Half Way Point

So, today is the serama hatching experiment's half way point. And I must confess to being a very bad chicken keeper. I just very quickly candled Vera's eggs while she took a food and water break. I used a tiny LED torch for mere seconds, so heat and light disruption were minimal. One egg is definitely clear, with no development whatsoever. The other two are more promising. Air sac's present and correct at the blunt end and a dark, possibly moving mass towards the pointy end. I replaced all three eggs before Vera noticed they were missing, and watched her for a moment to make sure she would settle again. Thankfully, she has. I am now wondering if I should remove the obvious dud, or whether that would upset her. Any advice from more experienced chicken people most appreciated.

Having candled Vera's eggs, it was but a moments work to briefly candle the incy eggs. Disappointingly, only 3 of the eggs in the incubator show air sacs and development. The other six are completely clear. Whether this is down to the postal system, or a cockerel not doing his job, is hard to say. So now I know that I have five precious serama embryo's at the half way point. The odds aren't great, but I shall persevere.

In other news, the flock has been a gobby nightmare. Spring has well and truly sprung, and the girls seem to think that the best possible way of celebrating this is to screech their heads off en masse at 6am. Not good. So last night I shut them in the coop hoping that the dark would keep them quiet. No such luck. At 6.30am I was ejected from the bed by the ever tolerant husband to 'shut those bloody hens up'. When I arrived, blearily, at the coop I found a general air of narkedness paired with the occassional highly indignant bok-ARK. They had clearly got up for breakfast, and finding their way barred, decided to complain loudly to the management. I'll be glad when this spring fever has passed, and no doubt so will the neighbours.

I leave you with the youngest's interpretation of an easter chick. Bet you can't guess who.

Gladys Gets Vocal

Oh God. For nearly two and a half years there has been a clear leader in the gobby chicken leaderboard: Doris. She has owned this dubious accolade with her shrill baby seagull impression. Many a tea towel has been shook in her direction in a bid to shut her up when a passing cloud or rustling leaf has spooked her. But now she has competition. And, dear Lord, it's an assault on the eardrums.

If Doris sounds like a baby seagull, Gladys sounds like a cross between Alan Carr and one of these things:

Yep, it's a skeksis. From 'The Dark Crystal'. It makes a sort of 'Hmmmmmm?' noise, as if curiously inquiring. It's a sound that lingers, just past the limit of human endurance. I have a skeksis impersonator living in my garden. And she is LOUD. And she really likes to sing.

This is a problem. There is currently no known way of muzzling a gobby chicken. She is impervious to the tea towel flappage. Chasing her only makes her squawk more. Treats merely stall her ghastly song. Just yesterday, as she began her unlovely serenade, the ever tolerant husband looked up from his paper and inquired: 'Who the hell is being strangled out there?'. I pretended I couldn't hear anything. I doubt this will work for long.

So, wat to do? Well, there's nothing I can do to be honest. I can only hope and pray that Gladys is making such a racket because she is coming in to lay, and that once spring has sprung she'll settle down. When Hilda goes to lay her egg, her frizzled mate has taken to sitting with her, shrieking encouragement. Even the other hens seem irritated by Gladys's need to be heard, and mabel has taken to chasing her around the garden in an effort to make her breathless just so that she shuts up. It doesn't work, merely delays the inevitable.

I am beginning to hope that chickens can get laryngitis.

Operation Blackout

No one wants to be woken up at 5.30 on a sunday morning. No one. Unfortunately, Margot doesn't seem to understand this. So, yesterday morning, at this ungodly hour, she decided to go off on a mad bokking session. Just for a laugh, Doris and Kiki joined in. The ever tolerant husband and I shot up the bed, looked at each other and both said 'Birds!'. Much scrambling around for dressing gowns followed, all the while the decidedly shrill dawn chorus continued. Thundering down the stairs, I tried to prepare myself for foxy carnage. Having the coop on grass is not conductive to peace of mind, and I am paranoid.

I managed to unlock the door, and flew outside with my heart in my mouth. There was no fox. Or any sign of digging. What there was, were three extremely pleased with themselves gobby hens. They stopped 'singing' and lined up by the run door. I glared at them. They stared back. I turned my back on the little madams and went back to bed.

However, I couldn't get back to sleep. I lay there cringing, waiting for them to start up their unholy warbling again. All day, I half expected a furious hammering on the front door where I would find an extremely unhappy neighbour. I wouldn't blame them. Strangely, the day passed without interruption. This didn't make me complacent.

Hens gently bokking is a lovely sound, but squawking, gobby, banshee hens are not music to the ears. With a resigned sigh, I covered the 'window' in to the convent with a bin bag and resolved to close the pop hole until a reasonable time. At 7.30 last night, the chooks put themselves to bed. At 8pm, I locked them in.

I spent an anxious night, hoping and praying that they would stay quiet in the dark coop. At 7.15 this morning, I let them out. They ambled blearily in to the light and tucked in to their breakfast. The first bok wasn't heard until 9.30. So, from now on, my girls are under house arrest until a decent time of day.

And yes, I do feel guilty.