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.
Showing posts with label chook palace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chook palace. Show all posts
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Sunday, 29 January 2012
It's A Question Of Maths
I've been thinking about numbers a lot in the last week. Namely, the numbers 10 and under. I've been considering how much the difference between, say, 10 and 6, actually matters. I mean, if you're talking about millions of pounds, it probably has a greater impact than if you were say, talking about Mars Bars. An extra 4 million pounds might make the difference between a mansion and a mansion with a swimming pool and stables perhaps. But an extra 4 Mars Bars just means that you're likely to be sick as well as have a stomach ache. You see? On a small scale, there isn't much between 10 and 6.
Which leads me to consider rehoming any of my girls. Because at the moment, I have 10 small chickens residing in the Palace. I had decided to rehome up to 4 of my girls in order to make less of a scary impact on my new neighbours. I was thinking along the lines of noise reduction, looking less like I was moving a farm in and showing some compromise. But it suddenly struck me. If any of my new neighbours are going to object to the birds, it won't be the amount they will object to. It will be the whole idea of clucking poultry living next door. It's a very rare occurence that all 10 hens make a racket together, and they barely make any noise at all during the autumn and winter months. So perhaps it makes no sense to rehome some birds now, when a serious complaint might mean that all birds need rehoming.
In short, I'm ninety percent certain that I'm going to take all of my birds to the new house and play it by ear. If anyone has concerns, I can address them as and when. Because if I rehome birds, and then move in and find myself surrounded by chicken lovers, I will be very sad indeed.
It's all for one, and one for all from now on.
Which leads me to consider rehoming any of my girls. Because at the moment, I have 10 small chickens residing in the Palace. I had decided to rehome up to 4 of my girls in order to make less of a scary impact on my new neighbours. I was thinking along the lines of noise reduction, looking less like I was moving a farm in and showing some compromise. But it suddenly struck me. If any of my new neighbours are going to object to the birds, it won't be the amount they will object to. It will be the whole idea of clucking poultry living next door. It's a very rare occurence that all 10 hens make a racket together, and they barely make any noise at all during the autumn and winter months. So perhaps it makes no sense to rehome some birds now, when a serious complaint might mean that all birds need rehoming.
In short, I'm ninety percent certain that I'm going to take all of my birds to the new house and play it by ear. If anyone has concerns, I can address them as and when. Because if I rehome birds, and then move in and find myself surrounded by chicken lovers, I will be very sad indeed.
It's all for one, and one for all from now on.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Tough Decisions
I find myself at a crossroads. After three years of back garden chicken keeping I have some tough decisions to make. We humans are rapidly outgrowing the available house space. As we dance around each other in a complicated waltz in order to reach the bread bin, I know that something has to give. The ever tolerant husband has made his position clear: the animals have plenty of room, the humans do not.
So we are looking at moving. Based on the dire housing market, the only sure fire way of doing this involves selling our souls to the Devil (well, our house to a builder). That means moving in to a shiny new house built from cardboard and spit. It also means being able to move, and possibly sit in a room without rearranging the furniture or turfing children from the near vicinity.
It also, in reality, means a less than ideal garden space. If not smaller than what I have, certainly less flat and regular. The garden attached to the new house will either require skiis to navigate or a map. So it comes down to me having to make some sacrifices. Possibly.
The Palace is a large piece of furniture. It is unlikely to fit easily in to the new garden. Or, if it does, it is unlikely to fit well. I can't in good conscience give my girls less free ranging space. So that leaves me with a dilemma.
I won't under any circumstances give up all of my birds. But I may have to give up some. The old guard (Mabel, Maude, Maeve) will be going with me even if they have to live in the bath. But I find myself contemplating not having all of the others with me. As I look out in to my (admittedly trashed) garden, I don't know how I can choose which girls come with me and which I say goodbye to. In the grand scheme of things, I realise that this isn't a life changing decision.
Yet somehow it feels like it is.
So we are looking at moving. Based on the dire housing market, the only sure fire way of doing this involves selling our souls to the Devil (well, our house to a builder). That means moving in to a shiny new house built from cardboard and spit. It also means being able to move, and possibly sit in a room without rearranging the furniture or turfing children from the near vicinity.
It also, in reality, means a less than ideal garden space. If not smaller than what I have, certainly less flat and regular. The garden attached to the new house will either require skiis to navigate or a map. So it comes down to me having to make some sacrifices. Possibly.
The Palace is a large piece of furniture. It is unlikely to fit easily in to the new garden. Or, if it does, it is unlikely to fit well. I can't in good conscience give my girls less free ranging space. So that leaves me with a dilemma.
I won't under any circumstances give up all of my birds. But I may have to give up some. The old guard (Mabel, Maude, Maeve) will be going with me even if they have to live in the bath. But I find myself contemplating not having all of the others with me. As I look out in to my (admittedly trashed) garden, I don't know how I can choose which girls come with me and which I say goodbye to. In the grand scheme of things, I realise that this isn't a life changing decision.
Yet somehow it feels like it is.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Integration Update
The serama have been in the Palace for three nights now, so I guess I'm committed. I peek in to the coop every so often, just to make sure none of the girls have harpooned Betsy to the wall with a specially sharpened talon, and so far so good. In fact, Betsy got quite brave this morning and even dared to make a grab for some stale bread I'd thrown in as a treat. Naturally, she got a sound duffing for her troubles, but her confidence seems to be growing.
Vera seems unbothered by her change of abode. She keeps a sensible distance from the narky pekins, but other than that just gets on with being a small fluffy chicken. Her apparent ease unsettles the pekin ladies. They like to see a bit of reverence and fear in their underlings. Unsure of how to tackle this new development, they tend to ignore Vera and focus their chickenny wrath on Betsy.
Betsy is fast, however. Much, much faster than a pekin in full waddle. She zig zags around her would-be tormentors, squawking her tiny head off. The noise is so astonishing that it frequently stops a pile on in its tracks. Of course, it helps that at this time of year chickens tend to be at their most lethargic. The long nights, the cold and the annual moult tend to put them off their stride somewhat. When I attempted integration in the summer, I had to abandon the idea as the pekins were in full feisty mode and I feared for the seramas' lives. Not now.
