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 broody. Show all posts
Showing posts with label broody. 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.
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.
Friday, 19 August 2011
The Professional Mother
Vera is a brilliant chicken. A brilliant, and tiny, chicken. She gets up to all sorts of mischief, torments the pekins and regularly breaks in to the house to steal stray cheerios. In short, she has character. She looked after her serama eggs brilliantly, and proved herself to be a caring and attentive mother. Ok, so when one of her babies died and the other one was rehomed she didn't bat an eyelid, but when they were right in front of her, she cared. So I probably shouldn't be too surprised by this turn of events.
When the broody domino effect was in full swing a couple of weeks ago, Vera jumped on the bandwagon. I caged her for two days at the beginning of this week and on her release she appeared cured. So it was odd to hear her doing the 'broody chunter' from the garage as I was pottering in the garden. I don't want Vera to be broody really. I worry about her. She has tons of personality, but only 275 grams of physical presence. I walked towards the garage mentally preparing the broody cage. But Vera was not in the nest box. Oh no. Vera was sitting on Flo and Winnie.
The baby pekins were huddled in the corner of the serama hutch and Vera was balanced on top of them like an ill fitting hat. I can't be entirely certain that the pekins were comfortable with this arrangement. But Vera seemed exceedingly pleased with her position, and stared happily in to the distance, riding a sea of maternal hormones. Flo gingerly attempted to rise to her feet and was greeted with a disciplinarian shriek of warning and a scrubby wing thrown over her head. Mother had decided it was bed time. At 4.30 in the afternoon. Oh dear.
When we first collected Flo and Winnie, Flo was about the size of the serama, and Winnie a bit smaller. But they've been here 5 weeks now. Flo is currently twice the size of the would-be mother, and Winnie a little bigger. In short, they tower over the silkied serama hen, and don't really need to be shoved under anyone's wings to sleep. Especially wings that barely stretch across their heads, let alone their abundantly feathered bodies. I lifted Vera from her awkward perch and allowed the pekin babies to escape. Vera muttered with concern as her young charges waddled out in to the sunlight. As soon as I put her down, she charged off after her adopted chicks, chuntering and fussing like the proverbial mother hen. Betsy watched this from the border dust bath with her beak open. I'm sure she was just panting in the heat, but it did really look like her gob was hanging open in disbelief.
Flo and Winnie seem to have accepted Vera's attentions with mostly good grace. They aren't so keen on being sat on, but are quite happy if their adoptive mother finds something delicious, breaks it in to pieces and calls them to eat it. Vera watches them hoover up the treats and chunters encouragement. She then herds them from food to dustbath and back to the garage. I had to rescue them this morning from the serama nest box where she sat guarding the doorway. This is the first time I have had a broody hen take mothering duties upon herself. Usually, my broodies get over their hormonal mentalness and start chasing any newbies about in order to restore the status quo.
I think she'll have her work cut out when they hit the teenage rebelliious weeks.
When the broody domino effect was in full swing a couple of weeks ago, Vera jumped on the bandwagon. I caged her for two days at the beginning of this week and on her release she appeared cured. So it was odd to hear her doing the 'broody chunter' from the garage as I was pottering in the garden. I don't want Vera to be broody really. I worry about her. She has tons of personality, but only 275 grams of physical presence. I walked towards the garage mentally preparing the broody cage. But Vera was not in the nest box. Oh no. Vera was sitting on Flo and Winnie.
The baby pekins were huddled in the corner of the serama hutch and Vera was balanced on top of them like an ill fitting hat. I can't be entirely certain that the pekins were comfortable with this arrangement. But Vera seemed exceedingly pleased with her position, and stared happily in to the distance, riding a sea of maternal hormones. Flo gingerly attempted to rise to her feet and was greeted with a disciplinarian shriek of warning and a scrubby wing thrown over her head. Mother had decided it was bed time. At 4.30 in the afternoon. Oh dear.
When we first collected Flo and Winnie, Flo was about the size of the serama, and Winnie a bit smaller. But they've been here 5 weeks now. Flo is currently twice the size of the would-be mother, and Winnie a little bigger. In short, they tower over the silkied serama hen, and don't really need to be shoved under anyone's wings to sleep. Especially wings that barely stretch across their heads, let alone their abundantly feathered bodies. I lifted Vera from her awkward perch and allowed the pekin babies to escape. Vera muttered with concern as her young charges waddled out in to the sunlight. As soon as I put her down, she charged off after her adopted chicks, chuntering and fussing like the proverbial mother hen. Betsy watched this from the border dust bath with her beak open. I'm sure she was just panting in the heat, but it did really look like her gob was hanging open in disbelief.
Flo and Winnie seem to have accepted Vera's attentions with mostly good grace. They aren't so keen on being sat on, but are quite happy if their adoptive mother finds something delicious, breaks it in to pieces and calls them to eat it. Vera watches them hoover up the treats and chunters encouragement. She then herds them from food to dustbath and back to the garage. I had to rescue them this morning from the serama nest box where she sat guarding the doorway. This is the first time I have had a broody hen take mothering duties upon herself. Usually, my broodies get over their hormonal mentalness and start chasing any newbies about in order to restore the status quo.
I think she'll have her work cut out when they hit the teenage rebelliious weeks.
Friday, 12 August 2011
Chicken Prison
I released Hilda from the broody cage yesterday, fairly sure that she had got out of her broody psychosis. She was no longer chuntering, and when let out in to the garden spent several hours having a leisurely dust bath and hunting for bugs. So you can imagine my displeasure when I went to close up at bedtime and found the grumpy white one back on the nest and growling. Insert expletive here.
Anyway, Hilda will just have to get on with it for now. The cage currently has another occupant. Celia is ensconced in a corner of the cage. She is as flat as a cowpat and periodically ends up sitting in her drinker. She is deeply in the zone. Gladys is taking up space in the Palace's choice nest box, so hunched up that I literally can't tell her arse from her metaphorical elbow. I just waggle my fingers in her general vicinity and see which end tries to peck me. Vera refuses to share the serama nest with a still laying Betsy. Poor Betsy ends up laying on the floor in an effort to prevent a fishwife battle of 'Jeremy Kyle' proportions breaking out. All in all, the broodies are taking over.
