Cor. It's been a while since I last updated. Sorry about that. Things have been rather hectic chez Madchickenlady. But anyway, I now have a spare twenty minutes or so to catch up, so let's plough on.
Today, as in, right now, there are two men in my garden dgging it up. No, it's ok. There has been no disaster (unless you count the three months of solid rain we've all had to put up with). They are landscaping. Well, landscaping may be a bit of a grand title for what is actually happening. They are laying slabs which will house the new coop, gravelling around said slabs so that I can eventually plant chicken resistant plants, and also gravelling an area for the youngest's enormous trampoline. I am happy about this for several reasons. One, there is far too much grass out there at the moment. Seriously, cutting it all is a killer. But more importantly, two, the chickens will finally be on slabs, have aubiose to play in, and be safe from predators. And the hell hound.
Ah, yes, the hell hound. Since I last posted, he has launched a full on assault on my ladies. The new coop had a perspex window. Notice the use of the past tense. He headbutted through it, and we had to replace it with a metal grill vent (which, incidentally, is brilliant ventilation while also keeping the wind and rain out). He also leapt at the weld mesh near the ramp so much that the mesh began to come away from the frame. The ever tolerant husband had to crawl through the slimy, chicken poo soup floor of the run to repair that. He was not overly happy. And by far the worst crime? He managed to get his chops around Hilda.
It was one of those split second things. The ever tolerant husband opened the coop roof to see if he could fix something else that was dropping of it (Seriously, I miss the Palace every. Single. Day.), and Hilda made a bid for freedom. The dog was out the door and across the garden like lightening. Hilda squawked, the dog grabbed her and tossed her high in to the air, husband, Madchickenlady and eldest all ran around in a Benny Hill stylee trying to rescue her. In the end, the eldest stopped chasing and bellowed the 'LEAVE IT' command. The hell hound dropped the indignant chicken. I grabbed her. The dog was banished to his basket in disgrace. We all caught our breath, chicken included, then I gave her the once over. She wasn't missing so much as one feather, but had crapped herself explosively in terror. A quick rinse under the outside tap restored her to her brillaint white glory, and I popped her back in to the coop. She sat on the perch, preening herself indignantly, apparently untraumatised by being used as a shuttlecock by a very rude young dog. This is the second time he has managed to get his face wrapped around a chicken, and both times we managed to get away without any casualties. This hasn't made me complacent, but I am relieved that when he does catch one he mainly wants to play with it like a squeaky toy. There has so far been no attempt to dismember or consume. But with any luck he won't get another chance to test my theory. I have extra grey hair as a result of his antics.
So, Hilda escaped her ordeal with nothing but an embarassing toileting disaster. But other than that, she is fine. My mighty mille's are still going strong, although Maude seems to be going in to a bit of a mini moult. She is pale of face and reasonably bald right now, so I'm adding poultry spice to their grub and keeping an eye on her. Maeve, the fearsome ASBO Chicken, is still determinedly broody. Daily, I remove her from the nest box and plonk her on the lawn, where she sits flattened out like a malevolent beret, hissing at anyone that ventures near. So pretty much business as usual with the Evil One.
When the new coop is in situ I will take some pics.
Showing posts with label Maude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maude. Show all posts
Monday, 23 July 2012
Thursday, 21 June 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
A Brief Catch Up
I know, I know. I have been neglecting you. Would it help if I gave my list of excuses? We're trying to move. It has snowed. A lot. We had to travel to visit the ever tolerant husband's family. Oh, and I have the plague (or a cold, depending on how dramatic you want to be. But this cold does come with a mouth ulcer named Kevin). So, I suppose I should fill you in.
Spring is just around the corner (no, really) and the hens are starting to wake up from their long winter slumber. As any keeper of pure breeds knows, these pedigree chooks tend to go in to stasis through the cold and dark months. They eat, drink and sleep their way through Guy Fawkes night, Christmas and Valentine's day. You barely see them, except for cleaning out and the odd sighting as they come down from the coop for feed. The suddenly, you notice that you're topping up the feeder more often. The odd egg appears in the nest box, and crucially, they find their voices again. Oh yes. You know that spring is about to be sprung when you hear the mournful caterwauling of a laboring chicken at 7.30 in the morning.
