Oh, sweet, sweet broadband! After three months without a phone line, we are finally back in the technological age. And oh, dear reader, I have so much to tell you. So much in fact that I'm bound to forget something and need to add stuff. So please bear with me.
Firstly, some very sad news. I lost both my beautiful serama. Betsy went down with a mystery illness at the end of April. She was hunched and not eating well, so I brought her inside in the warm and nursed her. At first I thought maybe she was just depressed at being bullied, as she was very much the bottom hen. But then her neck was starting to go wry, and she was missing her food bowl when trying to eat. I suspect it was some kind of neurological condition. I treated her with baytril in the hope that if it was a bacterial infection she might pick up, but sadly she passed away on the first of May. None of the other birds seemed ill, but I added a tonic to their water and scrubbed the coop anyway.
We were away on June 5th when my lovely chicken sitter found Vera dead in the coop. There was no sign of illness, although her vent was a little mucky. However, this could have happened at the time of death and she was in fine form when I saw her two days previously. Her weight was good, there was no sign of injury and all in all it's a head scratcher. The other birds were afected by her passing, as she'd had the audacity to cark it infront of the pop hole. Pekins have such stumpy legs that they couldn't clamber over her corpse and had to wait until the chicken sitter's mid morning visit to get breakfast. I like to think that she did it on purpose. She had spirit, that little bird. Losing both girls inside of a few weeks was very disheartening. I now have four pekins left, Mabel, Maude, Maeve and Hilda.
As I watched my four remaining girls pootle around the garden it occurred to me that I have gone a full circle. I started off with four hens, and now I am back to four. Now that we have the nutty pup, I am not prepared to go through the trauma of new introductions to such an established group. So my new plan is this.
My remaining girls will live out their lives without getting to bully any newcomers. But they will do so in a smaller residence. Yes, with a heavy heart I have decided to sell the Palace. It's far too big for four birds, and in the winter they'd freeze. So I have purchased a smaller coop, not so different from my original Convent, which they will find cosy yet still adequately spacious. In fact, said coop has just been delivered in two enormous boxes. I am going to landscape around the new coop with the aid of a garden designer and make it a feature of the border. Hopefully.
And so, the girls. You'll be pleased to hear that my magnificent mille's are still going strong at 4 years old, and even still laying the odd egg. Sometimes very odd. One of them layed an egg last week which looked like it had been shot. There was a perfect, round hole at the blunt end, surrounded by a black ring which looked singed. I actually cracked it to see if there was a projectile inside. The egg itself was perfectly normal and the membrane intact. I checked both girls, too, and found no hidden laser stashed under anyone's bum feathers. Another strange chickenny mystery.
Hilda has been broody for a month now. I kick her from the nest regularly, dunk her in water and basically wait for her to snap out of it. If last year is anything to go by, that should happen when she moults. So around August, then.
In much scarier news, the fearsome ASBO Chicken has also fallen under the broody spell. So narked is she if disturbed that she has taken to lunging at the pup through the mesh of the run if he gets too close. I swear there's some rottweiler in that bird's DNA.
It's good to be back.
Showing posts with label ASBO chicken. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ASBO chicken. Show all posts
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Saturday, 14 January 2012
ASBO Chicken Trains The Puppy
Now that the puppy has settled in, it's time to make sure he knows that the hens aren't mobile chew toys. He will now sit quietly tethered to the outside tap while they free range on the lawn if I'm mucking out, which is an improvement on the leaping-barking-fruit-looping he was doing a few months ago. So I decided it was time to step it up a gear.
When I thought about introducing the puppy to the birds, I knew that a short sharp shock was the best way to go. Therefore, there was really only one contender. Maeve. Nothing scraes Maeve. She has seen off many other chickens, a couple of cats and at least one of the children's school friends. I have found her eyeballing the hysterical puppy from the back step as he frantically tries to claw through the glass. Her orange, intelligent gaze appraising his floppy ears and lolling tongue and finding him, frankly, pathetic. Last week she quite deliberately took a dump in his food bowl. I suspect she thought this an insult, but the puppy seems to think chicken poo is a delicacy.
So, back to today. I approached the mighty ASBO carefully. She continued preening in the winter sunshine, one keen eye fixed on me. As I drew closer, she ruffled herself and took on her 'come and have a go if you think you're hard enough' stance. I know from experience that any timidity gets you a nasty peck, so I swooped down and grabbed the malevolent ninja with both hands. She looked at me coolly, biding her time. Taking a deep breath, I walked towards the tethered puppy.