Winnie and Flo are enjoying half of the flock being out of the equation. For a start, it means that there are less established flock members to give them a hard time. Somehow, though, I don't think that's the most enjoyable part of it for them. The two newbies are proving to be a mischievious pair. They have taken to sitting on top of the broody cage and pooing on the unfortunate occupant's head. Celia is now fairly well decorated, and looks more like a town square war memorial than a chicken. I repeatedly chase the youngsters outside, but as soon as my back is turned they're back to torturing the prisoner. Broody hens are rubbish at defending themselves against such underhand tactics, so it's left to me to use baby wipes on the afflicted hen and to flap tea towels at the naughty chicks. Celia is utterly passive. But deep down, I suspect she is taking notes. I doubt this mistreatment will be forgotten.
I am constantly turfing the broodies out of their respective nest boxes to make sure that they eat, drink and generally take care of themselves. They oblige me briefly, dashing from feeder to drinker to dust bath, all the while chuntering with anxiety that their non-existant eggs will come to harm. As I clean out the coop, there is a broody queue forming on the ramp ready to hop straight back on to the nest as soon as my human meddling is over.
It's been a long summer.
Anyway, Hilda will just have to get on with it for now. The cage currently has another occupant. Celia is ensconced in a corner of the cage. She is as flat as a cowpat and periodically ends up sitting in her drinker. She is deeply in the zone. Gladys is taking up space in the Palace's choice nest box, so hunched up that I literally can't tell her arse from her metaphorical elbow. I just waggle my fingers in her general vicinity and see which end tries to peck me. Vera refuses to share the serama nest with a still laying Betsy. Poor Betsy ends up laying on the floor in an effort to prevent a fishwife battle of 'Jeremy Kyle' proportions breaking out. All in all, the broodies are taking over.
Winnie and Flo are enjoying half of the flock being out of the equation. For a start, it means that there are less established flock members to give them a hard time. Somehow, though, I don't think that's the most enjoyable part of it for them. The two newbies are proving to be a mischievious pair. They have taken to sitting on top of the broody cage and pooing on the unfortunate occupant's head. Celia is now fairly well decorated, and looks more like a town square war memorial than a chicken. I repeatedly chase the youngsters outside, but as soon as my back is turned they're back to torturing the prisoner. Broody hens are rubbish at defending themselves against such underhand tactics, so it's left to me to use baby wipes on the afflicted hen and to flap tea towels at the naughty chicks. Celia is utterly passive. But deep down, I suspect she is taking notes. I doubt this mistreatment will be forgotten.
I am constantly turfing the broodies out of their respective nest boxes to make sure that they eat, drink and generally take care of themselves. They oblige me briefly, dashing from feeder to drinker to dust bath, all the while chuntering with anxiety that their non-existant eggs will come to harm. As I clean out the coop, there is a broody queue forming on the ramp ready to hop straight back on to the nest as soon as my human meddling is over.
It's been a long summer.
Monday, 18 April 2011
Determination Is The Key
Make no mistake, a broody hen is a force to be reckoned with. I have heard tales of chickens playing at being broody, spending a few days annoying the rest of the flock and then getting bored and losing interest in the whole thing. I have yet to see a pekin give up after such a half hearted effort. So far, Celia wins the most persistant broody award, having notched up nearly twelve weeks last autumn. I tried everything short of burning down the nest box to break her, but in the end the only thing which brought her out of her broody nuttiness was going in to a full moult. She was practically having daily baths and being force fed at one point. Still, she eventually came through it after several false starts and numerous trips to the slammer.
Now I am doing battle with Hilda. After spending the entire weekend in the broody cage, you'd think she'd be well and truly fed up by now. Indeed, when I went to look her over yesterday she had stopped the 'broody chunter' and was sat on the perch preening herself. Carefully, I placed the bottomless cage on the lawn and observed Hilda behaving in a normal, grass-scoffing-chicken way. So I took off the cage. She stopped mid-munch, eyeballed me, and then slowly sauntered towards the Palace. As she crossed the threshold, she looked back at me over her shoulder, broke in to a run and was back on the nest before I could open up the nest box.
I discovered her once again puffed up and growly in the fourth nest. With a sigh, I retrieved the hormonal harridan and plonked her back in to the garage. She is still there now, muttering darkly with malice glittering in her beady eyes. Hopefully tomorrow she will be more amenable to giving up on the broody madness.
Of course I feel guilty about trying to break Hilda. It seems quite cruel to be taking the hard line with her, while just a few feet away Vera is tending her own eggs. But I can't risk the great white pekin with serama eggs, and I'm not planning on hatching any pekins this year. So it's a necessary evil.
Now that I'm approaching the half way mark with the incubation, my mind is turning to hatch day. It was a truly marvellous experience watching the Peeps burst in to the world last July, and I'm trying not to get too anxious or excited about these eggs. Of course I'd love to get a decent hatch rate, but I know that I'll be lucky to get a 25% live hatch.
Expect a lot of chewed fingernails and angst in around ten days.
Now I am doing battle with Hilda. After spending the entire weekend in the broody cage, you'd think she'd be well and truly fed up by now. Indeed, when I went to look her over yesterday she had stopped the 'broody chunter' and was sat on the perch preening herself. Carefully, I placed the bottomless cage on the lawn and observed Hilda behaving in a normal, grass-scoffing-chicken way. So I took off the cage. She stopped mid-munch, eyeballed me, and then slowly sauntered towards the Palace. As she crossed the threshold, she looked back at me over her shoulder, broke in to a run and was back on the nest before I could open up the nest box.
I discovered her once again puffed up and growly in the fourth nest. With a sigh, I retrieved the hormonal harridan and plonked her back in to the garage. She is still there now, muttering darkly with malice glittering in her beady eyes. Hopefully tomorrow she will be more amenable to giving up on the broody madness.
Of course I feel guilty about trying to break Hilda. It seems quite cruel to be taking the hard line with her, while just a few feet away Vera is tending her own eggs. But I can't risk the great white pekin with serama eggs, and I'm not planning on hatching any pekins this year. So it's a necessary evil.
Now that I'm approaching the half way mark with the incubation, my mind is turning to hatch day. It was a truly marvellous experience watching the Peeps burst in to the world last July, and I'm trying not to get too anxious or excited about these eggs. Of course I'd love to get a decent hatch rate, but I know that I'll be lucky to get a 25% live hatch.