I am getting the odd egg, and I suspect that Flo is the culprit. The older ladies have yet to recommence laying duties, but their combs are bright red and they've resumed strutting. I'm not expecting too many eggs from Mabel, Maude and Maeve from now on, as they're pushing 4 and 3.5 respectively. But the others will soon be back in to full production. So now is the time to make sure that they have mixed poultry grit and access to grass. My girls pretty much ignore the grit during the winter, but nosh it at a rate of knotts come February. A laying hen needs the calcium, or else they leach it from their own bones. This cannot be a good thing.
I can pretty much rule out Winnie laying at the moment, as in a fit of total craziness she has decided to go broody despite never having layed an egg. This does not bode well for her laying abilities, to be honest. Still, she's a plucky young bird and if there is no egg to sit on, she tries to incubate enormous poos. Deeply unpleasant when I rootle about under her to find and eggs, but it's keeping her busy. And hideously fragrant.
The serama are still road runnering about the pekins, and in this way have avoided being a) eaten and b) flattened. They work in a tag team of distraction, leading the homicidal pekins on a wild serama chase while the other one scoffs pellets. Everyone seems to be coping with the situation, and even Maeve is getting bored of 'pluck the serama'.
The next big thing will be the move.
Spring is just around the corner (no, really) and the hens are starting to wake up from their long winter slumber. As any keeper of pure breeds knows, these pedigree chooks tend to go in to stasis through the cold and dark months. They eat, drink and sleep their way through Guy Fawkes night, Christmas and Valentine's day. You barely see them, except for cleaning out and the odd sighting as they come down from the coop for feed. The suddenly, you notice that you're topping up the feeder more often. The odd egg appears in the nest box, and crucially, they find their voices again. Oh yes. You know that spring is about to be sprung when you hear the mournful caterwauling of a laboring chicken at 7.30 in the morning.
I am getting the odd egg, and I suspect that Flo is the culprit. The older ladies have yet to recommence laying duties, but their combs are bright red and they've resumed strutting. I'm not expecting too many eggs from Mabel, Maude and Maeve from now on, as they're pushing 4 and 3.5 respectively. But the others will soon be back in to full production. So now is the time to make sure that they have mixed poultry grit and access to grass. My girls pretty much ignore the grit during the winter, but nosh it at a rate of knotts come February. A laying hen needs the calcium, or else they leach it from their own bones. This cannot be a good thing.
I can pretty much rule out Winnie laying at the moment, as in a fit of total craziness she has decided to go broody despite never having layed an egg. This does not bode well for her laying abilities, to be honest. Still, she's a plucky young bird and if there is no egg to sit on, she tries to incubate enormous poos. Deeply unpleasant when I rootle about under her to find and eggs, but it's keeping her busy. And hideously fragrant.
The serama are still road runnering about the pekins, and in this way have avoided being a) eaten and b) flattened. They work in a tag team of distraction, leading the homicidal pekins on a wild serama chase while the other one scoffs pellets. Everyone seems to be coping with the situation, and even Maeve is getting bored of 'pluck the serama'.
The next big thing will be the move.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Tough Decisions
I find myself at a crossroads. After three years of back garden chicken keeping I have some tough decisions to make. We humans are rapidly outgrowing the available house space. As we dance around each other in a complicated waltz in order to reach the bread bin, I know that something has to give. The ever tolerant husband has made his position clear: the animals have plenty of room, the humans do not.
So we are looking at moving. Based on the dire housing market, the only sure fire way of doing this involves selling our souls to the Devil (well, our house to a builder). That means moving in to a shiny new house built from cardboard and spit. It also means being able to move, and possibly sit in a room without rearranging the furniture or turfing children from the near vicinity.
