody.

Maude is an intensely private chicken, and likes to lay alone. She will tolerate Mabel in an emergency, but gripes about it. Therefore, she is not impressed with Kiki's best russian hat impersonation in her favourite nest box.

There was much bokking and grumbling from Maude yesterday, which is quite unusual. She strutted around the garden beaking off, quite clearly narked about something. Every time I go outside, she crouches in front of me. Very inconvenient when you're carrying heavy feed bags or young chicks. I have barely avoided stepping on the brazen hussy on a number of occassions. She isn't generally noisy with her hormonal upsurge, though, so I realised that something was afoot.

The rest of the flock were interested in Maude's singing, but not enough to investigate. That would mean moving from their 'flattened from above' sunbathing positions on the decking. I noticed that Kiki was missing, and found her pancaked in the nest box. Now, a flattened, broody pekin still leaves room for a determined, non-broody flock mate to squeeze in beside her to lay (and deliver a few disgruntled pecks). A broody silkie does not. Kiki's prone form oozes in to the very corners of the nest box, and she will not move.  Maude kept wandering in to the coop, yelling at Kiki, pecking at her a bit, then storming off down the garden, with much bok-ARK-ing and flapping of wings.

Sometimes I intervene in these matters, but I rarely do any good. So, I decided to let them get on with it. A good hour later, there arose an almighty clamour from the Convent. Maude had finally given in, and gone in to the least favoured nest box to lay. The militantly broody Kiki had attempted to steal the egg before it had totally left Maude's rear end. There are some indignities not to be borne, and not surprisingly Maude went a little bit velociraptor on the daft silkie. I rescued the egg, removed Maude's talons from Kiki's fur, and deposited both hens on the ground. Maude grumbled, strutted, and delivered one more swift peck on Kiki's bouffanted bonce, before stalking off.

Kiki ignored all of this, she is so deeply in the zone.

First Free Range

If you could call it that! It's fairly mild here today, so while I cleaned out the brooder, I thought I'd let our latest additions have some fresh air. They stood very still for five minutes, and ambled about in a circle for another five before I popped them back in. I had already secured the rest of the flock in the Convent grounds (much to their disgust), and Mabel patrolled the fence, making her 'I'm the boss! What are they doing here?! I didn't sanction this!' etc noises. The rest of the girls watched intently.

Celia and Purdy's first taste of freedom. They were distinctly underwhelmed.

The Big Chill

Perhaps not unusually for January, it is absolutely freezing outside. The ground barely gets a chance to thaw before the night descends again, and with it plummeting temperatures. According to the weather reports, for the next week we can expect night time lows of up to -7 degrees Celsius. Brrrr. Now, that's one thing if you're a human with lovely central heating, fleecy pyjamas and an ever tolerant husband to make you tea. It is quite another if you are a small, short legged chicken.

The girls are deeply unimpressed with the current conditions. They hop from one short leg to the other across the lawn, muttering at the cold. They huddle against the back door, looking in at the warm kitchen, layering on the human guilt. Chickens are not very good at looking beseeching (no movable eyelids/eyebrows), but they are exceptionally good at giving you a look which says 'You in there! Yes! You! You with your radiators! You disgust us!'. They often follow up this look with a large poo, right outside the door. Chickens are vengeful creatures.

In an attempt to keep them warm, I purchased a large plastic tarpaulin. The idea being, that I could enclose the Convent and run, so that the bedding would stay dry and the wind would be kept out. If there's something that chickens hate more than damp, it's a draught. I battled valiantly with the enormous sheet of plastic while the chooks looked on. It took quite some effort in the not inconsiderable wind to get it anchored down. The ladies watched all of this from the garden bench, where they sat, muttering and giving me the beady eye.

At last, the tarpaulin was in place. I was quite pleased with the result (and fairly philosophical about the amount of poo/mud which the damn thing had splatted up against me when the wind decided that what really needed wrapping in a plastic sheet, was me). Throwing some corn into the run, I stood back to allow the girls access.