Expect a lot of chewed fingernails and angst in around ten days.
Friday, 15 April 2011
Being Broody Makes You Unpopular
Hilda is still broody. This isn't an unusual situation when it comes to pekins. In my experience, they are a tag team of nest hoggers. Of course, this brings it's own problems. A broody hen takes up space in the nest box, and that gets right on the other hens' bosoms.
Naturally, Hilda has set up her hormonal vigil in the favourite nest box. Never mind that there are four, yes, four, nest boxes to choose from, given half a chance they all prefer the one furthest from the pop hole and nearest the coop door. And now when the rest of the flock goes in to lay, there is an inflatable white pekin filling it up with her craziness and growling. Initially everyone took this with good grace, or at least the minimal of grumbling. But now Hilda has been broody for nearly a fortnight and their patience is running out.
Increasingly a commotion can be heard from the Palace as a narked hen wedges herself on top of the broody Hilda to lay her egg. As the laying hen leaves, she is wont to give Hilda a sharp peck to the comb, just to show her displeasure at the lack of privacy. As a result, Hilda's comb is beginning to look a little...nibbled. She isn't seriously hurt, but it could tip over in to violence at any time.
Under normal circumstances, I'd have broody caged the errant hen over the weekend. However, we won't be here so I can't. For the next two days Hilda will have to stay broody as I can't ask my chicken sitter to don the gardening gloves and broom handle necessary for handling a psychotic chicken. But her broody days are numbered. As of Monday, she's in the slammer.
Vera is still sitting tight to her eggs. I am trying very hard not to interfere in any way, but must admit I am struggling. I'm worrying that she isn't eating enough, or drinking enough, or pooing enough. She is such a tiny little thing, I won't take any chances with her welfare. However, every time I open the hutch to peer in at her, she glares at me in a distinctive 'Naff off' manner, so I suspect she is doing everything just as she should.
Betsy is missing her pal enough to attempt making friends with the pekins. Despite being chased and generally having iot made clear to her that she's not welcome, Betsy proves determined. She follows the flock about like an annoying little sister and even makes herself at home in the coop. The girls watch this audacity with slightly stunned inaction. So far, she has avoided any repercussions because of her 'Roadrunner' abilities. Serama are speedy.
Two weeks until hatch day.
Quick Edit: I have separated Hilda. I couldn't go away knowing that Maeve was attempting to eat her from the comb down. So now she is on the floor of the garage covered with a broody cage, most put out and kicking her water everywhere. I hope my chicken sitter doesn't kill me.
Naturally, Hilda has set up her hormonal vigil in the favourite nest box. Never mind that there are four, yes, four, nest boxes to choose from, given half a chance they all prefer the one furthest from the pop hole and nearest the coop door. And now when the rest of the flock goes in to lay, there is an inflatable white pekin filling it up with her craziness and growling. Initially everyone took this with good grace, or at least the minimal of grumbling. But now Hilda has been broody for nearly a fortnight and their patience is running out.
Increasingly a commotion can be heard from the Palace as a narked hen wedges herself on top of the broody Hilda to lay her egg. As the laying hen leaves, she is wont to give Hilda a sharp peck to the comb, just to show her displeasure at the lack of privacy. As a result, Hilda's comb is beginning to look a little...nibbled. She isn't seriously hurt, but it could tip over in to violence at any time.
Under normal circumstances, I'd have broody caged the errant hen over the weekend. However, we won't be here so I can't. For the next two days Hilda will have to stay broody as I can't ask my chicken sitter to don the gardening gloves and broom handle necessary for handling a psychotic chicken. But her broody days are numbered. As of Monday, she's in the slammer.
Vera is still sitting tight to her eggs. I am trying very hard not to interfere in any way, but must admit I am struggling. I'm worrying that she isn't eating enough, or drinking enough, or pooing enough. She is such a tiny little thing, I won't take any chances with her welfare. However, every time I open the hutch to peer in at her, she glares at me in a distinctive 'Naff off' manner, so I suspect she is doing everything just as she should.
Betsy is missing her pal enough to attempt making friends with the pekins. Despite being chased and generally having iot made clear to her that she's not welcome, Betsy proves determined. She follows the flock about like an annoying little sister and even makes herself at home in the coop. The girls watch this audacity with slightly stunned inaction. So far, she has avoided any repercussions because of her 'Roadrunner' abilities. Serama are speedy.
Two weeks until hatch day.
Quick Edit: I have separated Hilda. I couldn't go away knowing that Maeve was attempting to eat her from the comb down. So now she is on the floor of the garage covered with a broody cage, most put out and kicking her water everywhere. I hope my chicken sitter doesn't kill me.
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.
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Did Someone Mention Hatching?
Today was a very good day. At ten o'clock this morning, my lovely postman brought me a dozen very well wrapped serama eggs. So well wrapped that it took me fifteen minutes to carefully cut through the many layers of bubblewrap, sellotape and tissue. Those of you who remember what happened to my first lot of pekin hatching eggs last year will understand my caution. With almost reverent care, I unwrapped twelve perfect little eggs. I'm no expert, but they look like they're a good size and shape. So far, I'm very pleased.
The incubator is busy whirring away next to me as I wait for the temperature and humidity to even out. I am hoping to set nine eggs tonight, just before bedtime. Why nine, you ask? Ah, well that would be because Vera is currently snugly welded to three.
I decided to switch Vera's four infertile eggs for three of the fertile ones while she had a five minute break. I lifted her off the nest and placed her by the feeder and drinker while I made the switch. She stood there uncertainly for a moment, before ejecting the horror that is a broody poo. Unbelievably foul smelling, and strangely tinged green, it caused Betsy to scarper to the other end of the hutch. Can't say that I blame her.
After a quick scoff and drink, Vera ran back up the ramp to her nest (For now, Betsy is still able to access the upper level of the hutch, but as of tomorrow the ramp will be removed turning the two tier hutch in to two one tier hutches. Following so far?). I held the door slightly ajar to watch the tiny hen as she discovered she was one egg down. Now, I know that chickens can't count, but Vera made quite a show of rolling the eggs about as if suspecting that one was hiding. She looked at me, looked back at the eggs and then seemed to shrug. With a bit more rearranging, she settled over the three potential serama chicks. And I breathed a happy sigh of relief.