It also, in reality, means a less than ideal garden space. If not smaller than what I have, certainly less flat and regular. The garden attached to the new house will either require skiis to navigate or a map. So it comes down to me having to make some sacrifices. Possibly.
The Palace is a large piece of furniture. It is unlikely to fit easily in to the new garden. Or, if it does, it is unlikely to fit well. I can't in good conscience give my girls less free ranging space. So that leaves me with a dilemma.
I won't under any circumstances give up all of my birds. But I may have to give up some. The old guard (Mabel, Maude, Maeve) will be going with me even if they have to live in the bath. But I find myself contemplating not having all of the others with me. As I look out in to my (admittedly trashed) garden, I don't know how I can choose which girls come with me and which I say goodbye to. In the grand scheme of things, I realise that this isn't a life changing decision.
Yet somehow it feels like it is.
So we are looking at moving. Based on the dire housing market, the only sure fire way of doing this involves selling our souls to the Devil (well, our house to a builder). That means moving in to a shiny new house built from cardboard and spit. It also means being able to move, and possibly sit in a room without rearranging the furniture or turfing children from the near vicinity.
It also, in reality, means a less than ideal garden space. If not smaller than what I have, certainly less flat and regular. The garden attached to the new house will either require skiis to navigate or a map. So it comes down to me having to make some sacrifices. Possibly.
The Palace is a large piece of furniture. It is unlikely to fit easily in to the new garden. Or, if it does, it is unlikely to fit well. I can't in good conscience give my girls less free ranging space. So that leaves me with a dilemma.
I won't under any circumstances give up all of my birds. But I may have to give up some. The old guard (Mabel, Maude, Maeve) will be going with me even if they have to live in the bath. But I find myself contemplating not having all of the others with me. As I look out in to my (admittedly trashed) garden, I don't know how I can choose which girls come with me and which I say goodbye to. In the grand scheme of things, I realise that this isn't a life changing decision.
Yet somehow it feels like it is.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
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.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
The Chaos Continues
I'm not neglecting you, honest. It's just that I've been dealing with some teething problems. Actual teething problems. The puppy is chewing everything in sight, and is rather keeping me on my toes. Coupled with the fact that we were both attacked by a very angry dog yesterday, means that my blogging time has been seriously compromised. But no matter. Right now the pup is chewing a shoe (I'm pretending I haven't noticed) and I have a few minutes to update the Chronicles. So here goes.
My girls are on an egg strike. I'm not sure if this is in protest at the dog's arrival, or just the natural changing of the seasons. I suspect a bit of both, to be honest. Either way, no eggs for me. They are now eating less as well, and barely touching their oyster shell. In reality I doubt I'll see another egg until 2012. They watch me as I hopefully open the nest box, and no doubt snigger as I trudge dejectedly away again. As always with chickens, the less they give you the more you give them. So out comes the mixed corn, and the viatmin supplements, and the ACV, in an attempt to get them through the moult they've decided to communily have. Maude is strutting about looking resplendent and smug, having finished her moult a few months back. But everyone else is looking tatty and miserable. They are also increasingly narky, and many a hen is getting an unprovoked peck to the bonce just for existing. Even poor Vera is losing feathers left, right and centre. The miniscule hen is disappearing before my eyes.
The pekins are decidedly wary of the hound, and keep a sensible distance. Well, most of them do. Flo and Winnie seem to not have a natural fear response to a slathering mutt charging towards them, and in fact take great delight on sitting on the back step, beak to nose with the yelping puppy, driving him mad. Maeve is only acknowledging his existence if he dares to look at her, at which point she raises her hackles and hisses at him in her Dark Lord manner. He is unsure about this, and loses interest in playing with her rather rapidly. She saunters away, occasionally throwing an evil glance in his direction.
The serama are having none of it, and hide in the top part of their hutch if they hear him coming. I can't say as I blame them. I am hoping that he can be trained not to fetch chickens in to the house every five seconds. The thought of a disgruntled Maeve being caught, carried in a canine mouth, and then deposited in my living room doesn't bare thinking about.