As we drew closer, Maeve cocked her head to the side. The puppy stretched his lead out and stood on two legs, eager to get at the funny feathery toy. With great care to keep them at maximu distance, I held Maeve up for him to sniff. He barked at her. She looked at him, looked back at me, and then pecked him square on his tender pink nose.
The puppy recoiled, sneezing. Maeve hissed. Gathering himself, the puppy leapt at her again. This time she was ready, and grabbed the flesh between his nostrils and gave it a tug. He shot back against the wall, licking his tender shnoz and looking confused. He approached again, but cautiously. Gently, he extended his head to sniff her. This time she really went for it, her head coming back like a jackhammer, and left a small dent in the flesh. Deciding that this was enough teaching for one day, I put her down.
The puppy was most perplexed by the whole episode, and when I untethered him he still attempted to bound off after the flock. But I noticed that while the other birds still picked up there a pace and legged it to keep their distance, Maeve merely sauntered, throwing him a 'watch it, mate' glare.
I think she'll train him yet.
When I thought about introducing the puppy to the birds, I knew that a short sharp shock was the best way to go. Therefore, there was really only one contender. Maeve. Nothing scraes Maeve. She has seen off many other chickens, a couple of cats and at least one of the children's school friends. I have found her eyeballing the hysterical puppy from the back step as he frantically tries to claw through the glass. Her orange, intelligent gaze appraising his floppy ears and lolling tongue and finding him, frankly, pathetic. Last week she quite deliberately took a dump in his food bowl. I suspect she thought this an insult, but the puppy seems to think chicken poo is a delicacy.
So, back to today. I approached the mighty ASBO carefully. She continued preening in the winter sunshine, one keen eye fixed on me. As I drew closer, she ruffled herself and took on her 'come and have a go if you think you're hard enough' stance. I know from experience that any timidity gets you a nasty peck, so I swooped down and grabbed the malevolent ninja with both hands. She looked at me coolly, biding her time. Taking a deep breath, I walked towards the tethered puppy.
As we drew closer, Maeve cocked her head to the side. The puppy stretched his lead out and stood on two legs, eager to get at the funny feathery toy. With great care to keep them at maximu distance, I held Maeve up for him to sniff. He barked at her. She looked at him, looked back at me, and then pecked him square on his tender pink nose.
The puppy recoiled, sneezing. Maeve hissed. Gathering himself, the puppy leapt at her again. This time she was ready, and grabbed the flesh between his nostrils and gave it a tug. He shot back against the wall, licking his tender shnoz and looking confused. He approached again, but cautiously. Gently, he extended his head to sniff her. This time she really went for it, her head coming back like a jackhammer, and left a small dent in the flesh. Deciding that this was enough teaching for one day, I put her down.
The puppy was most perplexed by the whole episode, and when I untethered him he still attempted to bound off after the flock. But I noticed that while the other birds still picked up there a pace and legged it to keep their distance, Maeve merely sauntered, throwing him a 'watch it, mate' glare.
I think she'll train him yet.
Friday, 16 September 2011
The Sinister Call Of The ASBO Chicken
I was rudely awaken at half six this morning by an eerie call. As I lay there trying to decipher what was making such an unearthly sound, the ever tolerant husband rolled over and muttered something about 'those bloody chickens', so I thought I ought to investigate. I shuffled down the stairs in my dressing gown and stared out of the kitchen window blearily. The run was empty. Weird. Just then, the same mournful cry went out across the estate. Huh.
I opened the back door and stuck my head out. All in the Palace was silent. But something was making that spooky sound, so I trudged across the lawn in my slippers. What I found was a little sinister. Maeve was sitting on the perch, alone, like a crow on a gravestone. I opened up the coop door and peered in at seven sleepy chickens. Half six in the AM is not quite full light now, and they showed no signs of getting up for their breakfast. I closed the door on them and let them keep dreaming of worms and raisins. Or something.
So I turned my attention back to Maeve. She eye balled me and sat hunched on her perch like a feathery gargoyle, orange eye glittering. After some consideration, she opened her beak and issued the creepy sound again. It was like a cross between an owl hooting, and a particularly narked turkey. Think low resonance throat warbling. She closed her beak again, and glared at me. Well, this is new.