Tomorrow, there will be pictures.
The incubator is busy whirring away next to me as I wait for the temperature and humidity to even out. I am hoping to set nine eggs tonight, just before bedtime. Why nine, you ask? Ah, well that would be because Vera is currently snugly welded to three.
I decided to switch Vera's four infertile eggs for three of the fertile ones while she had a five minute break. I lifted her off the nest and placed her by the feeder and drinker while I made the switch. She stood there uncertainly for a moment, before ejecting the horror that is a broody poo. Unbelievably foul smelling, and strangely tinged green, it caused Betsy to scarper to the other end of the hutch. Can't say that I blame her.
After a quick scoff and drink, Vera ran back up the ramp to her nest (For now, Betsy is still able to access the upper level of the hutch, but as of tomorrow the ramp will be removed turning the two tier hutch in to two one tier hutches. Following so far?). I held the door slightly ajar to watch the tiny hen as she discovered she was one egg down. Now, I know that chickens can't count, but Vera made quite a show of rolling the eggs about as if suspecting that one was hiding. She looked at me, looked back at the eggs and then seemed to shrug. With a bit more rearranging, she settled over the three potential serama chicks. And I breathed a happy sigh of relief.
Tomorrow, there will be pictures.
Thursday, 7 April 2011
The Point Of Being Broody
The weather is beautiful here at the moment. The sun is shining, the wind is virtually non-existent and the days are lengthening towards summer. All in all, it puts everyone in a happy, lazy mood. The pekins alternate between basking in the sun and retreating to the shaded border to dust bath and look for bugs. They are getting used to sharing the garden again, as the children batter hells bells out of the swingball and tear about the place on bikes and scooters. Already the hens have stopped running in terror as a flourescent yellow tennis ball whizzes millimeters above their combs or a bike stops inches from their prone, sun worshipping forms.
Hilda is alternating between joining in with the flock, and having a go at being broody. When I returned from my travels, I found seven eggs on the side placed carefully by my chicken sitter. I thought at the time that the yield was down a good bit, but it was a passing thought and I was soon buried under the washing mountain generated by travelling as a family. It wasn't until after my last post that I went outside to find Hilda sitting grumpily in the nest box. She raised her tail and glared at me as I approached, so I knew that the hormones were high. In fact, Hilda herself seemed a little high. On closer inspection, she appeared to be hovering several inches above the wood shavings. Now I'm no physicist, but even I know that chickens can't levitate. Taking a broom handle, I gently shoved the stroppy hen off of the nest. With a defiant splatty poo, Hilda stalked off out of the coop grumbling. She left behind an egg mountain. I have never seen a hen sit on so many eggs. I had to fetch a bowl to collect them all. In the end, it turned out that Hilda had hoarded ten eggs, which is a record here. I dread to think how she was managing to balance, but at least I now have an explanation as to why egg production seemed to have dropped off. Since removing her clutch, Hilda is only playing at being broody. She occassionally spends a few hours zoned out in the coop, but then seems to snap out of it and resumes rampaging around the garden with the rest of the flock.
Vera is not snapping out of it. If I lift her from the nest, she mutters in that anxious, panicked way that broodies do, gulps down some pellets and water and then legs it back to the nest. I am currently dithering over breaking her brood. Because Tuesday I purchased a dozen serama eggs, and they are hopefully on their way as I type. I am considering giving the little hen three eggs of her own to sit on. I am still debating this, however, as I have never used a broody before and I am a little unsure of how best to house her and any tiny chicks she hatches. Still, it is an intriguing idea.
When the eggs arrive, the adventure begins.
Hilda is alternating between joining in with the flock, and having a go at being broody. When I returned from my travels, I found seven eggs on the side placed carefully by my chicken sitter. I thought at the time that the yield was down a good bit, but it was a passing thought and I was soon buried under the washing mountain generated by travelling as a family. It wasn't until after my last post that I went outside to find Hilda sitting grumpily in the nest box. She raised her tail and glared at me as I approached, so I knew that the hormones were high. In fact, Hilda herself seemed a little high. On closer inspection, she appeared to be hovering several inches above the wood shavings. Now I'm no physicist, but even I know that chickens can't levitate. Taking a broom handle, I gently shoved the stroppy hen off of the nest. With a defiant splatty poo, Hilda stalked off out of the coop grumbling. She left behind an egg mountain. I have never seen a hen sit on so many eggs. I had to fetch a bowl to collect them all. In the end, it turned out that Hilda had hoarded ten eggs, which is a record here. I dread to think how she was managing to balance, but at least I now have an explanation as to why egg production seemed to have dropped off. Since removing her clutch, Hilda is only playing at being broody. She occassionally spends a few hours zoned out in the coop, but then seems to snap out of it and resumes rampaging around the garden with the rest of the flock.
Vera is not snapping out of it. If I lift her from the nest, she mutters in that anxious, panicked way that broodies do, gulps down some pellets and water and then legs it back to the nest. I am currently dithering over breaking her brood. Because Tuesday I purchased a dozen serama eggs, and they are hopefully on their way as I type. I am considering giving the little hen three eggs of her own to sit on. I am still debating this, however, as I have never used a broody before and I am a little unsure of how best to house her and any tiny chicks she hatches. Still, it is an intriguing idea.
When the eggs arrive, the adventure begins.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
The First Broody Of The Season
Hello! I can only apologise for my longer-than-average silence, but I have been gallavanting with the ever tolerant husband. Normal service will now resume, you lucky, lucky people. So, a quick round up.
Everyone is now in lay. I am, on average, getting 4 eggs a day from my flock. However, as Betsy is still laying ridiculour five pence piece sized eggs, we're not really counting hers. Which is a shame, because she always looks so incredibly pleased with herself. The pekins are all happily laying, and despite showing some signs of going broody, Celia has so far resisted. Unlike Vera.
Yep, the tiny serama has gone hormone mental. She is sat huddled in her nest box, no bigger than a pair of rolled socks. If I lift her out, she makes the anxious keening noises familiar to me from my broody pekin ladies, but in a higher octave. In fact, she sounds a bit guinea-pig like. I have on occassion left a broody pekin for a bit before breaking her, but I will not be taking any chances with Vera. She is so tiny, I'd be quite concerned that sitting for any more than a few days could seriously affect her health. So, if she hasn't got over it by the end of the week, she'll find herself in the slammer.