They were having none of it. My redesign of their living space did not meet their approval in any way. Even Maeve, the bravest, fiercest hen who has ever lived (probably) wouldn't get closer than about three metres. Every so often, the wind would rustle the plastic, and much chuntering by the hens would ensue. In fact, they not only seemed dubious, but also actually affronted. I decided it was far too cold for all this carry on, and manually stuffed small hens into the coop. Generally, the girls are used to more dignified treatment, and were shocked into compliance.

Ungrateful little madams.

The Housekeeper

I was late letting the girls out this morning. As I stood by the back door pulling on my boots, I witnessed a remarkable thing. At first, I assumed that it was a hen bobbing about in the pop hole. Then, I realised it was newspaper.

The newspaper rustled about a bit as it was wedged through the doorway, before flopping onto the ramp. It was followed out of the coop by Maeve. She fussily pecked at the rubbish, before stepping over it and proceeding to drag it down into the run. Once she had reached the ground, she trundled back up into the coop.

Feeling somewhat bemused, I approached the Convent to find shredded paper all over the run. Maude was engaged in ripping the paper into long strips, an activity she has always enjoyed. I opened the coop door, and peeked inside. Maeve was back on the perch, and gave me the beady eye. She was clearly trying to have a bit of a snooze.

Now I'm left pondering whether the fussy hen has cleaned the droppings from the night before because she was offended by the smell, or taken the paper outside so that Maude wouldn't keep her awake with her frankly mental paper tearing. After ensuring that I wasn't going to bother her further, Maeve turned around on her perch and went to sleep.

Quick update on Mini: The poultry lab called me back to say that they have identified a bacterial infection, and that they should be able to find the best antibiotic to kill it by tomorrow lunchtime. All of the birds will have to be treated.

Chicken Origami

Yesterday the swab kit arrived from the poultry lab. I roped the ever tolerant husband in to help, and restrained a miffed Mini. The ever tolerant husband approached Mini with trepidation, as I wrestled open her beak. I rather snappily told him to take the swab, rather than tickling her with it. We then moved on to the frankly, grim, eye cheese. Tentatively, he swabbed her gunky eye, and twirled some of the vile cheese-like substance from her eye socket. Neither of us felt like breakfast. This done, we posted the swabs to the lab. I confess to muttering a little prayer.

After a hasty Christmas shopping trip, we grumpily returned home. As I stepped out of the back door, I glanced into the run. What I saw made my heart sink. A jumbled mass of white, with some darker smudges, lay at the bottom of the ramp. I froze. Something in my posture brought the ever tolerant husband running, and as he too saw the crumpled mass in the run, he tried to console me. Very close to tears, I approached the Convent, fully expecting to see a very dead Mini, possibly duffed up by the rest of the flock. What I found was a screwed up layer of newspaper, that I use under the perch in the coop. Maude has a habit of taking her frustration at being incarcerated out on this layer, taking great pleasure in tearing it to pieces. As I breathed a sigh of relief, Mini stuck her head out of the coop, and muttered her trademark 'meh-meh' in greeting. I have never been so glad to see her.

The ever tolerant husband remarked that perhaps the flock had taken up origami to stave off boredom. Or perhaps to teach me a lesson.....

The First Winter Storm

The moulting ladies are now looking much more respectable, with most feathers at least present now. I for one am very glad, as the weather has taken a decidedly wintry turn here in the midlands. The girls can be seen snuggled together in the border, heads tucked in, trying to keep warm. For the purposes of heat retention, even the silkie's are being tolerated.

We are expecting our first spell of rotten weather later on today, so straight after the school run I prepared the coop. Clearing away last nights droppings, I have added more sawdust to the nest boxes (where Doris sleeps in one, and Margot and Kiki in the other) and a fresh, thick layer of newspaper on the floor (where Mini sleeps next to the door). Mabel. Maude and Maeve sleep high up on the perch, although this might change as the temperature drops.