Maeve, up until this point, has only ever made quite normal chicken noises. The occasional 'bok-ARK', and more regularly a menacing growl. But she has never gone turkey/owl on me. Bracing myself for carnage, I scooped her up to give her the once over. No rattle in her chest, no snotty nose holes, bright eyes and in all obvious respects fit and healthy. So her new voice wasn't down to illness. I plonked her back on the perch. I'm probably imagining the look of malevolent amusement in her eye, but I wouldn't like to say. All out of ideas, I flung a left over jacket potato in to the run to distract her from her singing and trudged back to bed.
The ever tolerant husband enquired as to which one of the 'noisy cowbags' had woken us up. I told him it was our favourite poultry nemesis, and he looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged and rolled back over. I lay in bed waiting for the alarm to go off and thinking about this new development. Winnie and Flo are now full time residents of the Palace, and I wondered if this change in routine had upset our beloved ASBO. I found no trace of an egg, but she might have layed elsewhere. It certainly didn't sound like a victory bok, though. No, the longer I lay there, the more convinced I became that she was practicing. After all, all evil geniuses need an evil laugh.
Perhaps it was the chicken equivalent of mwahahahahahahaha.
I opened the back door and stuck my head out. All in the Palace was silent. But something was making that spooky sound, so I trudged across the lawn in my slippers. What I found was a little sinister. Maeve was sitting on the perch, alone, like a crow on a gravestone. I opened up the coop door and peered in at seven sleepy chickens. Half six in the AM is not quite full light now, and they showed no signs of getting up for their breakfast. I closed the door on them and let them keep dreaming of worms and raisins. Or something.
So I turned my attention back to Maeve. She eye balled me and sat hunched on her perch like a feathery gargoyle, orange eye glittering. After some consideration, she opened her beak and issued the creepy sound again. It was like a cross between an owl hooting, and a particularly narked turkey. Think low resonance throat warbling. She closed her beak again, and glared at me. Well, this is new.
Maeve, up until this point, has only ever made quite normal chicken noises. The occasional 'bok-ARK', and more regularly a menacing growl. But she has never gone turkey/owl on me. Bracing myself for carnage, I scooped her up to give her the once over. No rattle in her chest, no snotty nose holes, bright eyes and in all obvious respects fit and healthy. So her new voice wasn't down to illness. I plonked her back on the perch. I'm probably imagining the look of malevolent amusement in her eye, but I wouldn't like to say. All out of ideas, I flung a left over jacket potato in to the run to distract her from her singing and trudged back to bed.
The ever tolerant husband enquired as to which one of the 'noisy cowbags' had woken us up. I told him it was our favourite poultry nemesis, and he looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged and rolled back over. I lay in bed waiting for the alarm to go off and thinking about this new development. Winnie and Flo are now full time residents of the Palace, and I wondered if this change in routine had upset our beloved ASBO. I found no trace of an egg, but she might have layed elsewhere. It certainly didn't sound like a victory bok, though. No, the longer I lay there, the more convinced I became that she was practicing. After all, all evil geniuses need an evil laugh.
Perhaps it was the chicken equivalent of mwahahahahahahaha.
Thursday, 18 August 2011
The Great Corn On The Cob Heist
I went out for dinner yesterday. If you're interested, I had a pasta dish. The eldest had spaghetti, which oddly, came with a random corn on the cob. The eldest doesn't like corn on the cob. The corn sat on the side of his plate, taunting me, for the whole meal. But I didn't want it. I don't think corn on the cob is a natural accompaniment to pasta, as it happens. However, I knew several someones who would very much enjoy that corn on the cob.
As the ever tolerant husband was busy sorting out the bill, I seized my chance. I casually picked up a napkin, gave a quick glance around the table to make sure I was unobserved, and went to grab the corn. Unfortunately, the waiter chose that exact moment to reach forward for the plate. He hesitated as I clutched my prize, and instead of simply ignoring the whole awkward situation, I blurted out for no apparent reason 'It's for Maeve. She's a chicken'. I actually felt the ever tolerant husband wither and shrink in to his chair.
When we got home, I triumphantly presented the corn to the inhabitants of the Palace. They had already retired for the evening, but the whiff of luke warm corn lured them back in to the run briefly. Chickens generally pig out before bedtime, so they had already filled their crops with pellets. After several gluttonous pecks, they admitted defeat and went back to bed. I had no doubt that they would dream of crispy, fresh corn and wake up raring to scoff.
Of course, as well as being eating machines, chickens also have pretty rubbish attention spans. So this morning, the half eaten corn lay neglected under the Palace's ramp. It hadn't been spotted by the usual suspects at breakfast, and now that they were all out free ranging it was all forgotten about. That is, until the new pekins spotted it.