I was away for four days, and my lovely chicken sitting friend took care of the girls impeccably. Still, leaving them is always difficult. As I watch them mooching about the garden and attempting to breach the barrier when they think I'm not looking, I find myself smiling with pleasure and relief that everyone is in rude good health. Despite travelling a fair amount, I have yet to have any problems int he flock while I'm away.
They seem to wait until I'm around to fake their own deaths.
Everyone is now in lay. I am, on average, getting 4 eggs a day from my flock. However, as Betsy is still laying ridiculour five pence piece sized eggs, we're not really counting hers. Which is a shame, because she always looks so incredibly pleased with herself. The pekins are all happily laying, and despite showing some signs of going broody, Celia has so far resisted. Unlike Vera.
Yep, the tiny serama has gone hormone mental. She is sat huddled in her nest box, no bigger than a pair of rolled socks. If I lift her out, she makes the anxious keening noises familiar to me from my broody pekin ladies, but in a higher octave. In fact, she sounds a bit guinea-pig like. I have on occassion left a broody pekin for a bit before breaking her, but I will not be taking any chances with Vera. She is so tiny, I'd be quite concerned that sitting for any more than a few days could seriously affect her health. So, if she hasn't got over it by the end of the week, she'll find herself in the slammer.
I was away for four days, and my lovely chicken sitting friend took care of the girls impeccably. Still, leaving them is always difficult. As I watch them mooching about the garden and attempting to breach the barrier when they think I'm not looking, I find myself smiling with pleasure and relief that everyone is in rude good health. Despite travelling a fair amount, I have yet to have any problems int he flock while I'm away.
They seem to wait until I'm around to fake their own deaths.
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Spring Is In The Air
After yesterday's confirmation that Hilda has started laying, I am delighted to report that Doris has decided to join in. Considering that Doris has had a couple of bouts of weirdy eye illness over the winter, I am particularly glad that she has rallied. The bad news is, she layed her torpedo egg and then sat on it. For an hour. This could be a world record for a laying hen turning broody.
While Doris was busy in the nest box, Betsy and Vera were safely locked in the run. Last night was a bit nippy here, but I resisted cosseting the tiny serama beyond covering their cage with a thick rug. They managed to find the parakeet perch, and when I last checked on them before human bedtime their feet were toasty warm. I have decided to press ahead with gentle introductions, because I will be happier when they're snuggled up next to a pekin duvet.
The flock have taken it in turns to approach the run door and observe the interlopers. There has been much concerned chuntering, but no acts of aggression. For their part, Betsy and Vera have pretty much ignored the bigger girls. I did go dashing out when I heard the whole flock sounding an alarm call, and was amused to see the serama bouncing up and down to try and see over the six inch kickboard that surrounds the Palace's perimeter. It turned out that the terrifying threat was a plastic shopping bag which was blowing above the fence line before sinking back down.
Maeve ignored the whole commotion, preferring to lay flat on the patio in full on sun worship. She has also ignored the newbies. Her indifference is suspicious. She usually asserts herself pretty much immediately with new hens. I wonder if their size makes her think that they are babies, and therefore not worth bothering with. They have yet to bok.
No eggs yet, but the incy is dusted off. Just in case.
While Doris was busy in the nest box, Betsy and Vera were safely locked in the run. Last night was a bit nippy here, but I resisted cosseting the tiny serama beyond covering their cage with a thick rug. They managed to find the parakeet perch, and when I last checked on them before human bedtime their feet were toasty warm. I have decided to press ahead with gentle introductions, because I will be happier when they're snuggled up next to a pekin duvet.
The flock have taken it in turns to approach the run door and observe the interlopers. There has been much concerned chuntering, but no acts of aggression. For their part, Betsy and Vera have pretty much ignored the bigger girls. I did go dashing out when I heard the whole flock sounding an alarm call, and was amused to see the serama bouncing up and down to try and see over the six inch kickboard that surrounds the Palace's perimeter. It turned out that the terrifying threat was a plastic shopping bag which was blowing above the fence line before sinking back down.
Maeve ignored the whole commotion, preferring to lay flat on the patio in full on sun worship. She has also ignored the newbies. Her indifference is suspicious. She usually asserts herself pretty much immediately with new hens. I wonder if their size makes her think that they are babies, and therefore not worth bothering with. They have yet to bok.
No eggs yet, but the incy is dusted off. Just in case.
Friday, 14 January 2011
A Possible Murder Mystery
After two and a half years of chicken keeping, you tend to think you've probably seen it all. Just as you start to feel smug, your birds are certain to throw you a curve ball. And this one is a doozy.
In between rain showers, I headed out to clean out the coop. The hens were all happily forgaing in the border. I opened up the Palace and removed the perch. And then I paused. Because the perch was dotted with blood. In fact, a good half of the perch had splashes and dots of blood on it. Setting it aside, I studied the floor and walls of the coop. More blood dotted the newspaper under the perches, and large splatters of blood sprayed up the walls. Dear God it was even on the roof. Taking a deep breath, I did a rapid head count of the girls. All, thankfully, present and correct. And watching me now with interest.
Verifying that the nest box was blood free (Purdy had produced one of her perfect eggs), I began my investigations. Maude was injury and blood stain free. As were Doris, Gladys, Hilda, Purdy, and Celia. Mabel glared at me from the back step, apparently injury free. Which left Maeve.
Maeve had one tiny dot of blood on her comb. I inspected it carefully, and realised that there was no injury. She looked at me impassively. The evidence seemed to suggest that ASBO Chicken knew something about the blood in the coop. But she wasn't talking. Maeve is jet black, so frankly she could have been covered in dried blood and it would be hard to spot. Still, I looked. I found nothing else.
So now I'm left with a mystery. Eight hens, all injury free. No one is gasping or bubbling blood out of their nostrils. Yet the coop looks like something met a very sticky end in there. It's made me a little nervous of turning my back on them all, tbh. Especially Maeve.
I'm fairly sure I know whodunnit, I'm just not yet sure who the victim was.
(In other news, the inspection highlighted a few mud balls beginning to form on feathered feet, so tomorrow they'll all be having a foot bath. It also brought Celia's freaky feet to my full attention. Celia has twisted and fused toes, so her nails grow sideways and twisty. They are now beginning to get a bit long (not helped by her long broody spell) so she requires a pedicure. That should be fun.)