Last time, the charge on the miniscule chickens was lead by a fearsome Maeve. Now that we're in December, however, she really can't be bothered. If they wander too close they might get an ASBO Chicken special, aka a shrill growl and a puffing up of feathers. But she can't find the enthusiasm for giving chase of squashing anyone. Without their malevolent General to orchestrate chaos, the others have rather lost the taste for it. Well, all apart from Hilda.
Hilda still looks utterly ridiculous. She is no longer bald, but her sprouting feathers make her look a bit like a shuttlecock that a spiteful cat has been at. She seems to know that she looks like a berk, and to make sure that none of the other hens laugh at her, she has taken to attacking anyone that comes within range. Higher hens in the flock respond in kind, and she is getting in to a lot of fights. Poor Betsy and Vera bear the brunt of her filthy mood. Yet without back up, she is unable to do any real damage, and with Betsy able to run like a roadrunner while making a noise like a foghorn on helium, she's no real threat.
I always planned on having a united flock, so I very much hope that this works out. The serama have much more space in the Palace run than they do in their garage hutch, and they take up so little room they don't really impede on the others' space.
The only one who seems really put out is the pup, who very much enjoyed jumping up at the serama hutch and making them flap.
Vera seems unbothered by her change of abode. She keeps a sensible distance from the narky pekins, but other than that just gets on with being a small fluffy chicken. Her apparent ease unsettles the pekin ladies. They like to see a bit of reverence and fear in their underlings. Unsure of how to tackle this new development, they tend to ignore Vera and focus their chickenny wrath on Betsy.
Betsy is fast, however. Much, much faster than a pekin in full waddle. She zig zags around her would-be tormentors, squawking her tiny head off. The noise is so astonishing that it frequently stops a pile on in its tracks. Of course, it helps that at this time of year chickens tend to be at their most lethargic. The long nights, the cold and the annual moult tend to put them off their stride somewhat. When I attempted integration in the summer, I had to abandon the idea as the pekins were in full feisty mode and I feared for the seramas' lives. Not now.
Last time, the charge on the miniscule chickens was lead by a fearsome Maeve. Now that we're in December, however, she really can't be bothered. If they wander too close they might get an ASBO Chicken special, aka a shrill growl and a puffing up of feathers. But she can't find the enthusiasm for giving chase of squashing anyone. Without their malevolent General to orchestrate chaos, the others have rather lost the taste for it. Well, all apart from Hilda.
Hilda still looks utterly ridiculous. She is no longer bald, but her sprouting feathers make her look a bit like a shuttlecock that a spiteful cat has been at. She seems to know that she looks like a berk, and to make sure that none of the other hens laugh at her, she has taken to attacking anyone that comes within range. Higher hens in the flock respond in kind, and she is getting in to a lot of fights. Poor Betsy and Vera bear the brunt of her filthy mood. Yet without back up, she is unable to do any real damage, and with Betsy able to run like a roadrunner while making a noise like a foghorn on helium, she's no real threat.
I always planned on having a united flock, so I very much hope that this works out. The serama have much more space in the Palace run than they do in their garage hutch, and they take up so little room they don't really impede on the others' space.
The only one who seems really put out is the pup, who very much enjoyed jumping up at the serama hutch and making them flap.
Monday, 14 November 2011
So, Er, Where's The Winter Then?
As I gaze out of my kitchen window at the chooks sunbathing, I have to keep checking the calendar. It is November, right? Because it feels much more like early September to be honest. The weather is ridiculously mild. I'm sure that this time last year I was trudging through snow to the Palace and defrosting drinkers at 7am. Weird.
In a way, this is a good thing. The moulting masses are benefitting from the balmy conditions instead of snuggling down in to the nest boxes and shivering, for example. But it is confusing. My roses have bloomed again. My summer bedding plants are valiantly flowering on, and the girls are firing out the odd egg while looking puzzled. Generally, my pekins shut up shop for the winter come October. I imagine them sitting on their perches at night, using their talons and wing feathers to count up just how many months since their last egg break.
But it can't last. Every day that we have such mild and pleasant weather, I get more nervous. I will not be lulled in to a false sense of security. It is November. The temperature will plummet. Drinkers will freeze and chickens will shiver. To that end, I have bought in porridge supplies and poultry spice. I've made sure that there is enough woodshavings to see us through should we get hit by a snowy apocolypse. I am even eyeing up a snow shovel in the afternoon sunshine, safe in the knowledge that when the first flake lands I will be prepared.
Do not be fooled, fellow chicken keepers, winter will soon be upon us.
In a way, this is a good thing. The moulting masses are benefitting from the balmy conditions instead of snuggling down in to the nest boxes and shivering, for example. But it is confusing. My roses have bloomed again. My summer bedding plants are valiantly flowering on, and the girls are firing out the odd egg while looking puzzled. Generally, my pekins shut up shop for the winter come October. I imagine them sitting on their perches at night, using their talons and wing feathers to count up just how many months since their last egg break.
But it can't last. Every day that we have such mild and pleasant weather, I get more nervous. I will not be lulled in to a false sense of security. It is November. The temperature will plummet. Drinkers will freeze and chickens will shiver. To that end, I have bought in porridge supplies and poultry spice. I've made sure that there is enough woodshavings to see us through should we get hit by a snowy apocolypse. I am even eyeing up a snow shovel in the afternoon sunshine, safe in the knowledge that when the first flake lands I will be prepared.
Do not be fooled, fellow chicken keepers, winter will soon be upon us.
Friday, 14 October 2011
That Was Close
Now, there are many things I could be accused of. Being slightly animal crackers is definitely one of them. However, I am not blind to my animal's faults. So as much as I adore our puppy, I know full well that he is a wolf in Spaniel's clothing, and given half a chance would scoff my chickens for a laugh. So you can imagine my horror when the little demon worked out how to open the back door when the girls were free ranging yesterday.
I was first alerted to something being amiss by a desperately squawking Betsy. Mind you, Betsy often loudly complains if any of the other hens get too close, so I didn't run immediately. It took a moment for me to realise that I was hearing that squawk a little too well. Getting up from the sofa, I saw that the back door was open and the dog was outside. Oh buttocks.
The chooks were nowhere to be seen, but offended chuntering was coming from the coop. I still couldn't see the puppy. Rounding the corner of the house, I heard a commotion coming from the garage and discovered a desperately flapping Gladys trying to achieve higher ground while a jubilant puppy yapped and jumped below her. The pup, being only 14 weeks old, is not great at following commands so my 'No! Leave it!' fell on floppy but deaf ears. In the end, I snagged the furry terrorist by the collar and hauled him in to the house. Shutting him in, I dashed back to Gladys's aid.