I suspect we would all pay a heavy price for such treatment.
My girls are on an egg strike. I'm not sure if this is in protest at the dog's arrival, or just the natural changing of the seasons. I suspect a bit of both, to be honest. Either way, no eggs for me. They are now eating less as well, and barely touching their oyster shell. In reality I doubt I'll see another egg until 2012. They watch me as I hopefully open the nest box, and no doubt snigger as I trudge dejectedly away again. As always with chickens, the less they give you the more you give them. So out comes the mixed corn, and the viatmin supplements, and the ACV, in an attempt to get them through the moult they've decided to communily have. Maude is strutting about looking resplendent and smug, having finished her moult a few months back. But everyone else is looking tatty and miserable. They are also increasingly narky, and many a hen is getting an unprovoked peck to the bonce just for existing. Even poor Vera is losing feathers left, right and centre. The miniscule hen is disappearing before my eyes.
The pekins are decidedly wary of the hound, and keep a sensible distance. Well, most of them do. Flo and Winnie seem to not have a natural fear response to a slathering mutt charging towards them, and in fact take great delight on sitting on the back step, beak to nose with the yelping puppy, driving him mad. Maeve is only acknowledging his existence if he dares to look at her, at which point she raises her hackles and hisses at him in her Dark Lord manner. He is unsure about this, and loses interest in playing with her rather rapidly. She saunters away, occasionally throwing an evil glance in his direction.
The serama are having none of it, and hide in the top part of their hutch if they hear him coming. I can't say as I blame them. I am hoping that he can be trained not to fetch chickens in to the house every five seconds. The thought of a disgruntled Maeve being caught, carried in a canine mouth, and then deposited in my living room doesn't bare thinking about.
I suspect we would all pay a heavy price for such treatment.
Sunday, 11 September 2011
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?
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.
Friday, 2 September 2011
It's No Good, The Feathers Are Here To Stay
Now that Maude seems to be mostly done with her moult, I thought I'd have a go at cleaning up the garden a bit. There were feathers pretty much everywhere, but a good twenty minutes of plucking them from rose bushes and raking them from the borders made a world of difference. And then I spied the Palace.
Maude's old season plumage was liberally scattered about the run. In fact, it was like a new layer atop the sub-strata of the poo and aubiose. With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, I decided to get rid of all the feathers in the garden, and began clearing the run debris. Naturally, as soon as I began every adult hen in the vicinity decided that they needed to lay an egg. I opened the main coop door to give them an alternate route, but oh no. They actually wanted to waddle across the area I was working in, and use the ramp. That held me up somewhat. A succession of haughty chickens casually kicking through your piles of old litter is rather irritating. At last, all would-be layers were in the coop vying for the best nest box and I could get on with it.
It is still the school holidays here, and the children are therefore in a 'helpful' mood. Today the help consisted of flinging water all over the garage floor, tipping a large bucket of woodshavings out on the lawn (they missed the composter) and getting a seriously narked peck from Celia as they rummaged under her for eggs. Sorting out the various calamities meant that the clean out took two hours instead of one, but at last, we were finished.
I stood at the back door, covered in poo and aubiose and red mite powder, and surveyed my feather-free lawn. One by one, the hens emerged from the coop and went about their business. The last hen to emerge was Mabel. She took a few steps from the run door, and then shook her left leg like a dog. One solitary fluffy feather gently swirled to the ground. I chose to ignore it and look the other way. However, a few steps later she shook from her head to her talons, and several more fluffy underfeathers floated to earth on the breeze. I swear she looked at me to make sure that I'd noticed.
I should probably give up.
(As a quick aside, if you get October's 'Country Smallholding' magazine, and look on page 31 of the poultry section, you may spot a familiar beak...)