In between rain showers, I headed out to clean out the coop. The hens were all happily forgaing in the border. I opened up the Palace and removed the perch. And then I paused. Because the perch was dotted with blood. In fact, a good half of the perch had splashes and dots of blood on it. Setting it aside, I studied the floor and walls of the coop. More blood dotted the newspaper under the perches, and large splatters of blood sprayed up the walls. Dear God it was even on the roof. Taking a deep breath, I did a rapid head count of the girls. All, thankfully, present and correct. And watching me now with interest.
Verifying that the nest box was blood free (Purdy had produced one of her perfect eggs), I began my investigations. Maude was injury and blood stain free. As were Doris, Gladys, Hilda, Purdy, and Celia. Mabel glared at me from the back step, apparently injury free. Which left Maeve.
Maeve had one tiny dot of blood on her comb. I inspected it carefully, and realised that there was no injury. She looked at me impassively. The evidence seemed to suggest that ASBO Chicken knew something about the blood in the coop. But she wasn't talking. Maeve is jet black, so frankly she could have been covered in dried blood and it would be hard to spot. Still, I looked. I found nothing else.
So now I'm left with a mystery. Eight hens, all injury free. No one is gasping or bubbling blood out of their nostrils. Yet the coop looks like something met a very sticky end in there. It's made me a little nervous of turning my back on them all, tbh. Especially Maeve.
I'm fairly sure I know whodunnit, I'm just not yet sure who the victim was.
(In other news, the inspection highlighted a few mud balls beginning to form on feathered feet, so tomorrow they'll all be having a foot bath. It also brought Celia's freaky feet to my full attention. Celia has twisted and fused toes, so her nails grow sideways and twisty. They are now beginning to get a bit long (not helped by her long broody spell) so she requires a pedicure. That should be fun.)
Monday, 27 December 2010
A Christmas Miracle
Sorry for the lack of posts, but it is Christmas. Plus I'm still shaking off the vestiges of woman-flu/pleurisy, so my blog writing has had to take a bit of a back seat. You'll be pleased to hear, though, that now I'm back to update you all on the flock news!
You may recall that the freeloading feather bags haven't actually laid me an egg in months. Well, that all changed on Christmas Eve when Purdy decided to break the drought. I was so surprised to see an egg in the nest box that at first I thought it was a mirage. I reached out for the small-yet-perfectly-formed egg half expecting to clutch at empty air. Purdy watched the egg collection with interest, clearly expecing a medal, or at the least a handful of raisins. I did not disappoint her and snuck her some treats. She strutted about the run with a distinct self satisfied air which did not go unnoticed.
Celia proved that her broody psychosis is completely irrational by ignoring the actual, real egg and instead attempting to hatch woodshavings. I am no nearer to curing Celia of her madness and while there is still snow on the ground I doubt that I will. As long as she is eating and drinking I just have to cross my fingers that she'll remain strong enough to get through the winter, because as soon as spring hits that hen needs a bath and her toenails clipping. Never the most vain of hens, Celia is beginning to resemble Rab.C. Nesbitt. To be fair, though, none of the hens have been able to dust bath in the frozen earth. As soon as the roads are passable I will be heading out to buy some sand/compost so that they can clean themselves. Due to my illness I haven't been spending nearly as much time with my girls as I'd like, and I can't help fretting.
I hope you've all had a good Christmas.
You may recall that the freeloading feather bags haven't actually laid me an egg in months. Well, that all changed on Christmas Eve when Purdy decided to break the drought. I was so surprised to see an egg in the nest box that at first I thought it was a mirage. I reached out for the small-yet-perfectly-formed egg half expecting to clutch at empty air. Purdy watched the egg collection with interest, clearly expecing a medal, or at the least a handful of raisins. I did not disappoint her and snuck her some treats. She strutted about the run with a distinct self satisfied air which did not go unnoticed.
Celia proved that her broody psychosis is completely irrational by ignoring the actual, real egg and instead attempting to hatch woodshavings. I am no nearer to curing Celia of her madness and while there is still snow on the ground I doubt that I will. As long as she is eating and drinking I just have to cross my fingers that she'll remain strong enough to get through the winter, because as soon as spring hits that hen needs a bath and her toenails clipping. Never the most vain of hens, Celia is beginning to resemble Rab.C. Nesbitt. To be fair, though, none of the hens have been able to dust bath in the frozen earth. As soon as the roads are passable I will be heading out to buy some sand/compost so that they can clean themselves. Due to my illness I haven't been spending nearly as much time with my girls as I'd like, and I can't help fretting.
I hope you've all had a good Christmas.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Congratulations! It's A Nest Box!
You know that hen who went broody in September? Just as it started to get cold and miserable? Celia? Guess what? She is still broody. Yes, hard as it is to believe, the insane silver partridge is still firmly welded to the nest. I have had various attempts at breaking the spell, but she just plays along until I think she's cured and then legs it up the ramp as soon as I turn my back. I'm beginning to wonder if her software needs a reboot.
I've had determined broodies before, but generally the psychosis sets in during a more rational time of the year. Such as the spring or summer. As temperatures are plummeting well in to the minuses here in the midlands, I have to wonder just how crackers Celia is. No rational hen would consider these conditions perfect for rearing chicks in. The fact that she hasn't even had an egg to sit on in weeks and weeks is also perplexing. Usually a broody only stays broody for any length of time if she can find eggs to sit on/steal. Curiously, Celia doesn't seem interested in eggs. I have come to the conclusion that the little oddball is trying to hatch the nest box.
If I shut her out, she chunters with distress for a bit before joining the rest of the flock on a foray about the garden. As soon as able, though, she's back in to her beloved nest. The rest of the hens ignore her having obviously written her off as loopy. She is eating and drinking, and her overall condition is good. Apart from her tummy/chest feathers, which have taken on a bit of a wavy appearance what with being rubbed in to wood shavings for hours and hours a day.
If the weather was warmer, I would dunk her in a bucket of water and then broody cage her. However, with the cold being quite extreme the first option would be animal cruelty and even the second option leaves her at risk of not making it through the night. So I have devised a cunning plan. Her favoured nest box is the one nearest the pop hole. Tomorrow morning I am going to block it off. Now, she might just move next door which will be a little annoying (but not a major issue because none of the hens are currently laying. I could just shut down the whole nest box wing of the Palace). But if like I suspect she is actually mothering nest box number four, she might come to her senses.