I found her perched on top of the fridge freezer, preening her tail in a most aggrieved manner. At first she resisted my attempts to rescue her, and squawked loudly at me instead. I imagine I was being royally told off for bringing the chicken worrier in to the house, and was probably getting a few chicken expletives thrown in for good measure. Eventually I coaxed the frazzled frizzle in to my arms and began the trek across the lawn to the Palace. At exactly that moment, the demon pup escaped again and began charging towards us in a frenzy of clumsy baby dog legs and gnashing needle teeth.
There was nothing else for it. Going purely on instinct, I stood in the middle of my garden, in full view of all of my neighbours, and barked and growled at the puppy. This strange behaviour brought him up short, and he stared at me in fascinated horror. Even Gladys considered me in a careful manner, as if appeasing a person who has just broken out of a mental asylum. Now that the chicken was safe and the dog had stopped in it's tracks, I realised I could probably...stop.
No harm was done to chicken or puppy, but I can't say the same for my local reputation.
I was first alerted to something being amiss by a desperately squawking Betsy. Mind you, Betsy often loudly complains if any of the other hens get too close, so I didn't run immediately. It took a moment for me to realise that I was hearing that squawk a little too well. Getting up from the sofa, I saw that the back door was open and the dog was outside. Oh buttocks.
The chooks were nowhere to be seen, but offended chuntering was coming from the coop. I still couldn't see the puppy. Rounding the corner of the house, I heard a commotion coming from the garage and discovered a desperately flapping Gladys trying to achieve higher ground while a jubilant puppy yapped and jumped below her. The pup, being only 14 weeks old, is not great at following commands so my 'No! Leave it!' fell on floppy but deaf ears. In the end, I snagged the furry terrorist by the collar and hauled him in to the house. Shutting him in, I dashed back to Gladys's aid.
I found her perched on top of the fridge freezer, preening her tail in a most aggrieved manner. At first she resisted my attempts to rescue her, and squawked loudly at me instead. I imagine I was being royally told off for bringing the chicken worrier in to the house, and was probably getting a few chicken expletives thrown in for good measure. Eventually I coaxed the frazzled frizzle in to my arms and began the trek across the lawn to the Palace. At exactly that moment, the demon pup escaped again and began charging towards us in a frenzy of clumsy baby dog legs and gnashing needle teeth.
There was nothing else for it. Going purely on instinct, I stood in the middle of my garden, in full view of all of my neighbours, and barked and growled at the puppy. This strange behaviour brought him up short, and he stared at me in fascinated horror. Even Gladys considered me in a careful manner, as if appeasing a person who has just broken out of a mental asylum. Now that the chicken was safe and the dog had stopped in it's tracks, I realised I could probably...stop.
No harm was done to chicken or puppy, but I can't say the same for my local reputation.
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Introducing....Jasper
You may have noticed that I've been remarkably quiet of late. There are many reasons for my lack of blogging, but by far the most pressing one right now involves this little chap.
Yep. We now have a puppy. His name is Jasper and he is 3/4 cocker spaniel and 1/4 springer spaniel. He pees and poos with abandon, to the point that I am exceedingly grateful that we have wooden floors. He has a particular fondness for socks, newspapers and eating chicken poo. All apparently normal. He seems reasonably intelligent, so the plan is that I will be able to train him to ignore the chooks. That's the plan.
In reality, he seems quite unphased by them. Yesterday, I let the girls out for their morning constitutional. After a few minutes, I stuck Jasper on his lead and we stood on the patio. Naturally, the feathered contingent chuntered with alarm and hot footed it down to the greenhouse. They stood in a huddle muttering, occasionally throwing me evils. Flo and Winnie seemed the least perturbed, and I remember an elderly spaniel mooching about their pens at the breeder's house. The rest of my girls have never been exposed to a canine.
For his part, Jasper pretty much ignored them. I suppose when you're only 12 weeks old, everything is new and fascinating. He didn't pull on the lead or show any sign of wanting to get any closer. After a few minutes, the hens went back to mooching. But they kept one beady eye on the weird fox/wolf combo predator being held on a bit of string my yours truly. Smart, my girls.
Later on in the day, when the girls were safely locked inside the Palace grounds, Jasper was bounding about the lawn chasing leaves. Mabel took off from the floor to the perch in the run, and the feathery kerfuffle peaked his interest. He slowly walked towards the Palace door, ears alert and ready to flee. Flo and Winnie carried on eating their lunch and totally ignored him. But Maeve was sat nearest the door on the perch. She lowered her head, raised her hackles, and when he came within her exclusion zone, hissed. He ran back to me and hid behind my legs.
I really don't blame him.
Sunday, 11 September 2011
Moving On Up
The two newest recruits, Flo and Winnie, have been with us for a couple of months now. They're still some way off laying, but Flo has already found her big girl voice and Winnie's is on its way. It's a curious time for a chicken when they switch from the babyish 'meep meep' to the adult 'bok-ARK'. They often look rather startled themselves when a 'meep' ends in a 'ARK', and the transition lasts a couple of weeks. So I suppose you could say that the two newbies have now hit adolesence. And that means one thing: moving out of the nursery.
The baby pekins have resided in the garage in makeshift accomodation up until this point. They have made firm friends with the serama, and often pop over for dinner. But ultimately they need to integrate with the big girls. I have locked them in to the Palace for short periods before now, and although they get chased a bit and the odd bum tail feather pulled, no serious harm has been done. So today I have bitten the bullet. Flo and Winnie are moving up in to the Palace.
So far, no major confrontation has taken place. The newbies have kept one step ahead of the established flock members, and there has been no coordinated effort to mash them in to the aubiose. But as with all things chicken, I can't exhale just yet. The next few days will be fraught for both human and chickens alike. Hopefully, though, at the end I will be left with a cohesive pekin flock (The serama will stay in their hutch home for the forseeable future due to the pekins' desire to turn them in to scatter cushions given half a chance).
How about a few pics?
The baby pekins have resided in the garage in makeshift accomodation up until this point. They have made firm friends with the serama, and often pop over for dinner. But ultimately they need to integrate with the big girls. I have locked them in to the Palace for short periods before now, and although they get chased a bit and the odd bum tail feather pulled, no serious harm has been done. So today I have bitten the bullet. Flo and Winnie are moving up in to the Palace.
