How To Wash A Chicken's Knickers

It's a beautiful spring day here and uncharacteristically warm. On such days, my mind rather strangely turns to knickers, and the washing thereof. For you see, chickens have a design flaw. They have lots of fluffy feathering around their bum. And that means that they get mucky on occassion. Being without the ability to use toilet roll, the clean up operation falls to you, dear Chicken Keeper.

I use a large builders bucket, and fill it with six inches of warm, soapy water. I then try and look innocent as I amble towards the dirty hen. Unfortunately, chickens aren't nearly as stupid as most people think they are, and if they've already had experience of the bidet they will not be overly cooperative. Today I had Mabel, Hilda, Doris and Celia in need of a spa treatment. I collared Hilda first, and she managed to thoroughly drench me by splashing about in the water and shrieking like I was attempting to drown her. Once she'd calmed down, it's a fairly simple procedure. I just work any dirt out of the hen's feathers gently with my fingers. The warm water makes this a fairly easy if unglamourous task. Once Hilda was clean, I placed her on the patio. She stalked off wetly, leaving a trail of bubbles in her wake. A wet pekin is a sorry sight, and rather resembles someone trying to walk in snow shoes.

The other hens were rather less dramatic and it was all over and done with quite quickly. The hens who had escaped the bath sat smugly on the perches in the Palace run, preening their fluffy tail feathers. Hilda sat next to them, hunched up like a vulture, and periodically shook her tail and sprayed the dry hens in an act of pure vengeance. Much muttering ensued.

This isn't just an aesthetic procedure. As we move in to spring, the fly population will be on the increase and it isn't just rabbits that can suffer from fly strike. My advice will always be: see a dirty pair of drawers, fetch the builders bucket. They won't like it much, but it's a basic welfare issue. It's also worth noting that feathers are like hair, they can be cut with no pain to the owner. If you have a particularly bouffant chicken bum in your flock, sometimes a quick trim can cure the problem. They do look odd when you do this, though. And disgruntled.

As one of the older hens, Doris has learnt a few tricks. When released from the bucket, she shook herself and then ran straight down to the greenhouse. She is currently laid out on the greenhouse path, enjoying her own personal sauna. It's rather disconcerting from a distance, as she rather looks like a discarded feather duster. However, in an hour or two she will unpeel herself from the ground and will be back to her glamourous and bouncy self.

Where as I think Hilda's vulture stance is here for the day.

Annual Wash Day

I've been putting it off, but it's no good. Preparing myself with a deep breath, I ran a bucket of warm, soapy water. The hens watched me carry said bucket out on to the patio, and en masse decided to leg it in to the Palace. They weren't exactly sure what the bucket meant, but they knew it didn't contain corn.

Several of the girls have been walking about with dirty knickers. Now, in the winter, this isn't a major issue (although, of course, it can be a welfare matter), but in the summer it becomes a more serious problem. Fly strike is a real risk to the hens, and the best way to protect the girls is to wash their undercrackers. They do not enjoy this, as a rule.

Steeling myself, I went to fetch Maude, by far the most laid back hen. Unfortunately for me, just as I was about to scoop her up, the youngest presented me with Maeve, by far the most narky hen. Not wishing to show fear to my children, I nonchalantly brought her over to the bucket. She eyeballed me, and muttered a low threat which roughly translated went along the lines of 'If you go through with this, I will remember. I will remember, and I will exact revenge. Terrible, unthinkable revenge'. Ignoring her chickenny hard talk, I plunged her in to the soap. Remarkably, she sat up to her neck in the foam and allowed me to clean her bum feathers. After a few minutes of soaking in the warm water, the tiny poo balls had melted away, so I released the beast. She stood, dripping, in front of me. A wet chicken is a truly pitiful sight. As the suds slid from her foot feathers, she stretched out her wings, shook herself, glared at me over her shoulder and did her best to stalk off with her dignity intact. She failed. The bath had flattened all of her underfluff, leaving her bald chicken bottom on show for all to see. The children nearly had a fit laughing.

Maude, Kiki, Doris, Mabel and Purdy all followed suit. Kiki was by far the least impressed, and on release legged it around the garden leaving a trail of suds in her wake. This new, slimline Kiki went like a bullet. Mabel attempted to walk regally from the bucket, but found that her saturated leg feathers made anything more than a shuffle impossible. Margot and Celia escaped bath time, as their undercarriages were clean as a whistle. They are obviously more lady like in their toilet habits.

So now I have a very soggy, skinny looking flock. The bathed beauties are all flattened on the lawn, getting a solar blow dry. The other two are watching from the dust bath, and probably sniggering.

Now I just have to worry about Maeve's come back.