Well, I can hope.
I've had determined broodies before, but generally the psychosis sets in during a more rational time of the year. Such as the spring or summer. As temperatures are plummeting well in to the minuses here in the midlands, I have to wonder just how crackers Celia is. No rational hen would consider these conditions perfect for rearing chicks in. The fact that she hasn't even had an egg to sit on in weeks and weeks is also perplexing. Usually a broody only stays broody for any length of time if she can find eggs to sit on/steal. Curiously, Celia doesn't seem interested in eggs. I have come to the conclusion that the little oddball is trying to hatch the nest box.
If I shut her out, she chunters with distress for a bit before joining the rest of the flock on a foray about the garden. As soon as able, though, she's back in to her beloved nest. The rest of the hens ignore her having obviously written her off as loopy. She is eating and drinking, and her overall condition is good. Apart from her tummy/chest feathers, which have taken on a bit of a wavy appearance what with being rubbed in to wood shavings for hours and hours a day.
If the weather was warmer, I would dunk her in a bucket of water and then broody cage her. However, with the cold being quite extreme the first option would be animal cruelty and even the second option leaves her at risk of not making it through the night. So I have devised a cunning plan. Her favoured nest box is the one nearest the pop hole. Tomorrow morning I am going to block it off. Now, she might just move next door which will be a little annoying (but not a major issue because none of the hens are currently laying. I could just shut down the whole nest box wing of the Palace). But if like I suspect she is actually mothering nest box number four, she might come to her senses.
Well, I can hope.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
The Rain It Raineth Every Day
We are in soggy, damp winter hell. In between bouts of rain, the fog descends just to ensure that everything stays dank and miserable. Several times on the way out to deal with the birds I have gone skidding across the patio on the slipperiest substance known to man: soggy chicken excrement. Lovely. I am beginning to think that the placement of these mini turds is deliberate. Maeve can often be seen loitering around the back step looking suspicious.
Poor ASBO Chicken is still in moult and it is beginning to get her down. Even her favourite pastimes of chasing underlings and ambushing superiors have lost their appeal. So desperately itchy is she that she will tolerate me rubbing her quill-spiky neck without attempting a fingerectomy. Her foot feathers have grown in beautifully, but the head, neck and hackle feathers are taking their time. Hopefully she will be back to her evilly gorgeous, bouffanted, black self by Christmas.
Celia is on day three of lock out. She seems to be coming around and taking more notice of the others, so my hopes are high that this approach will work. The dodgy-eyed Doris seems much better at this point and I am hoping that my trips to the vet are now over for this year. I think every keeper has a run of bad health in the flock, but after last years months of misery I rather feel that I've earned a few hassle free seasons. Of course, even typing this is tempting fate so I'm both touching wood and crossing fingers.
The Palace will soon have a bespoke sign courtesy of a very talented Twitter pal. Once it arrives and is in place expect a photo. It is everything I had hoped for and more, and even has the mighty Mille's featured. You will be impressed, I guarantee it.
Now I just have to source the perfect solar fairy lights and some bunting.
Poor ASBO Chicken is still in moult and it is beginning to get her down. Even her favourite pastimes of chasing underlings and ambushing superiors have lost their appeal. So desperately itchy is she that she will tolerate me rubbing her quill-spiky neck without attempting a fingerectomy. Her foot feathers have grown in beautifully, but the head, neck and hackle feathers are taking their time. Hopefully she will be back to her evilly gorgeous, bouffanted, black self by Christmas.
Celia is on day three of lock out. She seems to be coming around and taking more notice of the others, so my hopes are high that this approach will work. The dodgy-eyed Doris seems much better at this point and I am hoping that my trips to the vet are now over for this year. I think every keeper has a run of bad health in the flock, but after last years months of misery I rather feel that I've earned a few hassle free seasons. Of course, even typing this is tempting fate so I'm both touching wood and crossing fingers.
The Palace will soon have a bespoke sign courtesy of a very talented Twitter pal. Once it arrives and is in place expect a photo. It is everything I had hoped for and more, and even has the mighty Mille's featured. You will be impressed, I guarantee it.
Now I just have to source the perfect solar fairy lights and some bunting.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Oh, The Guilt
Celia is still broody. This has been going on for weeks, if not months, and enough is enough. It is a cold, damp day here and I have bitten the bullet. Celia has been ejected from the nest and the coop door has been closed. Access denied, would-be mother hen.
Broody hens make a curious low level bokking sound. It sounds nervy and anxious because it is. In Celia's hormonal mind, every second she is away from the nest her invisible eggs are in danger. In between this worried chuntering she will stuff her face with pellets and have a swift drink. Usually, though, she is away from the nest for mere minutes before legging it back up the ramp. This morning she found her way barred and set up a pitiful racket of maternal anxiety. I feel hideously guilty, but will persevere.
I had assumed that she would come out of her broody spell naturally once the weather got cold enough but that has proved not to be the case. In fact, the fact that she hasn't had an egg to steal in ages also hasn't cured her. Purdy shook off her broody spell as soon as she realised it was pointless. Celia seems not to have a 'common sense' switch. Day after day, she sits on nothing, in a psychotic trance and growling at any of the other chooks that wander too close. Such insubordination usually earns her a swift peck. Even being regularly duffed up hasn't made her see sense.
As I sit here typing this, she is still running laps around the Palace attempting to find another way in and shrieking her head off. Maeve periodically joins in the chase, which at least silences her as she needs all of her breath to escape the narky moulting one. I am hoping that she will eat more while locked out because her own daftness is beginning to affect her weight. At this time of year, this cannot be allowed to continue.
Let's hope she comes to her senses quickly.
Broody hens make a curious low level bokking sound. It sounds nervy and anxious because it is. In Celia's hormonal mind, every second she is away from the nest her invisible eggs are in danger. In between this worried chuntering she will stuff her face with pellets and have a swift drink. Usually, though, she is away from the nest for mere minutes before legging it back up the ramp. This morning she found her way barred and set up a pitiful racket of maternal anxiety. I feel hideously guilty, but will persevere.