So far, no major confrontation has taken place. The newbies have kept one step ahead of the established flock members, and there has been no coordinated effort to mash them in to the aubiose. But as with all things chicken, I can't exhale just yet. The next few days will be fraught for both human and chickens alike. Hopefully, though, at the end I will be left with a cohesive pekin flock (The serama will stay in their hutch home for the forseeable future due to the pekins' desire to turn them in to scatter cushions given half a chance).
How about a few pics?
Mabel, mid moult. She is not impressed.
Maude, post moult, and looking beautiful.
Hilda, looking quite nared at the new introductions, and in a pecky mood.
Nearly grown up Winnie and Flo. Flo is getting darker as she matures.
The greeting party. They mostly come in peace.
Maeve showing off her bosoms like a Boss.
You looking at me?
Vera appears to be going broody again. Excuse me while I bang my head against a wall.
Betsy pops up to say hello.
Now I just have to wait for sun down to see if the new girls are brave enough to try sleeping with the enemy.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, 26 March 2011
The Battle Line Has Been Crossed
The serama sisters have been with us for nearly two months now. They happily live together in the two tier rabbit hutch in the garage, and venture in to the garden when they think that the pekins aren't looking. With very little encouragement on my part, they have become silly tame. Especially Vera. The tiny black hen has a bad habit of running between your feet when you're mid step. I'm not sure if this is designed chicken evilness, in an attempt to give me a heart attack, or whether she is an adrenalin junkie. Perhaps given half a chance she'd be bungee jumping from the Palace roof.
I have more or less resigned myself to having a split flock at this stage. I mean, I've always thought that my pekin ladies were petite, but next to the serama twosome they are truly enormous. The serama are understandably wary, and if they do get too close to the others a chase usually ensues. In fact, Gladys and Hilda seem to zoom out of nowhere and run Betsy and Vera back in to the furthest recesses of the garage.
Today was a big clean out day, however, and as the ever tolerant husband was throwing things with enthusiasm in to a skip, I thought it best to keep the serama contained. As the pekins roamed about the garden, the serama were safely pecking about in the Palace run. After a bit, it became apparent that Hilda and Mabel needed to lay. As I was outside anyway, I decided to open the run door and see what would happen.
Initially, Betsy and Vera sat on the perch nearest the pop hole and tried to blend in with the wood work. As our Illustrious Leader and the grubby white hen had their legs crossed, however, they didn't bat an eyelid at the intrusion and just waddled up the ramp in to the coop with barely a glance at the newbies. I expected one of the other girls to chase them out soon enough, but after twenty minutes of being totally ignored Vera went looking for trouble. She alighted on to the ramp and had the audacity to stick her head in to the inner sanctum. Instantly, two narked hens squawked at her. Yet this didn't phase her one bit. I watched in amazement as she sauntered in to the coop, only pausing to call her side kick in with her.
With both serama now in the coop, I chewed my nails fretfully. Every so often, a stroppy 'Bwaaaaaaark' issued forth from the nest boxes, but no real sounds of trouble. Unable to bear it any longer, I peeked inside the door. Unbelievably, Betsy and Vera had climbed in to the nest box between Mabel and Hilda and were chattering gently. Mabel looked suitably disgusted. She is a very private chicken, and the others usually show her the respect her position deserves by letting her lay in peace. Now not only was Hilda in the nest boxes with her, but now two pip squeaks were chatting right by her left ear. Unbelievable.
Hilda was busy laying, and only had time to hiss at me in passing.
Deciding that the hens had obviously called a truce, I left them to it. An hour later, the ever tolerant husband stuck his head in the door to tell me that ASBO Chicken had chased Betsy across the lawn and back in to the garage. I wasn't surprised. I expected that both serama would be back in their lodgings discussing the morning's events within minutes, and thought no more of it. Until a while later when I went out to hang the washing.
I could hear that Mabel was still in the nest box. This isn't unusual. Mabel really likes to make the most of her nest time and can often hog the best box for hours. However, these weren't normal 'Mabel in labour' sounds. These were more 'Naff off or I'll eat you' sounds. Curious, I opened the nest box and peered in. I saw Mabel's voluminous derriere, but that was all. The other boxes were vacant. With a frown, I secured the door and went to check on the serama. I found Betsy dust bathing happily in the wood shavings, but no sign of Vera. A quick scout about the garden proved fruitless, and with a slightly panicky feeling I considered the probability of Vera having escaped through the garage while the ever tolerant husband was filling the skip. In my mind's eye, she was road-runnering up the road as I stood there, half way to Birmingham.
Before I sent out a search party, I opened the nest boxes again and was greeted with Mabel, side on. She had shifetd herself around a bit, which gave me then a view through to the coop proper. Suddenly, a small black head popped up over the lip of the nest box. Mabel raised all of her hackle feathers and squawked. The little head dropped back out of sight. Mabel relaxed. The head reappeared, agitating my top hen all over again. No wonder Mabel had spent so long on the nest. She was being taunted by a very cheeky serama playing the chicken equivalent of 'Knock Down Ginger'. I grabbed the errant Vera from her hiding place in the coop and deposited her back with Betsy. She seemed quite happy about her little adventure, and a mere five minutes later Mabel announced her egg. With no small measure of relief, I'm betting.
This could be interesting.
I have more or less resigned myself to having a split flock at this stage. I mean, I've always thought that my pekin ladies were petite, but next to the serama twosome they are truly enormous. The serama are understandably wary, and if they do get too close to the others a chase usually ensues. In fact, Gladys and Hilda seem to zoom out of nowhere and run Betsy and Vera back in to the furthest recesses of the garage.
Today was a big clean out day, however, and as the ever tolerant husband was throwing things with enthusiasm in to a skip, I thought it best to keep the serama contained. As the pekins roamed about the garden, the serama were safely pecking about in the Palace run. After a bit, it became apparent that Hilda and Mabel needed to lay. As I was outside anyway, I decided to open the run door and see what would happen.