Winnie and Flo regularly stroll in to the Palace at this stage. If a regular spots them, they will give a half hearted chase. But on the whole, they're ignored. So imagine the sheer joy they experienced when they found the corn. Flo actually did a lap of excitement, flapping and bouncing around the run like the total nutjob she is. They pecked at the corn gingerly, not really understanding their prize but twigging that the other pekins wouldn't want them to have it. With this in mind, they took it in turns to drag it to the run doorway.
Just as they were about to commence dragging their treat across the lawn, they were spotted by the serama. Vera has given up being broody for now, and she and Betsy clocked the newbies Getting Away With Something. They came over to inspect. Flo dropped the corn and pretended she was very interested in the grass. Winnie decided to perch on it, in an effort to hide it under her voluminous knickers. The serama were not fooled. They pecked at the corn a bit, then commenced muttering. I don't speak chicken, but it seemed to me that Vera was issuing instructions. After a quick conference, Operation Rob The Corn was back underway, now with the serama helping to drag/push/peck the corn towards the garage.
I watched all of this with a smile on my face and a cup of tea in front of me at the garden table. The pekins were mooching at the bottom of the garden, and I was frankly amazed that the tiny thieves hadn't been noticed. Of course, I should have known better. As the corn got within a metre of the garage door, Maeve ninjad out from behind the rose bush and landed in the middle of the cooperating outsiders. They wisely scattered. ASBO Chicken strolled around the corn, marking her territory. She gave the silently creeping Vera the beady eye and chuntered in a menacing manner. Defeated, Vera, Betsy, Winnie and Flo went off to dust bath.
Maeve didn't tell the rest of the flock, and stripped the corn bare on her own like the boss she is.
As the ever tolerant husband was busy sorting out the bill, I seized my chance. I casually picked up a napkin, gave a quick glance around the table to make sure I was unobserved, and went to grab the corn. Unfortunately, the waiter chose that exact moment to reach forward for the plate. He hesitated as I clutched my prize, and instead of simply ignoring the whole awkward situation, I blurted out for no apparent reason 'It's for Maeve. She's a chicken'. I actually felt the ever tolerant husband wither and shrink in to his chair.
When we got home, I triumphantly presented the corn to the inhabitants of the Palace. They had already retired for the evening, but the whiff of luke warm corn lured them back in to the run briefly. Chickens generally pig out before bedtime, so they had already filled their crops with pellets. After several gluttonous pecks, they admitted defeat and went back to bed. I had no doubt that they would dream of crispy, fresh corn and wake up raring to scoff.
Of course, as well as being eating machines, chickens also have pretty rubbish attention spans. So this morning, the half eaten corn lay neglected under the Palace's ramp. It hadn't been spotted by the usual suspects at breakfast, and now that they were all out free ranging it was all forgotten about. That is, until the new pekins spotted it.
Winnie and Flo regularly stroll in to the Palace at this stage. If a regular spots them, they will give a half hearted chase. But on the whole, they're ignored. So imagine the sheer joy they experienced when they found the corn. Flo actually did a lap of excitement, flapping and bouncing around the run like the total nutjob she is. They pecked at the corn gingerly, not really understanding their prize but twigging that the other pekins wouldn't want them to have it. With this in mind, they took it in turns to drag it to the run doorway.
Just as they were about to commence dragging their treat across the lawn, they were spotted by the serama. Vera has given up being broody for now, and she and Betsy clocked the newbies Getting Away With Something. They came over to inspect. Flo dropped the corn and pretended she was very interested in the grass. Winnie decided to perch on it, in an effort to hide it under her voluminous knickers. The serama were not fooled. They pecked at the corn a bit, then commenced muttering. I don't speak chicken, but it seemed to me that Vera was issuing instructions. After a quick conference, Operation Rob The Corn was back underway, now with the serama helping to drag/push/peck the corn towards the garage.
I watched all of this with a smile on my face and a cup of tea in front of me at the garden table. The pekins were mooching at the bottom of the garden, and I was frankly amazed that the tiny thieves hadn't been noticed. Of course, I should have known better. As the corn got within a metre of the garage door, Maeve ninjad out from behind the rose bush and landed in the middle of the cooperating outsiders. They wisely scattered. ASBO Chicken strolled around the corn, marking her territory. She gave the silently creeping Vera the beady eye and chuntered in a menacing manner. Defeated, Vera, Betsy, Winnie and Flo went off to dust bath.
