It Has All Worked Out Brilliantly

Yesterday was a very odd day for me. The peeps and the silkies were all rehomed with wonderful new owners within a matter of hours. While I knew that the silkies were going, the rapid leaving of the peeps was a bit of a shock. It shouldn't be, really, because a tiny pekin chick is just about the cutest thing ever next to a kitten, but still. They left home at five weeks of age, which is surely a record. The frizzle left first, and is now named Hedwig. The lavender and the black went to the same marvellous home as the silkies, and are now known as Beau and Peep. I wish them all long, happy, hen filled lives. I heard this morning that the silkies have slotted in seamlessly to their new flock, and are being courted by a silkie cockerel who can't believe his luck. I hope that they have found their best fit home.

So, last night I found myself shutting my six pekin girls in to the suddenly cavernous Palace. They were completely unmoved by the silkies departure, and things have certainly got a lot quieter in the back garden. I happily cleaned and disinfected the brooder in preparation for today. Because today, my frizzle came home.

I woke up this morning with that bubbly, excited feeling in my stomach. I joyously roused the rest of the household, and grinned my way through opening the coop and making breakfast. At this point my bubble was well and truly burst. My eldest child was unwell, and definitely not up to a 180 mile round trip to the breeder. I could have cried, or at the very least thrown a very unattractive tantrum.

Once again, the amazing ever tolerant husband stepped in, and with barely a grimace swept out of the house with the youngest on a mission to collect my frizzle. He is my hero. Two hours later, my youngest called me to say that my frizzle and a new white hen were on their way home. I might have danced around the kitchen at this point, but to be honest I can't remember. I eagerly awaited their return, and at long last they pulled in to the drive. I rushed out to catch my first glimpse.

I fell in love at first sight. My black pekin frizzle will henceforth be known as Gladys, and her white smooth feathered pal has been named Hilda by the youngest. They are absolutely gorgeous. Within minutes of being introduced in to their new home, they were exploring and eating out of our hands. They are marvellously friendly. Gladys is pleasingly scruffy, and as soft as a feather duster. Hilda is so white she hurts your eyes, although I suspect that over the coming winter months that will be rectified.

I am over the moon.

Moving Day

Right now, at this moment, I have eleven chickens secreted about the place. By the end of the day, I should have only six or seven. Yes, today the silkies are going to their new home, and taking a boy chick with them. The lavender lad, aka the marvellously inappropriate 'Penelope', is moving out at the tender age of five weeks. Just before he leaves home, though, the black frizzle will be tripping off to his new home in the Derbyshire peaks, where he will no doubt rule the roost and have a brilliant time. That leaves me with just the little black chick.

The straight feathered black chap was the first to hatch, and up until just two weeks ago showed all the signs of being a girl. (Mind you, so did the lavender. It appears that feather sexing is not the most reliable way of sexing baby pekins). I had a suspicion that the black lad would be the hardest to rehome. He doesn't have the wow factor of the exploding frizzle, and he isn't the appealing colour of the lavender (who I suspect will be truly stunning as an adult). However, I shall persevere. Just this morning, I recieved an email in response to an ad asking if I still had any pekin cockerels. I have replied, bigging up the little dude, so here's hoping.

The timing of all this moving out is particularly fortuitous. Tomorrow, the amazing ever tolerant husband will drive me nearly ninety miles to the pekin breeder, where I will finally get my mitts on a pekin frizzle. She is eleven weeks old, and black, and definitely a girl! The youngest is allowed to pick her a straight feathered friend, so expect pics early next week. I am super excited, and the knowledge that I will soon have chicks I can keep is keeping me chipper for the inevitable sadness of saying goodbye to the peeps.

It's all go.

All Change

Things are changing in the Palace. After a year of silkie ownership, I have to finally confess to not being that keen. I have tried to find the silkie sisters endearing, or sweet, or charming, but it's not happening. They are either broody (which is fair enough), or running laps around the garden squawking their heads off and sounding like deranged turkeys (which isn't). The pekins have always stayed somewhat aloof from the manic feather dusters, and I have made my decision. Kiki and Margot are being rehomed.

