Well, this is novel. I am writing this in the midst of a genuinely distressing chicken related catastrophe. Oh no, don't worry. All ten inhabitants of the Palace are hale and hearty. It is yours truly who is suffering right now. Relieved, aren't you?
Yes, I am suffering. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It's because I have actual chicken poo in my hair and I can't right now wash it. Yes, you read that right. Actual, authentic chicken crap. In my hair. How, you ask? Why, let me elaborate.
About an hour ago, I decided to clean out the hens. I donned my trusty chicken cleaning coat, my garden shoes and the puppy. Tethering said puppy to the outside tap, I got on with it. I picked up the perch block and relaised my hands were wet. Looking down, I saw that the perch block was somewhat...splattered. Lovely. But being the trooper that I am, I wiped my hands and soldiered on. Now, it's windy here today in the midlands, and the newspapers and debris was blowing about a fair bit. I battled with the coop door getting it closed as a particularly frisky gust tore through the garden. But eventually, all was clean, secure and dealt with. I fetched the puppy and came inside where I immediately scrubbed my hands with half a dispenser of soap.
Yet I could still smell chicken poo. I checked my clothes, my shoes, the puppy. Nope, no sign. Yet every so often, an unpleasant perfume would waft up at me. With determination, I splashed bleach in the mop bucket and washed the floor. Ha, I thought, now I have conquered the poo where no poo should be. Triumphantly, I tucked my hair behind my ear. And was swiftly smacked in the face with the stench of excrement. Oh. My. God. The wayward poo was IN MY HAIR. I scrubbed at it with a bit of kitchen towel, shuddering. I must have tucked my hair back with a pooey hand without even noticing. Eugh.
I did a little dance of disgust, and was just heading upstairs to the shower when the doorbell went. It was the heating engineer, come to fix the radiator upstairs. An appointment we've waited a month for. So, reader, I let him in. I smiled and was polite. All the time there is poo in my hair. I made him tea. Knowing that less than an inch from my face was the remnents of poultry excrement. And I can't wash it out until the heating engineer leaves. I suppose I could mention to him my predicament and stick my head in the sink, but as he could see my dance of disgust through the window I suspect he already thinks I'm odd. There's no socially acceptable way of mentioning that you have animal faeces on your head.
Right now, reader, as I am writing this post, the puppy is sat on my lap intently sniffing my hair and then looking at me in utter amazement. Even he isn't such a skanky git, and he licks his own bum.
If the engineer doesn't leave soon, I will be forced to shave my head.
Showing posts with label poo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poo. Show all posts
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
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.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Autumn Broodies Are Bonkers
Purdy has decided to join Celia in her broody psychosis. I have decided to blame this completely ridiculous (not to mention totally unsuitable) state of affairs on the fact that these two ladies are not yet a year old. They are obviously in the grip of adolescent, hormone induced unreasonableness. A more seasoned hen wouldn't dream of bothering with all this pallaver in October.
Daily, I turf them out of the nest box and rescue any eggs (Out of eight chickens, I now have one laying girl. ASBO Chicken is still going strong and keeping me in cake). Purdy leaps up, shrieks her head off and runs laps around the garden. She is generally persued by the mighty Mille's, who for some reason favour the galloping Purdy with their sexual favors. She is not a particularly willing participant.
Celia remains flattened on the lawn, like an elaborate cow pat. I nudge her with my foot, and recieve growls for my troubles. I have learnt that approaching her with my hands is painful and fruitless. Gradually, I shove the spaced out chicken across the grass. Maeve usually wanders over at this point to deliver a few sharp pecks to Celia's head. Even this rough treatment merely earns her a hiss. I shoo Maeve away, and stick my welly under the reluctant silver partridge in an attempt to get her up on her feet. Eventually, she stands like someone awakening from a deep sleep. She staggers a short distance, and usually defecates in a truly spectacular fashion.
Broody droppings are always vile, but Celia has the ability to create something so mind bogglingly enormous and fetid that it has to be seen to be believed. The first time I came across one of these ginormo-poo's I thought it must have been left by a fox and became quite alarmed. She stands next to her creation, looking at me as if to say 'See? Are you happy now?!'.
I can only imagine that if I didn't force her from the nest occassionally, she might actually explode.
Daily, I turf them out of the nest box and rescue any eggs (Out of eight chickens, I now have one laying girl. ASBO Chicken is still going strong and keeping me in cake). Purdy leaps up, shrieks her head off and runs laps around the garden. She is generally persued by the mighty Mille's, who for some reason favour the galloping Purdy with their sexual favors. She is not a particularly willing participant.
Celia remains flattened on the lawn, like an elaborate cow pat. I nudge her with my foot, and recieve growls for my troubles. I have learnt that approaching her with my hands is painful and fruitless. Gradually, I shove the spaced out chicken across the grass. Maeve usually wanders over at this point to deliver a few sharp pecks to Celia's head. Even this rough treatment merely earns her a hiss. I shoo Maeve away, and stick my welly under the reluctant silver partridge in an attempt to get her up on her feet. Eventually, she stands like someone awakening from a deep sleep. She staggers a short distance, and usually defecates in a truly spectacular fashion.