Maude's old season plumage was liberally scattered about the run. In fact, it was like a new layer atop the sub-strata of the poo and aubiose. With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, I decided to get rid of all the feathers in the garden, and began clearing the run debris. Naturally, as soon as I began every adult hen in the vicinity decided that they needed to lay an egg. I opened the main coop door to give them an alternate route, but oh no. They actually wanted to waddle across the area I was working in, and use the ramp. That held me up somewhat. A succession of haughty chickens casually kicking through your piles of old litter is rather irritating. At last, all would-be layers were in the coop vying for the best nest box and I could get on with it.
It is still the school holidays here, and the children are therefore in a 'helpful' mood. Today the help consisted of flinging water all over the garage floor, tipping a large bucket of woodshavings out on the lawn (they missed the composter) and getting a seriously narked peck from Celia as they rummaged under her for eggs. Sorting out the various calamities meant that the clean out took two hours instead of one, but at last, we were finished.
I stood at the back door, covered in poo and aubiose and red mite powder, and surveyed my feather-free lawn. One by one, the hens emerged from the coop and went about their business. The last hen to emerge was Mabel. She took a few steps from the run door, and then shook her left leg like a dog. One solitary fluffy feather gently swirled to the ground. I chose to ignore it and look the other way. However, a few steps later she shook from her head to her talons, and several more fluffy underfeathers floated to earth on the breeze. I swear she looked at me to make sure that I'd noticed.
I should probably give up.
(As a quick aside, if you get October's 'Country Smallholding' magazine, and look on page 31 of the poultry section, you may spot a familiar beak...)
Friday, 26 August 2011
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...
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...
Monday, 22 August 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
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 .
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
Feather-geddon
Admit it, you didn't believe me yesterday. You thought 'Oh, that Madchickenlady. She exagerrates. No way could six little chickens blanket an entire lawn'. Well, prepare to have your flabber well and truly gasted. Maude is the only one in full moult right now, but the others are all on the slide. This is my garden.
Maude, with her rapidly disappearing arse, attempting to look nonchalant.
Surveying the carnage. The entire lawn is in the same condition. And don't even get me started on the border.
A good portion of Maude's arse can be found in the coop.
And I'm guessing she sat here at some point.
Gladys is now sporting a short spikey do on her bonce, but is still amusingly bald in places.
She is not impressed. Oh, and that big white cloud in front of her?
Hilda is broody again. Sigh. I'm hoping that she'll bump out of it once her own bum falls off.
This was a pic of Maeve, but Vera has a real love of the camera. She sees me coming and flings herself at the lens.
Our beloved ASBO Chicken, looking fine.
Mabel is also moulting, but in a more sedate manner than Maude. She looks a bit moth eaten, bless 'er.
This was supposed to be a picture of Winnie. But you can't see her because Vera has once again ninja'd in to the frame. Gawd that chicken makes me laugh.
I wonder if the estate agent can airbrush feathers out of the photographs....
Monday, 18 July 2011
I Swear They Do It On Purpose
People that don't keep chickens, and have no experience of them, will tell you that poultry is somewhat lacking in the brain cell department. They will make limp jokes about headless chickens and perhaps give an anecdote about the time so-and-so's idiot bird barbecued itself. All terribly amusing. However, anyone who actually knows chickens knows that this is utter rot. Chickens are devious. Like a gold digging centrefold, they can give an air of harmless stupidity while plotting against you. Beware the gormless chicken. She means you harm.
I have been doggedly trying to impress upon the ever tolerant husband the need for us to move. Principally, this is because the human elements need room to swing the proverbial cat. But I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't hankering after more outside space. I dream of a human garden, where plants remain unmolested and the only threat to my roses is greenfly. the hens would have their own garden, complete with dust baths and plenty of bushes to snooze under. But naturally I keep these ideas to myself. The ever tolerant husband is a very easy going sort of chap, but even he might baulk at the idea of taking out a mortgage based on the suitability for the chickens. I'll have to be much more cunning than that. Plus, this would be the third time we have attempted to sell this charming domicile. So, I have an estate agent coming at the end of the week to value our house.