Maeve didn't tell the rest of the flock, and stripped the corn bare on her own like the boss she is.
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
Feather-geddon
Admit it, you didn't believe me yesterday. You thought 'Oh, that Madchickenlady. She exagerrates. No way could six little chickens blanket an entire lawn'. Well, prepare to have your flabber well and truly gasted. Maude is the only one in full moult right now, but the others are all on the slide. This is my garden.
Maude, with her rapidly disappearing arse, attempting to look nonchalant.
Surveying the carnage. The entire lawn is in the same condition. And don't even get me started on the border.
A good portion of Maude's arse can be found in the coop.
And I'm guessing she sat here at some point.
Gladys is now sporting a short spikey do on her bonce, but is still amusingly bald in places.
She is not impressed. Oh, and that big white cloud in front of her?
Hilda is broody again. Sigh. I'm hoping that she'll bump out of it once her own bum falls off.
This was a pic of Maeve, but Vera has a real love of the camera. She sees me coming and flings herself at the lens.
Our beloved ASBO Chicken, looking fine.
Mabel is also moulting, but in a more sedate manner than Maude. She looks a bit moth eaten, bless 'er.
This was supposed to be a picture of Winnie. But you can't see her because Vera has once again ninja'd in to the frame. Gawd that chicken makes me laugh.
I wonder if the estate agent can airbrush feathers out of the photographs....
Saturday, 14 May 2011
Things Are Looking Up
Due to blogger having a bit of a tantrum, I've been unable to update you on Mabel's condition. You'll be pleased to hear that right now, our illustrious leader is mooching about the garden with the rest of the flock. Despite things looking quite grim on Wednesday, my millefleur girl has surprised me. I'm still not entirely sure what was wrong with her, but seeing as though the baytril appears to have worked, I'm assuming some kind of infection. She will continue to reluctantly take her medicine until tomorrow.
Yesterday, Mabel was living in the parakeet cage in the downstairs loo. It was the best place to put her so that she was warm, quiet and undisturbed. Well, apart from the children randomly bursting in to sling their shoes towards the shoe rack. On the whole, she took this quite well. Once the children were at school, however, she had a whole day to convalesce. Now that I knew her Achilles heel, I made sure that mabel's food bowl contained some chopped grapes mixed in with her pellets and probiotic yoghurt. Every so often, I peeked my head around the door to check on her. Most times, I found her sat in a corner, looking fed up. I would make encouraging noises and then leave her in peace. Although I was seeing signs of improvement, I still was unsure as to how this story of Mabel's would end.
Shortly after lunch I checked again on the housebound hen. And was surprised to find her on her feet. And looking bright eyed and interested. As I watched, she homed in on the corner of her cage and began frantically pecking. Intrigued, I leant in closer. It seemed that an ants nest had established itself near the downstairs toilet on the outside wall, and it's inhabitants were no going forth to expand their territories. As I contemplated the cruelty of fate that would place an ant scoffing predator right by their back door, Mabel hoovered up several more tasty insects. I'm sure they went marvellously with the yoghurt/grape combo.
Since taking part in ant Armageddon, Mabel seems much improved. This morning, she was well enough to not only redecorate the floor of her cage in poo, but also shriek loudly until I got up to get her some breakfast. As I watched her devour her porridge, I decided to let her outside.
I admit I was nervous letting her back within sight of the flock. Mabel has been top hen for three years, and I wasn't sure what would happen. I was surprised to note that all of the hens deferred to her apart from the gobby Doris. It seems that Doris has ideas above her station, and she pecked Mabel's comb. My eyebrows were lost in my hair line when Mabel allowed this to happen, and didn't retaliate. I fully expected Maeve to make a bid for the leadership title, but not Doris. In the event, Maeve barely seemed to notice the power shift. As I have previously suspected, ASBO Chicken seems to live outside of chickenny social boundaries. She's a chicken renegade.
Despite some surprising changes, I'm very glad to have Mabel still with us.
Yesterday, Mabel was living in the parakeet cage in the downstairs loo. It was the best place to put her so that she was warm, quiet and undisturbed. Well, apart from the children randomly bursting in to sling their shoes towards the shoe rack. On the whole, she took this quite well. Once the children were at school, however, she had a whole day to convalesce. Now that I knew her Achilles heel, I made sure that mabel's food bowl contained some chopped grapes mixed in with her pellets and probiotic yoghurt. Every so often, I peeked my head around the door to check on her. Most times, I found her sat in a corner, looking fed up. I would make encouraging noises and then leave her in peace. Although I was seeing signs of improvement, I still was unsure as to how this story of Mabel's would end.