Broody droppings are always vile, but Celia has the ability to create something so mind bogglingly enormous and fetid that it has to be seen to be believed. The first time I came across one of these ginormo-poo's I thought it must have been left by a fox and became quite alarmed. She stands next to her creation, looking at me as if to say 'See? Are you happy now?!'.
I can only imagine that if I didn't force her from the nest occassionally, she might actually explode.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
The Poo Problem
It has been a glorious week here. The sun has shone from sun up to sun down, and the girls have grumbled about the heat and hidden in the shrubbery. The air has been filled with the sound of children playing, dogs barking, grumpy hens and the entire fly population of western Europe. Oh yes, chicken poo is apparently haute cuisine for blue bottles. Yuck.
Obviously, this cannot continue. I have been spraying diluted citronella essential oil around the garden like a demented...well, chicken keeper. The hens watch with amusement as I slowly make my way across the lawn, sweeping up their little presents with my dust pan and brush, and watering in the runny ones. I do this at least three times a day. Usually, I am followed by the chooks, who are keen to observe my antics in case I have food. In the course of our tortuously slow progress, they inevitably have to poo a bit. Chicken faeces has become a major talking point in this house.
On the plus side, these measures seem to have helped a good bit. There has been a definite reduction on the insect activity front. Also, the lawn looks fabulous, which I am putting down to all the free and fresh manure.
Oh, and Mini has been in the broody cage, and has now rejoined her flock mates. Just in time to add to the manure mountain.
Obviously, this cannot continue. I have been spraying diluted citronella essential oil around the garden like a demented...well, chicken keeper. The hens watch with amusement as I slowly make my way across the lawn, sweeping up their little presents with my dust pan and brush, and watering in the runny ones. I do this at least three times a day. Usually, I am followed by the chooks, who are keen to observe my antics in case I have food. In the course of our tortuously slow progress, they inevitably have to poo a bit. Chicken faeces has become a major talking point in this house.
On the plus side, these measures seem to have helped a good bit. There has been a definite reduction on the insect activity front. Also, the lawn looks fabulous, which I am putting down to all the free and fresh manure.
Oh, and Mini has been in the broody cage, and has now rejoined her flock mates. Just in time to add to the manure mountain.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Garden v Farmyard
I had this notion that I could keep chickens in my back garden as sort of living statues. They would artfully pose in the borders, adding a certain rustic charm to the view from the kitchen window. I would occassionally throw them a handful of corn, and they would cluck gently all day before taking themselves off to bed at dusk, so that we could sit outside and have a barbie. Oh, the naivety.
Chickens are only like living statues if the statues in question leave their own weight in poo all over the garden. Seriously, they are manure machines. And they don't stick to the borders. In fact, their absolute favourite place to poo is just outside the back door, where they stand glaring in at me until I fetch them something nice to eat. I can regularly be seen sweeping the decking and lawn with a yard brush, looking like a complete fruitcake. The chooks watch me with interest, before running over to the newly swept ground to check for interesting and tasty bugs. To make room for these delicious morsels, they will of course need to poo. Great.
We have a charming wooden coop for the hens, that I have nicknamed 'The Convent'. It has an attatched covered run, enabling me to leave the girls outside if I'm not at home. In the run, I use horse bedding. They love to dig/scratch around in this stuff, and it absorbs the poo (Poo is becoming a bit of a theme, don't you think?) Despite the ever tolerant husband putting a little enclosure around the bottom of the run, they still manage to fire an enormous amount of this bedding out into the garden. Seriously, it's carnage. Now that they are laying, they also like to get lumps of this bedding and deposit it around the garden as temporary nests.
The hens and I are at war over ownership of the garden. At first glance, it appears that they are winning.
Chickens are only like living statues if the statues in question leave their own weight in poo all over the garden. Seriously, they are manure machines. And they don't stick to the borders. In fact, their absolute favourite place to poo is just outside the back door, where they stand glaring in at me until I fetch them something nice to eat. I can regularly be seen sweeping the decking and lawn with a yard brush, looking like a complete fruitcake. The chooks watch me with interest, before running over to the newly swept ground to check for interesting and tasty bugs. To make room for these delicious morsels, they will of course need to poo. Great.
We have a charming wooden coop for the hens, that I have nicknamed 'The Convent'. It has an attatched covered run, enabling me to leave the girls outside if I'm not at home. In the run, I use horse bedding. They love to dig/scratch around in this stuff, and it absorbs the poo (Poo is becoming a bit of a theme, don't you think?) Despite the ever tolerant husband putting a little enclosure around the bottom of the run, they still manage to fire an enormous amount of this bedding out into the garden. Seriously, it's carnage. Now that they are laying, they also like to get lumps of this bedding and deposit it around the garden as temporary nests.
The hens and I are at war over ownership of the garden. At first glance, it appears that they are winning.
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