We are expecting strong winds and driving rain, probably the worst kind of weather for short legged, fluffy hens. I know that the pekins will take themselves off to the shelter of the Convent the second the rain starts to fall, but I can guarantee that I'll be chasing the road runner-esque silkie's around the run in an attempt to keep them warm and dry.

I might even mix up some porridge for my ladies this afternoon.

Big Girl Voices

The moult continues. Maude now resembles Billy Idol, with a funky short spikey 'do. Mabel is only half the chicken she used to be, and seems to be struggling with her top hen status. Maeve has moved up on to the perch next to the Millefleurs, staking her claim as third in line for the top job. The flock is unsettled.

Our newest members have settled in to the Convent well. Occasionally, Maeve attempts to rip out a beakful of fluff from their ostrich-like necks, but on the whole they are unmolested. There still appears to be some confusion amongst the pekins as to what exactly Kiki and Margot are. For their part, the silkies do their best to stay out of pecking range, and try and blend in with the shrubbery. In this way, no blood has been spilled.

Today was the first day, however, where the babies found their voices. Somewhere between a pekin and a congested duck, is my expert opinion. The pekins stopped foraging and watched the two fluffy pullets trying out their big girl noise. After a bit of bokking/honking, the silkies fell silent and watched the pekins. The ladies had a brief conference, and then rolled around in the flower border.

I assume that means Margot and Kiki were not declaring war on pekin kind.

Two Tribes

Now that the decision to sell the house has been made, it has forced me to speed up the integration process. I couldn't quite get my head around showing prospective buyers the super sparkly house, and then letting them peek into the garage only to be confronted by two demented bog brushes and acres of poo. So, two nights ago I bit the bullet and the silkies moved in to the Convent.

It went as well as can be expected. Mabel was pancaked in the nest box, so Maeve had free reign. She chased them and kung fu kicked them a few times. The other girls dived out of the way and generally muttered about the impetuousness of youth. The silkies have long legs compared to a pekin, so speed is their advantage. Eventually, everyone got bored and went to bed. Kiki and Margot waited until almost full dark before tentatively climbing the ramp to the sleeping quarters. After a little indecision, they slunk inside and huddled up in a nest box. I was quite smug about the whole thing.

My smugness didn't last, as at dawn I was up separating them. It wasn't that the chasing was particularly bad, but Doris had taken up a war cry which could wake the dead. Not the best way to keep the neighbours on side, Doris. Removing the silkies worked, and we all went wearily back to bed.

Yesterday, the new girls decided to spend their time hiding behind the greenhouse, making only the occasional foray to search out food and water. For the most part, the flock ignored them, only getting shirty if they approached any treats. Again, all perfectly normal and even promising. At dusk, my original ladies pootled off to bed. The silkies hung back, looking agitatedly for somewhere else to sleep. When they realised that there were no other options, they slunk into the Convent. I locked the door, feeling confident that all was well.

On checking the coop with a torch before bed, I found Kiki and Margot asleep under the sleeping area in the run. I unceremoniously grabbed them both and stuffed them into the coop, where they made the mistake of trying to bed down for the night on top of a grumpy Mabel. She gave them both a smart peck on the head, and much chastised they curled up in the other nest box. I half expected to be woken at dawn again, but helpfully Doris kept schtum.

We'll see how it goes tonight, after I remove the persistent Mabel from the equation.

What the HELL is that!?!?

Yesterday, the ever tolerant husband trekked halfway across the midlands so that we could pick up two silkie bantam pullets. As it was also our wedding anniversary, I think he deserves special mention.

Since the early demise of Belinda, our youngest son has been a very sad little boy. When asked what would make him feel better, he made it perfectly clear that if resurrecting belinda was out of the question, it would have to be another hen. Preferably one that looked like a microphone. This description puzzled me for a bit, until the penny dropped. He wanted a silkie.

We arrived at the breeder's and were greeted with a shed full of silkie chicks. The problem with silkies, is that they like to keep their gender ambiguous. Being relatively slow to mature doesn't help, and many a poultry keeper has looked out at their eight month old hens one day and suddenly heard a wimpy cockadoodledoo. There can be no vocal manifestations of maleness in our small suburban garden.