Initially, Betsy and Vera sat on the perch nearest the pop hole and tried to blend in with the wood work. As our Illustrious Leader and the grubby white hen had their legs crossed, however, they didn't bat an eyelid at the intrusion and just waddled up the ramp in to the coop with barely a glance at the newbies. I expected one of the other girls to chase them out soon enough, but after twenty minutes of being totally ignored Vera went looking for trouble. She alighted on to the ramp and had the audacity to stick her head in to the inner sanctum. Instantly, two narked hens squawked at her. Yet this didn't phase her one bit. I watched in amazement as she sauntered in to the coop, only pausing to call her side kick in with her.
With both serama now in the coop, I chewed my nails fretfully. Every so often, a stroppy 'Bwaaaaaaark' issued forth from the nest boxes, but no real sounds of trouble. Unable to bear it any longer, I peeked inside the door. Unbelievably, Betsy and Vera had climbed in to the nest box between Mabel and Hilda and were chattering gently. Mabel looked suitably disgusted. She is a very private chicken, and the others usually show her the respect her position deserves by letting her lay in peace. Now not only was Hilda in the nest boxes with her, but now two pip squeaks were chatting right by her left ear. Unbelievable.
Hilda was busy laying, and only had time to hiss at me in passing.
Deciding that the hens had obviously called a truce, I left them to it. An hour later, the ever tolerant husband stuck his head in the door to tell me that ASBO Chicken had chased Betsy across the lawn and back in to the garage. I wasn't surprised. I expected that both serama would be back in their lodgings discussing the morning's events within minutes, and thought no more of it. Until a while later when I went out to hang the washing.
I could hear that Mabel was still in the nest box. This isn't unusual. Mabel really likes to make the most of her nest time and can often hog the best box for hours. However, these weren't normal 'Mabel in labour' sounds. These were more 'Naff off or I'll eat you' sounds. Curious, I opened the nest box and peered in. I saw Mabel's voluminous derriere, but that was all. The other boxes were vacant. With a frown, I secured the door and went to check on the serama. I found Betsy dust bathing happily in the wood shavings, but no sign of Vera. A quick scout about the garden proved fruitless, and with a slightly panicky feeling I considered the probability of Vera having escaped through the garage while the ever tolerant husband was filling the skip. In my mind's eye, she was road-runnering up the road as I stood there, half way to Birmingham.
Before I sent out a search party, I opened the nest boxes again and was greeted with Mabel, side on. She had shifetd herself around a bit, which gave me then a view through to the coop proper. Suddenly, a small black head popped up over the lip of the nest box. Mabel raised all of her hackle feathers and squawked. The little head dropped back out of sight. Mabel relaxed. The head reappeared, agitating my top hen all over again. No wonder Mabel had spent so long on the nest. She was being taunted by a very cheeky serama playing the chicken equivalent of 'Knock Down Ginger'. I grabbed the errant Vera from her hiding place in the coop and deposited her back with Betsy. She seemed quite happy about her little adventure, and a mere five minutes later Mabel announced her egg. With no small measure of relief, I'm betting.
This could be interesting.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Death And The Birth Of Ideas
Just as you think that spring is here to stay, it wanders off again leaving cold, wet greyness in its wake. Humph. When Purdy decided to leave this mortal coil she appears to have taken the sun with her. The birds and I stare at each other in dejected grumpiness. Even Maeve seems to have lost some of her vavavoom. She hasn't battered anyone in days.
In an effort to amuse themselves, the girls broke through my border protecting barrier while I was otherwise occupied. I caught them happily rampaging through clumps of spring bulbs and merrily digging around fresh shoots. They managed to nibble a considerable amount of foliage before they were firmly ejected. To be fair to them, Gladys and Maude managed to look at least slightly embarassed at being caught, and shuffled and muttered a bit. Not everyone has a conscience, though. Hilda continued dust bathing while I turfed her flock mates back on to the lawn and glared at me as if I was the one tresspassing. She shook herself all over my wellies in disgust before stalking back to the Palace to lay.
Betsy and Vera have settled in to their new premises well. They are gradually getting the hang of the ramp, although neither have so far ventured forth in to the washing-up bowl nest box. I'm hoping that Betsy will get the idea in the next few days and lay me an egg. At the moment it seems to be taking all of her concentration and brain power just to avoid falling down the ramp opening. Vera seems to have a better grasp of gravity at this stage, and can sometimes be heard issuing a warning bok-ARK as Betsy falls through the trap door.
Since losing Purdy, I confess to toying with the idea of hatching again. I still have my little incy in the garage which hatched the meeps last year. However, I find myself looking at more sophisticated incubators on ebay. The idea that you pop your fertile eggs in one day, press 'go' and then come back 3 weeks later to chicks is very tempting. Don't worry, I know that it requires more thought. Last year I was very lucky to find all of my cockerel chicks good homes. I am well aware that that is not always the case, and boy chickens will always be a part of hatching.
The thing is, with the right incubator and a bit of research, I'd love to have a go at hatching serama....
In an effort to amuse themselves, the girls broke through my border protecting barrier while I was otherwise occupied. I caught them happily rampaging through clumps of spring bulbs and merrily digging around fresh shoots. They managed to nibble a considerable amount of foliage before they were firmly ejected. To be fair to them, Gladys and Maude managed to look at least slightly embarassed at being caught, and shuffled and muttered a bit. Not everyone has a conscience, though. Hilda continued dust bathing while I turfed her flock mates back on to the lawn and glared at me as if I was the one tresspassing. She shook herself all over my wellies in disgust before stalking back to the Palace to lay.
Betsy and Vera have settled in to their new premises well. They are gradually getting the hang of the ramp, although neither have so far ventured forth in to the washing-up bowl nest box. I'm hoping that Betsy will get the idea in the next few days and lay me an egg. At the moment it seems to be taking all of her concentration and brain power just to avoid falling down the ramp opening. Vera seems to have a better grasp of gravity at this stage, and can sometimes be heard issuing a warning bok-ARK as Betsy falls through the trap door.
Since losing Purdy, I confess to toying with the idea of hatching again. I still have my little incy in the garage which hatched the meeps last year. However, I find myself looking at more sophisticated incubators on ebay. The idea that you pop your fertile eggs in one day, press 'go' and then come back 3 weeks later to chicks is very tempting. Don't worry, I know that it requires more thought. Last year I was very lucky to find all of my cockerel chicks good homes. I am well aware that that is not always the case, and boy chickens will always be a part of hatching.
The thing is, with the right incubator and a bit of research, I'd love to have a go at hatching serama....