I think the main problem is that I adore my pekins. I love the way they stand barely 6 inches tall, yet have the self importance of an ostrich. I admire their feisty, narky attitude. Watching them waddle about the garden at high speed after a tasty bug makes me smile. The haughty expression on their faces if I catch them in the greenhouse endears them to me each and every time (the vandals). The fact that Maeve (aka ASBO chicken) openly growls at me, who must look like a giant to her, if I dare to block out her light when she's sunbathing is, quite frankly, brilliant. In short, I have found my poultry best fit. And it is a small bird with a ginormous personality.

In comparison, the silkies seem rather dim. Actually, that's me being generous. They are skittish, highly strung and prone to screaming fits for no apparent reason. I can't detect any discernable personalities. To be fair, this is probably because they have spent a great deal of time pancaked in the nest box. However, they have never really calmed down to the human presence. They panic if the children go outside to play, unlike the majestic pekins who stroll away nonchalantly when a football comes barrelling towards them. Indeed, the pekins have even been known to tolerate rides on skateboards, or being carted around the garden by the youngest while he prattles away about bakugan. All has been tolerated with dignity. The silkies don't enjoy this attention at all.

So, I have advertised the silkies for sale. With any luck, they will be rehomed with someone who can make use of their broody abilities and who truly loves the breed. They will go together, and although the youngest is a bit put out (Kiki is officially his bird), I think that the neighbours will throw a party.

In other rehoming news, the peeps have all been confirmed as boys. I have also advertised them, and hope that I can manage to find them all homes before they commence doodling. They come off heat this week, so hopefully there are three new homes waiting with harems for my chaps. I am visiting them at a bare minimum, and hope that it won't be too heart wrenching to see them go.

I won't be hatching any more this year, if at all. If I decide to replace the silkies (who am I kidding? If?) I am hoping to source some young females. I will allow the youngest to pick one, as his new hen. Secretly, he still hankers after Belinda, and I hope that I can find him a suitable replacement.

I am still hoping for a frizzle.

Summer Rain

Not long after I wrote the last entry, we had a rather spectacular thunderstorm. I sat in the kitchen with friends, drinking a lovely cup of tea, having a nice chat and watching the monsoon through the patio doors. It was a serious downpour, and the patio was soon under a skim of water. Oooh, I thought, that's impressive. The bathroom fitter wandered in and told me that the garage was a bit flooded. This isn't unusual, as we often get some water under the garage door. I blithely shrugged it off.

This was a mistake, it turns out. The garage was under several inches of water, which explains why the bathroom fitter looked at me like I was crackers when I smiled and nodded instead of rushing outside with a bucket. When my friends left, a good twenty minutes later, I thought perhaps I ought to check on the peeps.

I found them literally splashing about in their brooder. The woodshavings had expanded, making a deep, waterlogged mire. The peeps were bravely battling the elements, being tossed about by the tide in my garage. With a shriek I grabbed them up. They all looked at me in an interested sort of way, and then attempted to take off back to their watery assault course. The cat carrier was near to hand, so I threw in some dry wood sahvings and deposited the protesting peeps. Once they were safely placed on the kitchen table, next to the radiator, they instantly fell asleep. Far too much excitement for one afternoon.

The ever tolerant husband sprinted home from work, and we set about sweeping our new indoor pool out in to the drain. Several telephone directories were employed in helping to mop up the residue, and I put the heat lamp on full to dry out the brooder area. After two hours of very wet work, I could return the peeps to their mostly dry abode. They seem unharmed by their paddle, thankfully, but have since learned to fly. Probably wise.

Doris has a slightly swollen eyelid, and I am watching her with mild concern. After everything that happened with poor Mini, I am reluctant to even consider that this might be the same kind of infection. My past experiences have led me to immediately consider the worst. However, the other girls all seem healthy, and Doris is no longer coughing, so it's a case of fingers crossed.

I did find a broken egg in the nest box this morning. The shell appeared to be just membrane, so I'm assuming that this is my first 'softy'. Eggs are sometimes laid without a hard shell, although this is more common in a hen just coming in to lay or a hen nearing the end of her laying life. I'm not sure of the culprit, and all seem well enough. I'm thinking it could be Purdy, who is over her broody spell, or Mabel, who has been strange with her alying habits for a while.

We shall see.

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.