Strawberry Fields...Are Nasty

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

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

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

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

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

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

I may need counselling.

Here Comes The Sun

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

Betsy catching some rays.

Smudge cautiously approaching me with the camera.

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

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

Amusing 'chick running' shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Weeks Old. And Resembling Penguins

When I last posted, I was fretting about eyes and possible illness. I spent an uncomfortable, anxious night worrying that I'd find very poorly serama babies in the morning. Naturally, when I staggered out to the garage shortly after dawn I found two bouncy, wide eyed chicks stuffing their chops with chick crumb. I have come to the conclusion that they are masters of emotional manipulation, and will probably out live me. Anyway, now that they are two weeks old I thought I should share with you some up to date pics.

Vera supervises breakfast.

Hoppy and Sylvie have mastered the drinker, but it took a while. They spent most of their first week sitting in it.

Sylvie showing some nice serama posing.

Hoppy, not showing some nice serama posing.

If you look closely here, you can see Hoppy's wonky toes. Sylvie is obviously flaunting his perfect tootsie.

Now that their wing feathers are growing in, I think they look more like baby penguins than anything else. And now their wing feathers are growing in, they can fly. They are incredibly light and amazingly speedy. It's like being dive bombed by dust.

The adventure continues.

Well That's....Odd

I set the serama eggs on April the 9th. So, for just over two weeks the experiment has been underway. We've lost 7 of the original eggs along the way, and taken the incubator out of the equation. Now it is all down to a small black silkied hen. So far, so good. Except something rather strange seems to be happening.

Earlier, I made one of my daily checks on Vera. I opened the nest box door and peeked in at her. She sat there like a small headed cow pat with the glassy eyed stare of the hormonal hen. So everything as expected. However, just as I was about to close the door I heard a tap. Curious. A few seconds later I heard it again. Vera clicked her beak, but otherwise remained still. Ooh. Deciding I must be going mad, I called the ever tolerant husband outside to listen with me. Naturally, all was silent. Just as he was about to pat me on the head pityingly, the tapping started again.

The tapping was definitely coming from under Vera. Betsy, in the hutch below, kept looking up at the nest above her, clearly hearing whatever it was that was tapping. The ever tolerant husband said the unsayable: I think that we are hearing serama chicks. Refusing to even consider such a proposterous notion merely two weeks in to incubation, I was just about to close the door when I am pretty sure I heard some faint cheeping. Vera remained impassive, and firmly glued to her eggs. Still not quite believing my ears, I retreated to the house to google serama incubation times.

I found one interesting account of serama hatching on day 16, although this seemed to be notably rare. Most breeders tend to find that their chicks appeared somewhere between day 17 and day 20. So the earliest I should be expecting any babies would be tuesday.

I'll keep you posted.

The Summer's In Full Swing

The hens are very busy at the moment. There is a lot of new plant growth to eat, a greenhouse to vandalise and mysterious peepings from the garage that need to be investigated. Not to mention the extremely tall human walking about and making horrendous noises with various power tools (we are having the bathrooms replaced). Only some of them are busy laying eggs, though.

Purdy is still in her broody trance, shrieking at anyone who gets too close. The soppy silkie sisters have laid about fifteen eggs between them, and then returned to broodiness. Sigh. The others are picking up the slack like the troopers that they are, although Mabel seems to be having a bit of a problem.

For the last month or two, I have occassionally found an egg in the run, or on the coop floor. It's taken a while to work out who the culprit is, but it's now clear that it's the mighty Mabel. I am most puzzled. The other girls are using the nest boxes and there is no sign or red mite. I frequently see Mabel sitting in the nest box, yet she rarely leaves her egg there any more. I'm beginning to wonder if she is unaware that the egg is somehow following her out of the nest. A sort of egg incontinence. I have given her the once over, and can find no obvious injury or weakness, so it remains a mystery. If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them.

The chicks are growing up scarily fast. My plan is to sell the suspected boy and girl black chicks as a pair, and to keep the lavender. That is if it proves to be a girl. Despite feathering up fastest, and having a very ladylike manner, it does have more of a comb than the other female. So we shall wait and see.

If the lavender is a girl, it will be staying. And named Penelope.

Happy Birthday Peeps

The peeps are one week old today. They have grown at a phenomenal rate, and are strong and healthy. I am very pleased with their progress. I was much less pleased, however, when the ever tolerant husband woke up this morning to find that the heat lamp had blown. Cue me flying down the stairs with hair like Wurzel Gummidge and expecting the worst. The chicks were happily scratching about in the sand bath, and not shivering in a corner near death as I had imagined. Still, to be on the safe side, I scooped them up and brought them in to the house in a shoe box.

The ever tolerant husband gallently embarked on a mercy dash to the local country store to purchase a new bulb. I chewed my nails nervously, hoping that the chicks wouldn't have hypothermia. The chicks ignored my fretting, and pecked the box enthusiastically, making sure it wasn't edible. The new bulb was dropped at the door en route to the ever tolerant husband's real business of the day, and with relief I returned the peeps to their brooder. With marvellous aplomb, they turned their back on the heat and headed back to the sand bath. They seem completely unfazed by the whole episode, where as I think I have added a couple of wrinkles to the collection.

The unruffled peeps.

The suspected boy, complete with curling feathers.

The straight feathers on the other two are clear. Typical.

Hopefully, the gender divide should get more obvious in the next week.

Accidently Hatching Eggs?

Belinda is still broody, and growling at any human or chicken that dares to disturb her. I keep lifting her despite her protestations, and plonking her on the lawn. She sits for a moment, muttering to herself about stupid humans, before shakily wandering around. Soon as my back is turned though, she hot foots it back to the nest. The others are getting pretty fed up with their favourite nest being constantly occupied, and have taken to giving her a well aimed peck as she shuffles past. Like a bunch of bitchy school girls, the others gather and mutter amongst themselves about Lindy. The pecking order appears to be shifting.

The problem with having a broody, is that it brings to mind hatching chicks. Once that idea has lodged in the chicken keepers brain, it is only a matter of time before you start trawling ebay. Therefore, it's quite understandable how I might have accidently placed a bid on some blue laced wyandotte bantam hatching eggs. Ahem. Now, I'm not totally deluded, so I made my bid ridiculously low, and there is another day to run on the auction. I can't possibly win.

If I do win, I suspect that the ever tolerant husband might get a good deal less tolerant. In fact, he might swear at me a good bit in gaellic before slamming a few doors. Can't say that I'd blame him. Despite my longing to have a bit of land, we actually have a very ordinary suburban garden. Therefore, by making the bid low, I'm hoping to hang on to the dream for a bit longer, while ultimately knowing that there will be no cute balls of fluff for Lindy to turn savage on. At least, not yet.