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Mt. Aubiose
Despite the fact that from tomorrow the weather is due to improve considerably, I picked today to thoroughly clean out the Palace run. I just couldn't look at the wet, dirty carpet of litter any more. The hens had started to wipe their feet on the way out in to the garden. Donning my funky chicken wellies, I trudged out to assess the situation. As I feared, the garden was a boggy mess dotted here and there with a decorative splodge of chicken excrement. Perfect.
Chickens are naturally curious creatures, and they do like to get under your feet when you're doing something potentially fatal to them. Clearing the run becomes a fun game where by the girls take it in turns to sit directly behind me, therefore risk being stood on, or sticking their head in the way of the swiftly descending rake which I use to pile up the used bedding. The more I waft, shush and generally try to get shot of them, the more fun it becomes. Luckily, everyone survived the clear out and Maeve even managed a triumphant poo right in the centre of the briefly spotless slabbed floor.
I was only harassed by the pekin tribe, though. The serama are proving reluctant to spend any time outside of the garage. While I'm sure that a glowering Gladys thundering towards you across the patio must be quite intimidating, I doubt it's the only reason. They really don't enjoy the wet, or the wind, or the cold. Basically, they behave like teenagers who just want to stay in bed all day. On saturday, the ever tolerant husband is going to fetch me a two tier hutch which will be placed outside and which Betsy and Vera will then call home. I'm hoping to a) get them used to seeing the waddling hoardes charging towards them, and b) to get them acclimatised to the great outdoors. Frankly, trying to locate them in the garage is getting rather tiresome. Especially as Vera has a penchant for burrowing.
Once everything was cleared out, cleaned and mite dusted, I dragged the bale of Aubiose to the run. It was only when I looked behind me that I realised that the bag had a hole in it, and that I had cut a muddy swathe across the lawn. Lovely. Slitting the bag open in the run, I emptied half of it on to the floor, threw in some corn and then retreated. By the time I had replaced the feeder and drinker, all of the pekins were exploring the shiny new landscape.
Initially, they all circled at the edges of the pile and scoffed the corn which was most accessible. However, it wasn't long before this easy source of grub was exhausted and the only way to get more was to start the ascent. Gingerly, various hens began the climb, muttering with alarm as the flooring slid beneath their feet. Mabel took up a supervisory spot on the perch and directed her underlings accordingly. Slowly, the aubiose was being redistributed about the run. With a sudden show of bravado, Gladys pushed on to the summit. She stood triumphant, a whole eighteen inches above the ground, and bokked a bit. Then she dug herself a hole turning the mountain in to a volcano. Just as her crazy frizzled head disappeared below the crater, Maeve rather maliciously turned her back on the spectacle and started furiously scratching. Gladys shrieked indignantly as ASBO Chicken attempted to bury her nemesis alive.
That chicken definitely has a master plan.
Chickens are naturally curious creatures, and they do like to get under your feet when you're doing something potentially fatal to them. Clearing the run becomes a fun game where by the girls take it in turns to sit directly behind me, therefore risk being stood on, or sticking their head in the way of the swiftly descending rake which I use to pile up the used bedding. The more I waft, shush and generally try to get shot of them, the more fun it becomes. Luckily, everyone survived the clear out and Maeve even managed a triumphant poo right in the centre of the briefly spotless slabbed floor.
I was only harassed by the pekin tribe, though. The serama are proving reluctant to spend any time outside of the garage. While I'm sure that a glowering Gladys thundering towards you across the patio must be quite intimidating, I doubt it's the only reason. They really don't enjoy the wet, or the wind, or the cold. Basically, they behave like teenagers who just want to stay in bed all day. On saturday, the ever tolerant husband is going to fetch me a two tier hutch which will be placed outside and which Betsy and Vera will then call home. I'm hoping to a) get them used to seeing the waddling hoardes charging towards them, and b) to get them acclimatised to the great outdoors. Frankly, trying to locate them in the garage is getting rather tiresome. Especially as Vera has a penchant for burrowing.
Once everything was cleared out, cleaned and mite dusted, I dragged the bale of Aubiose to the run. It was only when I looked behind me that I realised that the bag had a hole in it, and that I had cut a muddy swathe across the lawn. Lovely. Slitting the bag open in the run, I emptied half of it on to the floor, threw in some corn and then retreated. By the time I had replaced the feeder and drinker, all of the pekins were exploring the shiny new landscape.
Initially, they all circled at the edges of the pile and scoffed the corn which was most accessible. However, it wasn't long before this easy source of grub was exhausted and the only way to get more was to start the ascent. Gingerly, various hens began the climb, muttering with alarm as the flooring slid beneath their feet. Mabel took up a supervisory spot on the perch and directed her underlings accordingly. Slowly, the aubiose was being redistributed about the run. With a sudden show of bravado, Gladys pushed on to the summit. She stood triumphant, a whole eighteen inches above the ground, and bokked a bit. Then she dug herself a hole turning the mountain in to a volcano. Just as her crazy frizzled head disappeared below the crater, Maeve rather maliciously turned her back on the spectacle and started furiously scratching. Gladys shrieked indignantly as ASBO Chicken attempted to bury her nemesis alive.
That chicken definitely has a master plan.
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.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Doris Returns
After five days of being force fed Baytril, Doris has finally returned to the Palace. Her eyes are considerably better, she's eating and drinking and to be honest I doubt she's infectious. The other hens are all symptom free, something which I am thanking my lucky stars for. With an indignant squawk, Doris fled her garage quarantine and landed amongst her flock mates. They barely looked up to welcome their sister home. Business as usual, then.
Celia is now decidedly straggly. She has taken to hiding in the coop out of the elements, and perhaps embarassment. Her deleted plumage really is a very sorry sight. No matter how much she attempts to arrange her sparse feathers, there's no disguising the bald patches. Celia is half the chicken she was. As yet, her new quills haven't made an appearance so she doesn't seem in any discomfort. I predict that next week she will need some tlc.
It's very windy and dark here this morning, and on their release the girls spent a scant five minutes being blown about the garden before giving up and retreating back to the shelter of the Palace. Hilda made her customery exit from the run, which is a frantically flapping fly/long jump. She generally lands right in the middle of the gently ambling flock and causes chaos. Today the wind carried her a little further, and she strutted about a bit feeling quite clever. She was roundly ignored. Chickens aren't big on praising individual achievements.
For now, all is calm.
