Now that the summer appears to have arrived, we're all spending a lot more time outside. The children are playing out with their friends, and constantly running back and forth via the side gate. I'm forever pottering around the garden, changing things here and using scary electrical equipment there. The girls are not impressed.
I suppose, from their point of view, it must seem terribly unfair. All through the long, miserable winter, they were allowed to wander wherever they liked. There was lots of bare earth to dig and scratch about in, and I only appeared to feed them warm porridge and keep them comfortable. However, the weather was far from ideal, and they spent a good stretch of it in the coop, huddled for warmth.
Now that the sun is shining, they long to sunbathe in the middle of the lawn (A chicken sunbathing is a disconcerting sight. They lay on one side, one wing spread out to catch the sun, and looking a lot like they've been flattened from on high. The first time I saw this pose was from an upstairs window, and I nearly broke my neck getting down to what I thought was a soon to be ex Maude). However, the pesky humans keep disturbing them. They are particularly unimpressed with the lawn mower, although Mabel has taken to (fittingly enough) playing chicken with it. She lays there, reclining in the sun, and glares at me flymoing towards her. Naturally, as I approach I tend to slow down, having no desire to dice the stubborn bird. She usually takes up a loud bok-bok-bok-ARK as I get within six feet, but still stays firm. I gingerly edge towards her, making shooing sounds, and she stays put until the air ruffles her feathers. At which point she stands up, stretches slowly, and then saunters off. I suspect that if she had fingers, she'd be showing me two of them as she departs.
If I'm not harassing them, then the kids generally are. The youngest got a swingball set for his birthday, and the two of them love nothing more than whacking the tethered ball as hard as they can. Initially, the hens hid in the shrubbery from all this frantic activity. As time passes, they are beginning to realise that this horror has a limited reach, so it's probably safe to run hell for leather between shrubs. In this way, they commando their way around the perimeter of the garden and back to the Convent, where I imagine they are dreaming up diabolical plans of chicken sabotage.
By far the worst offense we have committed against our feathered friends has to be the humble barbecue. I refuse to light the barbie while the girls are free ranging, so they are banished back to the coop. As far as they are concerned, this is unforgivable. No matter that if left to their own devices, they might try to land on the lit barbie. Chickens are notoriously nosey creatures, and I know that at some point one of them would want to investigate the sausages. They show their displeasure by shouting loudly at us while we try to enjoy a pleasant evening. They have us over a barrel with this one, as the only way to silence their disgust is with food. They're quite partial to hot dog rolls.
I bet they can't wait for the winter again.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
A More Integrated Flock
It's finally happened. It's only taken a few months, endless patience and the destruction of my greenhouse, and we now have a complete flock! Maeve has been accepted into the fold. I have even observed her preening Belinda. I am a happy chicken keeper.
Naturally, she's made to sleep on the floor with the poo. She is also occasionally given a peck as she ambles past, and is often chased away from the treats. However, she has not been duffed up in any great way, so they must secretly like her. Mini is pretty much in the same boat, so the little splash hen and the little (alleged) mottled pullet have formed a shaky alliance. It's quite sweet, really.
Having all of the girls in the convent has helped with the husbandry side of things, too. Maeve's mini coop has been relegated to the garage to be used as a hospital wing if needed, and my growbags are safe from the feathery vandal that had been occupying my greenhouse. Bliss.
The red mite issue seems to have resolved itself with a liberal sprinkling of red mite powder and a thorough clean. However, I'm not being complacent as I know that the evil beasties are never too far away.
We are currently broody, illness and beastie free.
I wait with baited breath for the next disaster.
Naturally, she's made to sleep on the floor with the poo. She is also occasionally given a peck as she ambles past, and is often chased away from the treats. However, she has not been duffed up in any great way, so they must secretly like her. Mini is pretty much in the same boat, so the little splash hen and the little (alleged) mottled pullet have formed a shaky alliance. It's quite sweet, really.
Having all of the girls in the convent has helped with the husbandry side of things, too. Maeve's mini coop has been relegated to the garage to be used as a hospital wing if needed, and my growbags are safe from the feathery vandal that had been occupying my greenhouse. Bliss.
The red mite issue seems to have resolved itself with a liberal sprinkling of red mite powder and a thorough clean. However, I'm not being complacent as I know that the evil beasties are never too far away.