Just as I wrote the appointment in my diary, I heard a tapping on the kitchen door. Maude was sat on the step, trying to get my attention. There is nothing unusual in this. The girls learnt at an early stage that the kitchen is where the food lives, and that if they hover for long enough I might take pity on them. Not that they're indulged or anything. Anyway, I ignored her. She was soon joined by Mabel. They chattered disgustedly, just loud enough for me to hear. I sensed I was getting the evil eye, so opened the door to shoo them away. And that's when I saw it.
The back lawn was liberally sprinkled with feathers. Not just the odd bit of fluff, but enough for the wind to be swirling around in little feathery devils. I stared out at the chicken arse explosion with my mouth open, and a growing sense of doom. The hens stared back at me impassively, apart from Gladys who was leaping about the place shaking her ratty bum about and shedding even more of her plumage.
Every single one of the pekins has gone in to moult. Over night. Every. Single. One. You have to keep hens to truly understand the impossible maths that governs the amount of feathers that can come from one small bird. They seem to expand and spread themselves far and wide across the land. And they are impossible to clean up effectively when it's wet. And its been raining, and will continue to rain, all week. They stick to everything, get caught up in the plants and blow out of the bin every time you lift the lid. The garden, which was quite tidy yesterday, now resembles an explosion in a pillow factory.
Now, of course this could be pure coincidence. Surely my girls haven't deliberately dropped their feathers to spite me. I mean, they wouldn't do that, would they? They wouldn't try and thwart my attempts to move and relegate them to their own area? They wouldn't begrudge being denied access to the kitchen door, and therefore food, right? They wouldn't turn themselves in to welfare concern cases for the estate agent pictures, thereby making me look like a nasty, cruel owner who starves her poor birdies, surely?
Experience means that I am reserving judgement.
I have been doggedly trying to impress upon the ever tolerant husband the need for us to move. Principally, this is because the human elements need room to swing the proverbial cat. But I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't hankering after more outside space. I dream of a human garden, where plants remain unmolested and the only threat to my roses is greenfly. the hens would have their own garden, complete with dust baths and plenty of bushes to snooze under. But naturally I keep these ideas to myself. The ever tolerant husband is a very easy going sort of chap, but even he might baulk at the idea of taking out a mortgage based on the suitability for the chickens. I'll have to be much more cunning than that. Plus, this would be the third time we have attempted to sell this charming domicile. So, I have an estate agent coming at the end of the week to value our house.
Just as I wrote the appointment in my diary, I heard a tapping on the kitchen door. Maude was sat on the step, trying to get my attention. There is nothing unusual in this. The girls learnt at an early stage that the kitchen is where the food lives, and that if they hover for long enough I might take pity on them. Not that they're indulged or anything. Anyway, I ignored her. She was soon joined by Mabel. They chattered disgustedly, just loud enough for me to hear. I sensed I was getting the evil eye, so opened the door to shoo them away. And that's when I saw it.
The back lawn was liberally sprinkled with feathers. Not just the odd bit of fluff, but enough for the wind to be swirling around in little feathery devils. I stared out at the chicken arse explosion with my mouth open, and a growing sense of doom. The hens stared back at me impassively, apart from Gladys who was leaping about the place shaking her ratty bum about and shedding even more of her plumage.
Every single one of the pekins has gone in to moult. Over night. Every. Single. One. You have to keep hens to truly understand the impossible maths that governs the amount of feathers that can come from one small bird. They seem to expand and spread themselves far and wide across the land. And they are impossible to clean up effectively when it's wet. And its been raining, and will continue to rain, all week. They stick to everything, get caught up in the plants and blow out of the bin every time you lift the lid. The garden, which was quite tidy yesterday, now resembles an explosion in a pillow factory.