Celia is now decidedly straggly. She has taken to hiding in the coop out of the elements, and perhaps embarassment. Her deleted plumage really is a very sorry sight. No matter how much she attempts to arrange her sparse feathers, there's no disguising the bald patches. Celia is half the chicken she was. As yet, her new quills haven't made an appearance so she doesn't seem in any discomfort. I predict that next week she will need some tlc.
It's very windy and dark here this morning, and on their release the girls spent a scant five minutes being blown about the garden before giving up and retreating back to the shelter of the Palace. Hilda made her customery exit from the run, which is a frantically flapping fly/long jump. She generally lands right in the middle of the gently ambling flock and causes chaos. Today the wind carried her a little further, and she strutted about a bit feeling quite clever. She was roundly ignored. Chickens aren't big on praising individual achievements.
For now, all is calm.
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Painful Separations
Doris is now in residence in the garage. The hospital wing has swung in to action and she is not overly impressed. Since thursday evening, I have been squirting .2ml of Baytril down her throat twice a day, and she has been making her displeasure known. Her condition seems no worse but no better. She seems to spend most of her time sitting in the mini coop and I can't be sure that she's eating or drinking unless I put her out in to the hospital run. Then, she pecks about a bit, drinks and nibbles at her food. This could be a sign of serious illness. Equally, it could be a sign of a depressed hen who has been separated from her flock.
Her demeanour isn't hunched, and she is still carrying her tail high. I don't think she's lost any weight, and she doesn't feel thin or scrawny. I feel sorry for her, locked away on her own in the garage to be honest. However, I know that the best way of ensuring her recovery, and the rest of the flock's health, is to continue as I am. The rest of the girls seem well, but I am keeping a close eye. They also seem oblivious to Doris being missing. Chickens are not generally sentimental creatures.
Celia has finally given up on being broody. I was just congratulating myself for this development when I spotted a huge pile of feathers in the corner of the Palace. Celia has chosen January to go in to moult. I swear that bird's biological clock is wonky. She is back mixing with the flock, and belatedly duffing up Gladys and Hilda. When she can catch them. Which is not often. Those hens can move. I was stroking her yesterday while she chatted away to me when something rather embarassing happened. I tickled her under the chin, while surruptitiously checking her general condition. Being broody for weeks on end rarely results in a beauty queen. I gave her a quick once over and was pleased to find her healthy, if just a bit scruffy. I ran my hand down her back and through her tail. And when I lifted my hand, most of her tail came with it. It was like a dandelion clock getting caught in a strong breeze. I looked down at my hand full of feathers, and looked at the hen in shock. For her part, she seemed to register from my reaction that something was up. Straining her neck around, she clocked her own bald bum. I've never seen a hen do a double take before, but Celia was clearly astonished. She looked at me, looked at the empty air where her once fine cushion had been, looked at the feathers in my hand and then squawked with horror. We both felt a bit awkward at this point, I suspect. I couldn't very well stick Celia's bum back on, and she couldn't easily walk away with any dignity. It was a stalemate. Being the human, I decided it was my responsibility to bring this encounter to an end. I took my handful of Celia to the composter, giving her the perfect opportunity to scuttle away in to the shrubbery to inspect the damage.
I later saw her rearranging what was left, much in the way a balding man might try and fashion a comb over. Poor chook.
(In completely unrelated news, I wanted to let everyone know about Hedwig. Hedwig was the little frizzle cockerel I hatched in the summer who I initially christened Nigel. He went to live with a lovely Twitter friend and was spoiled rotten. Sadly, Hedwig was found dead yesterday. With no obvious signs of illness, and no sign of attack, it seems it was just his time. My sympathies go to his owner, who I know adored the crazy little shuttlecock. I'll admit to feeling a little sad at his passing, but also know that his short life would have been extremely priviliged.)
Her demeanour isn't hunched, and she is still carrying her tail high. I don't think she's lost any weight, and she doesn't feel thin or scrawny. I feel sorry for her, locked away on her own in the garage to be honest. However, I know that the best way of ensuring her recovery, and the rest of the flock's health, is to continue as I am. The rest of the girls seem well, but I am keeping a close eye. They also seem oblivious to Doris being missing. Chickens are not generally sentimental creatures.
Celia has finally given up on being broody. I was just congratulating myself for this development when I spotted a huge pile of feathers in the corner of the Palace. Celia has chosen January to go in to moult. I swear that bird's biological clock is wonky. She is back mixing with the flock, and belatedly duffing up Gladys and Hilda. When she can catch them. Which is not often. Those hens can move. I was stroking her yesterday while she chatted away to me when something rather embarassing happened. I tickled her under the chin, while surruptitiously checking her general condition. Being broody for weeks on end rarely results in a beauty queen. I gave her a quick once over and was pleased to find her healthy, if just a bit scruffy. I ran my hand down her back and through her tail. And when I lifted my hand, most of her tail came with it. It was like a dandelion clock getting caught in a strong breeze. I looked down at my hand full of feathers, and looked at the hen in shock. For her part, she seemed to register from my reaction that something was up. Straining her neck around, she clocked her own bald bum. I've never seen a hen do a double take before, but Celia was clearly astonished. She looked at me, looked at the empty air where her once fine cushion had been, looked at the feathers in my hand and then squawked with horror. We both felt a bit awkward at this point, I suspect. I couldn't very well stick Celia's bum back on, and she couldn't easily walk away with any dignity. It was a stalemate. Being the human, I decided it was my responsibility to bring this encounter to an end. I took my handful of Celia to the composter, giving her the perfect opportunity to scuttle away in to the shrubbery to inspect the damage.
I later saw her rearranging what was left, much in the way a balding man might try and fashion a comb over. Poor chook.
(In completely unrelated news, I wanted to let everyone know about Hedwig. Hedwig was the little frizzle cockerel I hatched in the summer who I initially christened Nigel. He went to live with a lovely Twitter friend and was spoiled rotten. Sadly, Hedwig was found dead yesterday. With no obvious signs of illness, and no sign of attack, it seems it was just his time. My sympathies go to his owner, who I know adored the crazy little shuttlecock. I'll admit to feeling a little sad at his passing, but also know that his short life would have been extremely priviliged.)