We are currently broody, illness and beastie free.
I wait with baited breath for the next disaster.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Rescue Mission
The thing with chicken keeping is, there is always another crisis around the corner. Having tackled the broody issue, and finally having an integrated flock, we now have the dreaded red mite. I was out doing my daily sweep of the poop tray, when I saw one of the evil little beasties crawling across the roof. Squishing it with the end of my thumb, I looked more closely. Yep, definitely red mite. Bum.
Red mite are little tiny parasites which feast on the blood of roosting birds. During the day, they hide in any cracks or crevices in the coop, and come out at sundown to munch on the poor sleeping girls. A severe infestation leads to a drop in egg production, ill looking hens, and if untreated, death. Luckily, I always keep a supply of diatom which is a pretty effective beastie killer.
The kids were delighted to help me commit insecticide. They happily squashed the critters with a stone, gleefully disgusted at the splatter, while I scrubbed, swept and disinfected. Mabel became quite distressed, pacing back and forth and peering through the pop hole at the void that used to be the nest box. I kept shooing her out, but she obviously needed to lay, and would not be deterred. So desperate did she become, that she tried a novel way of gaining entry to the nest.
The coop is on slabs against the fence. Between the mesh of the run and the fence, there is a gap of approximately four inches. The hens have never attempted to go down this narrow alley, until today. Mabel had obviously worked out in her tiny chicken brain that this might be another route to her desired destination. Hearing some soft clucking, I turned slowly around to see Mabel beginning to wiggle her way into the gap. Uh oh.
Mabel edged her way along, before the message that the space was too tight finally reached her brain. Deciding at that point that she didn't like it, she tried to turn around. I now had a chicken who's face was squished against the wire mesh, side on, and who's voluminous backside was mashed against the fence. Somehow, her wings were pinned above her. She looked for all the world like a ballerina attempting a pirouette. A severely narked ballerina.
The other girls gathered to watch their illustrious leaders humiliating fall from grace, while the children and I panicked. Every so often, she would have a frenetic attempt at freeing herself, but she seemed firmly wedged. I attempted to move the Convent, but it was far too heavy. In a moment of complete flappery, I phoned the ever tolerant husband at work. While I was on hold, with my back to the stricken bird, she managed to free herself. I found myself on the phone, trying to explain to the baffled husband that there had been a problem, but everything was okay now.
Never a dull moment.
Red mite are little tiny parasites which feast on the blood of roosting birds. During the day, they hide in any cracks or crevices in the coop, and come out at sundown to munch on the poor sleeping girls. A severe infestation leads to a drop in egg production, ill looking hens, and if untreated, death. Luckily, I always keep a supply of diatom which is a pretty effective beastie killer.
The kids were delighted to help me commit insecticide. They happily squashed the critters with a stone, gleefully disgusted at the splatter, while I scrubbed, swept and disinfected. Mabel became quite distressed, pacing back and forth and peering through the pop hole at the void that used to be the nest box. I kept shooing her out, but she obviously needed to lay, and would not be deterred. So desperate did she become, that she tried a novel way of gaining entry to the nest.
The coop is on slabs against the fence. Between the mesh of the run and the fence, there is a gap of approximately four inches. The hens have never attempted to go down this narrow alley, until today. Mabel had obviously worked out in her tiny chicken brain that this might be another route to her desired destination. Hearing some soft clucking, I turned slowly around to see Mabel beginning to wiggle her way into the gap. Uh oh.
Mabel edged her way along, before the message that the space was too tight finally reached her brain. Deciding at that point that she didn't like it, she tried to turn around. I now had a chicken who's face was squished against the wire mesh, side on, and who's voluminous backside was mashed against the fence. Somehow, her wings were pinned above her. She looked for all the world like a ballerina attempting a pirouette. A severely narked ballerina.
The other girls gathered to watch their illustrious leaders humiliating fall from grace, while the children and I panicked. Every so often, she would have a frenetic attempt at freeing herself, but she seemed firmly wedged. I attempted to move the Convent, but it was far too heavy. In a moment of complete flappery, I phoned the ever tolerant husband at work. While I was on hold, with my back to the stricken bird, she managed to free herself. I found myself on the phone, trying to explain to the baffled husband that there had been a problem, but everything was okay now.
Never a dull moment.
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