I had assumed that she would come out of her broody spell naturally once the weather got cold enough but that has proved not to be the case. In fact, the fact that she hasn't had an egg to steal in ages also hasn't cured her. Purdy shook off her broody spell as soon as she realised it was pointless. Celia seems not to have a 'common sense' switch. Day after day, she sits on nothing, in a psychotic trance and growling at any of the other chooks that wander too close. Such insubordination usually earns her a swift peck. Even being regularly duffed up hasn't made her see sense.
As I sit here typing this, she is still running laps around the Palace attempting to find another way in and shrieking her head off. Maeve periodically joins in the chase, which at least silences her as she needs all of her breath to escape the narky moulting one. I am hoping that she will eat more while locked out because her own daftness is beginning to affect her weight. At this time of year, this cannot be allowed to continue.
Let's hope she comes to her senses quickly.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
Hysteria Is Catching
I still have two broodies. Celia and Purdy are under the impression that they could become mummy chickens. Despite the fact that there are no eggs. And it's October. They are completely mental. Unfortunately, they are also totally single minded and refuse to be distracted.
Every so often, they leave the coop in a flapping, squawking tornado of psychosis. The other hens will be peacefully pottering, or dust bathing, or generally just being quiet. Suddenly, the loopy twosome will explode from the coop door and cause ructions. The squawking and flapping ripples through the flock in a bizarre mexican wave. Celia startles Mabel. Mabel leaps up, startling Maude. Maude takes off down the garden, frightening Doris. Doris runs around in a circle, shrieking like she's being plucked alive. The babies jump, scare each other, and inadvertently startle Mabel. And so it goes on.
The only one immune to all the fuss is Maeve. She watches this spectacle from her hiding place in the shrubbery, tracking the baton of mentalness as it passes through her flockmates. Just as it's dying down, and feathers are being unruffled, she might decide to jump out and kung fu kick someone in the head. This triggers the whole shebang again. She seems pleased with her handy work. The others look knackered by the time that the broodies return to the nest box.
In other news, I am toying with the idea of setting up a webcam in the Palace and streaming it to my blog. I say toying, because I haven't the faintest idea how to do it. In fact, I don't even know what kind of camera I'd need.
If anyone could give me any pointers, I'd be very grateful.
Every so often, they leave the coop in a flapping, squawking tornado of psychosis. The other hens will be peacefully pottering, or dust bathing, or generally just being quiet. Suddenly, the loopy twosome will explode from the coop door and cause ructions. The squawking and flapping ripples through the flock in a bizarre mexican wave. Celia startles Mabel. Mabel leaps up, startling Maude. Maude takes off down the garden, frightening Doris. Doris runs around in a circle, shrieking like she's being plucked alive. The babies jump, scare each other, and inadvertently startle Mabel. And so it goes on.
The only one immune to all the fuss is Maeve. She watches this spectacle from her hiding place in the shrubbery, tracking the baton of mentalness as it passes through her flockmates. Just as it's dying down, and feathers are being unruffled, she might decide to jump out and kung fu kick someone in the head. This triggers the whole shebang again. She seems pleased with her handy work. The others look knackered by the time that the broodies return to the nest box.
In other news, I am toying with the idea of setting up a webcam in the Palace and streaming it to my blog. I say toying, because I haven't the faintest idea how to do it. In fact, I don't even know what kind of camera I'd need.
If anyone could give me any pointers, I'd be very grateful.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Autumn Broodies Are Bonkers
Purdy has decided to join Celia in her broody psychosis. I have decided to blame this completely ridiculous (not to mention totally unsuitable) state of affairs on the fact that these two ladies are not yet a year old. They are obviously in the grip of adolescent, hormone induced unreasonableness. A more seasoned hen wouldn't dream of bothering with all this pallaver in October.
Daily, I turf them out of the nest box and rescue any eggs (Out of eight chickens, I now have one laying girl. ASBO Chicken is still going strong and keeping me in cake). Purdy leaps up, shrieks her head off and runs laps around the garden. She is generally persued by the mighty Mille's, who for some reason favour the galloping Purdy with their sexual favors. She is not a particularly willing participant.
Celia remains flattened on the lawn, like an elaborate cow pat. I nudge her with my foot, and recieve growls for my troubles. I have learnt that approaching her with my hands is painful and fruitless. Gradually, I shove the spaced out chicken across the grass. Maeve usually wanders over at this point to deliver a few sharp pecks to Celia's head. Even this rough treatment merely earns her a hiss. I shoo Maeve away, and stick my welly under the reluctant silver partridge in an attempt to get her up on her feet. Eventually, she stands like someone awakening from a deep sleep. She staggers a short distance, and usually defecates in a truly spectacular fashion.
Broody droppings are always vile, but Celia has the ability to create something so mind bogglingly enormous and fetid that it has to be seen to be believed. The first time I came across one of these ginormo-poo's I thought it must have been left by a fox and became quite alarmed. She stands next to her creation, looking at me as if to say 'See? Are you happy now?!'.
I can only imagine that if I didn't force her from the nest occassionally, she might actually explode.
Daily, I turf them out of the nest box and rescue any eggs (Out of eight chickens, I now have one laying girl. ASBO Chicken is still going strong and keeping me in cake). Purdy leaps up, shrieks her head off and runs laps around the garden. She is generally persued by the mighty Mille's, who for some reason favour the galloping Purdy with their sexual favors. She is not a particularly willing participant.
Celia remains flattened on the lawn, like an elaborate cow pat. I nudge her with my foot, and recieve growls for my troubles. I have learnt that approaching her with my hands is painful and fruitless. Gradually, I shove the spaced out chicken across the grass. Maeve usually wanders over at this point to deliver a few sharp pecks to Celia's head. Even this rough treatment merely earns her a hiss. I shoo Maeve away, and stick my welly under the reluctant silver partridge in an attempt to get her up on her feet. Eventually, she stands like someone awakening from a deep sleep. She staggers a short distance, and usually defecates in a truly spectacular fashion.
Broody droppings are always vile, but Celia has the ability to create something so mind bogglingly enormous and fetid that it has to be seen to be believed. The first time I came across one of these ginormo-poo's I thought it must have been left by a fox and became quite alarmed. She stands next to her creation, looking at me as if to say 'See? Are you happy now?!'.
I can only imagine that if I didn't force her from the nest occassionally, she might actually explode.
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