Friday, 31 December 2010
So, That Was 2010
Happy New Year! Nearly. As we approach the end of 2010, I find myself looking back at an eventful year in chicken keeping. This year, I lost my beloved Mini which was rubbish, but hatched my first ever chicks, which was amazing. I said goodbye to the Convent, and hello to the amazing Palace. I waved the Silkie sisters off to their fab new home, and welcomed four new girls. One of which was my much coveted frizzle. I performed emergency first aid on ASBO Chicken and kept all of my fingers (I am particularly proud of that). Yep, it's been interesting.
So, what does 2011 have in store? It's probably best that I don't know to be honest. I find that things run more smoothly if disasters are sprung upon me rather than giving me time to panic. Doris is currently sporting another bubbly eye minus any other symptoms. Rather than running off to the vet, I've decided to ignore the attention seeking faker and see if it miraculously improves. Just so that you don't think I am completely heartless, you should know that Doris has form. She also has a massive amount of tonic in her drinking water right now.
I hope this year has been kind to you, and that 2011 is downright generous.
Celia was knocking about, but managed to evade the camera. Her broodiness seems to be over. At long bloody last.
So, what does 2011 have in store? It's probably best that I don't know to be honest. I find that things run more smoothly if disasters are sprung upon me rather than giving me time to panic. Doris is currently sporting another bubbly eye minus any other symptoms. Rather than running off to the vet, I've decided to ignore the attention seeking faker and see if it miraculously improves. Just so that you don't think I am completely heartless, you should know that Doris has form. She also has a massive amount of tonic in her drinking water right now.
I hope this year has been kind to you, and that 2011 is downright generous.
Maeve aka ASBO Chicken and her incredible swivelling neck.
Gladys at her frizzly best.
Purdy, the only layer at time of writing (so she's my favourite).
Doris, Maeve and Mabel.
A super curious Hilda.
My beautiful Maude.
Purdy and Mabel.
Hilda demolishing my alpine trough. Sigh.
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, 11 December 2010
The Palace Is Suitably Adorned
Now that the snow and ice have made a temporary retreat, the ever tolerant husband and I got outside this morning to clean the Palace run. The girls took the opportunity to have some time rampaging around the garden which was lovely to see. The poor things haven't left the Palace in over a week. They don't do the cold, white stuff. The garden has gone from a scene of serene, beautiful winter to a recreation of the Somme. I'm sure I used to have a lawn under the mud somewhere.
On a happier note, may I present the unveiling of the Palace's fab new sign:
On a happier note, may I present the unveiling of the Palace's fab new sign:
A very talented Twitter friend made it for me, and I love it.
That's Mabel and Maude starring in paint form. The Mighty Mille's deserve recognition.
I am ridiculously pleased with it, and have deliberately placed it on the end of the Palace which gets the least sunlight to prevent fading. It's also visible from the kitchen, and every time I see it I grin. The ever tolerant husband is bemused but glad that I am no longer hassling him to make me a sign.
Now for the solar powered fairy lights.
Friday, 3 December 2010
Seriously Unimpressed
When I look out in to my garden, I see a six inch covering of snow. Everything is white and sparkly and beautiful. Icicles hang from the Palace's roof and frosted spiders webs decorate the fence. Where once there was water there is now ice. And where once there were eight chickens pootling about the garden there are now....well, no chickens pootling about the garden.
The chooks are refusing point blank to engage with the weather in any way, shape or form. They make brief excursions out in to the run to eat and drink, but that's it. The rest of the time they are holed up in the coop no doubt muttering darkly about the lack of sunshine and heat. I make frequent visits to break the ice in the drinker and check on my feathered friends. No amount of bribery will bring them out of the Palace. I even tried throwing an enticing handful of corn out on to the frozen tundra, but they watched the arc of the treat fly through the air like specatators at Wimbledon and then stared at me. The message was clear: you'll have to do better than that.
Keeping them clean and warm has been a bit of a challenge if I'm honest. The newspaper I use under the perch was frozen to the coop floor this morning and when it finally came loose, peeled off in a solid sheet. Thankfully the copious amount of poo was similairly frozen and adhered to said sheet. I found myself in the strange position of trying to fold this befouled tabloid in to the compost bin. It wasn't as brittle as you'd expect. The girls watched all of this from the perches in the run and complained bitterly about being temporarily evicted from their quarters. Replacing the paper and perch, I threw in a few handfuls of woodshavings to help with the extra dung being produced by eight housebound hens.
Here's hoping that the arctic conditions let up soon.
The chooks are refusing point blank to engage with the weather in any way, shape or form. They make brief excursions out in to the run to eat and drink, but that's it. The rest of the time they are holed up in the coop no doubt muttering darkly about the lack of sunshine and heat. I make frequent visits to break the ice in the drinker and check on my feathered friends. No amount of bribery will bring them out of the Palace. I even tried throwing an enticing handful of corn out on to the frozen tundra, but they watched the arc of the treat fly through the air like specatators at Wimbledon and then stared at me. The message was clear: you'll have to do better than that.
Keeping them clean and warm has been a bit of a challenge if I'm honest. The newspaper I use under the perch was frozen to the coop floor this morning and when it finally came loose, peeled off in a solid sheet. Thankfully the copious amount of poo was similairly frozen and adhered to said sheet. I found myself in the strange position of trying to fold this befouled tabloid in to the compost bin. It wasn't as brittle as you'd expect. The girls watched all of this from the perches in the run and complained bitterly about being temporarily evicted from their quarters. Replacing the paper and perch, I threw in a few handfuls of woodshavings to help with the extra dung being produced by eight housebound hens.
Here's hoping that the arctic conditions let up soon.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Thank Heavens For The Palace
More snow has descended on us overnight. The girls have refused to leave the coop for the third day in a row and only venture out to grab food and water. This is my first winter with the Palace, and I have to say I am hugely grateful for it. Last winter I spent hours clearing the Convent's run and weighing down tarpaulin to keep the chooks dry and draught free. Now I don't have to do anything except defrost the drinker regularly. The Palace is worth every penny.
If you look carefully, you will see eight small hens scoffing porridge.
The snow has dared to breach the Palace run walls, but the hens are ignoring it.
Obviously bored of waiting for me to sort out some festive decorations, the Palace has provided its own. And very nice they are too.
I am not sponsored by Smiths Sectional Buildings, but I would highly recommend them if you're looking for good quality housing.
If anyone from Smiths is reading this, I am not adverse to being sponsored and being paid in chocolate. Ahem.
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