The breeder handed us three chicks which he was certain were pullets. Our youngest instantly fell in love with a microphone headed blue which he has named Kiki Fluffy (he is six). The ever tolerant husband instantly proclaimed that this was a stripper name, so I elbowed him in the ribs, not wishing to have to explain the term 'stripper' in front of the breeder. I chose the other pullet, a partridge-ish coloured girl who just looks like a Margot. They definitely look as though they should be wearing grand Pat Butcher style earrings and clutching handbags to their matronly bosoms.

I have set up a separate pen for the newbies, next to the Convent's grounds. When we first got home, I put the silkies out in their hutch and let the girls out of the Convent. Mabel came over to the netting instantly, suspecting that something was afoot. Seeing nothing obvious, she lumbered off into the border to eat my marigolds. The others watched Mabel, saw her lose interest, and proceeded to do likewise.

It took Kiki and Margot a good forty minutes to feel brave. Kiki stuck her head out of the hutch first, eyed the ground (they had never been on grass), and then hid again. A few minutes later, after a brief conference with Margot, they both slowly emerged and set about scoffing the lawn.

They did all this in silence, so they'd been out a while before the girls clocked them. Mini edged closer to the netting, staring intently at the new comers. Mabel took matters into her own hands, and jumped straight in to the pen. She was swiftly evicted, much to her disgust. Slowly but surely, the girls encircled the silkie enclosure. They seemed unsure as to how they should react to this new development. Obviously, if I'd brought new chickens into the garden, there would need to be some duffing up. However, the girls seemed to decide, these ridiculous looking things were not chickens, so should probably be ignored.

The silkies hid behind the rose bush, and did their best to look like discarded feather dusters.

Welcome To The Jungle

The British summer continues in it's usual soggy manner. The hens can regularly be seen, huddling in the convent, throwing disgusted looks out at the rain. The humans are behaving in a very similar fashion, actually.

All this rain has encouraged the garden to go wild. Weeds are springing up everywhere, and the grass is having a definite growth spurt. It desperately needs taming, but as our garden is on clay, at the moment it is a squelchy bog. The girls can no longer weeble along, but have to hop and jump from one spot to the next. The long grass gets tangled up in their foot feathers, leading to the hilarious sight of small chickens tethered to the ground and having to eat their way out.

In protest at the ground conditions, they have taken to perching in inappropriate places. Like on top of the Convent, or the wheelie bin, or (worryingly) the barbecue. I'm assuming that this last location was chosen purely for convenience, and not as a suicide attempt.

The hemcore in the run has been so thoroughly soaked, that it's woven itself into a hemp mattress. The chooks have no chance of scratching about in it, and it's poo absorbing qualities have been severely compromised. All in all, it's pretty grim, and I prefer the easibed.

Miserable Weather

The rain hasn't let up here so far this week. The girls have made a few forays into the garden, but then end up running back to the relative dryness of the Convent. We're all quite miserable.

Now, the girls are generally quite spoiled, and enjoy many scraps and treats from the kitchen. However, they still require layers pellets, which is their staple diet. They tend to gorge on these when they get up in the morning, before they are let out and have access to alternatives. The sides of the Convent are strong weld mesh, so not water proof. The driving rain has been getting into the run, and more importantly, the feeder. This causes the pellets to turn into a sludgy porridge, which then sets like concrete. So, instead of dry pellets, freely running into the little dish around the feeder for the hens to scoff, the food stays put in the main body of the device, and my girls go hungry. Several times a day, I have to get soaked to the skin in order that my ladies have access to their grub. Are they grateful? Are they hell!

They complain, bitterly, about the soggy feed. Then, they queue up to leave the Convent, only to realise that it's still raining. At least one of them will then come up to me, bokking away in disgust, as if complaining to a hotel manager. If the hen in question is particularly narked, she might drop a giant poo near my foot. Then turn around, and scrape it back at me. Nice.

All in all, we'll all be relieved when the rain clears and the sun shines again.