Now, of course this could be pure coincidence. Surely my girls haven't deliberately dropped their feathers to spite me. I mean, they wouldn't do that, would they? They wouldn't try and thwart my attempts to move and relegate them to their own area? They wouldn't begrudge being denied access to the kitchen door, and therefore food, right? They wouldn't turn themselves in to welfare concern cases for the estate agent pictures, thereby making me look like a nasty, cruel owner who starves her poor birdies, surely?
Experience means that I am reserving judgement.
Monday, 4 July 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
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?
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?
Sunday, 10 April 2011
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.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
The Terror Of Suburban Cockerel Keeping
So day 3 of owning a cockerel dawned quietly. It wasn't until the ever tolerant husband was brushing his teeth that Rocky decided to greet wednesday. As I listened to his muffled squeaks through the eldest's bedroom floor, I was quietly pleased with myself. You see, last night I covered the serama hutch with some old carpet, and I'd say it makes a considerable difference to the volume. Whether it deadens the sound enough so that no-one else can hear it remains to be seen. Indeed, as I stood outside the school this morning one of my neighbours from over the back approached me. I confess to breaking out in a cold sweat and thinking: this is it. Gulp. It was somewhat of an anti-climax when she asked me if I had any eggs spare. Anyway, this is Rocky crowing in the garden:
Such is my cockerel paranoia that I actually downloaded a decibel meter app for the ever tolerant husband's iPhone. I packed him off to work with my decidedly uncool mobile, and decided to try and measure Rocky's output, as it were. I spent an hour sat outside bundled up in many layers of clothing while he watched me with interest. As if he knew my intention, the little blighter stayed stubbornly silent until 2.30pm. However, I did get a reading. The background level was around 50 decibels, the dog barking over the back registered at 67 decibels, and Rocky's best effort was 80 decibels measured right next to him. I have no idea what this proves, so if anyone reading this can tell me that would be great.
After the school run, I decided to bite the bullet and let all of the chickens out together. The pekin ladies were happily munching a slice of toast (provided by me as a distraction tactic) when Rocky just strolled among them, cool as a breeze. It took a moment for this to sink in, and then Maude bit him on the arse. He shrieked a bit and ran over to round up his serama harem. Hilda and Gladys both gave chase, but a pekin's waddle is no match for a serama's road runner-esque gait. So, no surprises there really. Except this is the first time that Betsy and Vera have voluntarily stayed anywhere near the pekin hordes. And Rocky was very sweetly herding them away whenever a sly ASBO Chicken made out that she was just strolling towards them totally innocently. He even stole them some toast to munch on.
Interestingly, I observed both Mabel and Maude attempting a cockerel like dance towards the younger hens. They have never done this before, and I can only assume that it's a power display. It did look less than elegant, and the younger hens watched it all with a quizzical eye. Mabel gave up after a bit as if embarassed, but Maude got quite in to it.
Maybe they'll challenge Rocky to a dance off.
Such is my cockerel paranoia that I actually downloaded a decibel meter app for the ever tolerant husband's iPhone. I packed him off to work with my decidedly uncool mobile, and decided to try and measure Rocky's output, as it were. I spent an hour sat outside bundled up in many layers of clothing while he watched me with interest. As if he knew my intention, the little blighter stayed stubbornly silent until 2.30pm. However, I did get a reading. The background level was around 50 decibels, the dog barking over the back registered at 67 decibels, and Rocky's best effort was 80 decibels measured right next to him. I have no idea what this proves, so if anyone reading this can tell me that would be great.
After the school run, I decided to bite the bullet and let all of the chickens out together. The pekin ladies were happily munching a slice of toast (provided by me as a distraction tactic) when Rocky just strolled among them, cool as a breeze. It took a moment for this to sink in, and then Maude bit him on the arse. He shrieked a bit and ran over to round up his serama harem. Hilda and Gladys both gave chase, but a pekin's waddle is no match for a serama's road runner-esque gait. So, no surprises there really. Except this is the first time that Betsy and Vera have voluntarily stayed anywhere near the pekin hordes. And Rocky was very sweetly herding them away whenever a sly ASBO Chicken made out that she was just strolling towards them totally innocently. He even stole them some toast to munch on.
Interestingly, I observed both Mabel and Maude attempting a cockerel like dance towards the younger hens. They have never done this before, and I can only assume that it's a power display. It did look less than elegant, and the younger hens watched it all with a quizzical eye. Mabel gave up after a bit as if embarassed, but Maude got quite in to it.
Maybe they'll challenge Rocky to a dance off.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Death And The Birth Of Ideas
Just as you think that spring is here to stay, it wanders off again leaving cold, wet greyness in its wake. Humph. When Purdy decided to leave this mortal coil she appears to have taken the sun with her. The birds and I stare at each other in dejected grumpiness. Even Maeve seems to have lost some of her vavavoom. She hasn't battered anyone in days.
In an effort to amuse themselves, the girls broke through my border protecting barrier while I was otherwise occupied. I caught them happily rampaging through clumps of spring bulbs and merrily digging around fresh shoots. They managed to nibble a considerable amount of foliage before they were firmly ejected. To be fair to them, Gladys and Maude managed to look at least slightly embarassed at being caught, and shuffled and muttered a bit. Not everyone has a conscience, though. Hilda continued dust bathing while I turfed her flock mates back on to the lawn and glared at me as if I was the one tresspassing. She shook herself all over my wellies in disgust before stalking back to the Palace to lay.
Betsy and Vera have settled in to their new premises well. They are gradually getting the hang of the ramp, although neither have so far ventured forth in to the washing-up bowl nest box. I'm hoping that Betsy will get the idea in the next few days and lay me an egg. At the moment it seems to be taking all of her concentration and brain power just to avoid falling down the ramp opening. Vera seems to have a better grasp of gravity at this stage, and can sometimes be heard issuing a warning bok-ARK as Betsy falls through the trap door.
Since losing Purdy, I confess to toying with the idea of hatching again. I still have my little incy in the garage which hatched the meeps last year. However, I find myself looking at more sophisticated incubators on ebay. The idea that you pop your fertile eggs in one day, press 'go' and then come back 3 weeks later to chicks is very tempting. Don't worry, I know that it requires more thought. Last year I was very lucky to find all of my cockerel chicks good homes. I am well aware that that is not always the case, and boy chickens will always be a part of hatching.
The thing is, with the right incubator and a bit of research, I'd love to have a go at hatching serama....
In an effort to amuse themselves, the girls broke through my border protecting barrier while I was otherwise occupied. I caught them happily rampaging through clumps of spring bulbs and merrily digging around fresh shoots. They managed to nibble a considerable amount of foliage before they were firmly ejected. To be fair to them, Gladys and Maude managed to look at least slightly embarassed at being caught, and shuffled and muttered a bit. Not everyone has a conscience, though. Hilda continued dust bathing while I turfed her flock mates back on to the lawn and glared at me as if I was the one tresspassing. She shook herself all over my wellies in disgust before stalking back to the Palace to lay.
Betsy and Vera have settled in to their new premises well. They are gradually getting the hang of the ramp, although neither have so far ventured forth in to the washing-up bowl nest box. I'm hoping that Betsy will get the idea in the next few days and lay me an egg. At the moment it seems to be taking all of her concentration and brain power just to avoid falling down the ramp opening. Vera seems to have a better grasp of gravity at this stage, and can sometimes be heard issuing a warning bok-ARK as Betsy falls through the trap door.
Since losing Purdy, I confess to toying with the idea of hatching again. I still have my little incy in the garage which hatched the meeps last year. However, I find myself looking at more sophisticated incubators on ebay. The idea that you pop your fertile eggs in one day, press 'go' and then come back 3 weeks later to chicks is very tempting. Don't worry, I know that it requires more thought. Last year I was very lucky to find all of my cockerel chicks good homes. I am well aware that that is not always the case, and boy chickens will always be a part of hatching.
The thing is, with the right incubator and a bit of research, I'd love to have a go at hatching serama....
Thursday, 10 February 2011
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.
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