Shortly after lunch I checked again on the housebound hen. And was surprised to find her on her feet. And looking bright eyed and interested. As I watched, she homed in on the corner of her cage and began frantically pecking. Intrigued, I leant in closer. It seemed that an ants nest had established itself near the downstairs toilet on the outside wall, and it's inhabitants were no going forth to expand their territories. As I contemplated the cruelty of fate that would place an ant scoffing predator right by their back door, Mabel hoovered up several more tasty insects. I'm sure they went marvellously with the yoghurt/grape combo.
Since taking part in ant Armageddon, Mabel seems much improved. This morning, she was well enough to not only redecorate the floor of her cage in poo, but also shriek loudly until I got up to get her some breakfast. As I watched her devour her porridge, I decided to let her outside.
I admit I was nervous letting her back within sight of the flock. Mabel has been top hen for three years, and I wasn't sure what would happen. I was surprised to note that all of the hens deferred to her apart from the gobby Doris. It seems that Doris has ideas above her station, and she pecked Mabel's comb. My eyebrows were lost in my hair line when Mabel allowed this to happen, and didn't retaliate. I fully expected Maeve to make a bid for the leadership title, but not Doris. In the event, Maeve barely seemed to notice the power shift. As I have previously suspected, ASBO Chicken seems to live outside of chickenny social boundaries. She's a chicken renegade.
Despite some surprising changes, I'm very glad to have Mabel still with us.
Saturday, 26 March 2011
The Battle Line Has Been Crossed
The serama sisters have been with us for nearly two months now. They happily live together in the two tier rabbit hutch in the garage, and venture in to the garden when they think that the pekins aren't looking. With very little encouragement on my part, they have become silly tame. Especially Vera. The tiny black hen has a bad habit of running between your feet when you're mid step. I'm not sure if this is designed chicken evilness, in an attempt to give me a heart attack, or whether she is an adrenalin junkie. Perhaps given half a chance she'd be bungee jumping from the Palace roof.
I have more or less resigned myself to having a split flock at this stage. I mean, I've always thought that my pekin ladies were petite, but next to the serama twosome they are truly enormous. The serama are understandably wary, and if they do get too close to the others a chase usually ensues. In fact, Gladys and Hilda seem to zoom out of nowhere and run Betsy and Vera back in to the furthest recesses of the garage.
Today was a big clean out day, however, and as the ever tolerant husband was throwing things with enthusiasm in to a skip, I thought it best to keep the serama contained. As the pekins roamed about the garden, the serama were safely pecking about in the Palace run. After a bit, it became apparent that Hilda and Mabel needed to lay. As I was outside anyway, I decided to open the run door and see what would happen.
Initially, Betsy and Vera sat on the perch nearest the pop hole and tried to blend in with the wood work. As our Illustrious Leader and the grubby white hen had their legs crossed, however, they didn't bat an eyelid at the intrusion and just waddled up the ramp in to the coop with barely a glance at the newbies. I expected one of the other girls to chase them out soon enough, but after twenty minutes of being totally ignored Vera went looking for trouble. She alighted on to the ramp and had the audacity to stick her head in to the inner sanctum. Instantly, two narked hens squawked at her. Yet this didn't phase her one bit. I watched in amazement as she sauntered in to the coop, only pausing to call her side kick in with her.
With both serama now in the coop, I chewed my nails fretfully. Every so often, a stroppy 'Bwaaaaaaark' issued forth from the nest boxes, but no real sounds of trouble. Unable to bear it any longer, I peeked inside the door. Unbelievably, Betsy and Vera had climbed in to the nest box between Mabel and Hilda and were chattering gently. Mabel looked suitably disgusted. She is a very private chicken, and the others usually show her the respect her position deserves by letting her lay in peace. Now not only was Hilda in the nest boxes with her, but now two pip squeaks were chatting right by her left ear. Unbelievable.
Hilda was busy laying, and only had time to hiss at me in passing.
Deciding that the hens had obviously called a truce, I left them to it. An hour later, the ever tolerant husband stuck his head in the door to tell me that ASBO Chicken had chased Betsy across the lawn and back in to the garage. I wasn't surprised. I expected that both serama would be back in their lodgings discussing the morning's events within minutes, and thought no more of it. Until a while later when I went out to hang the washing.
I could hear that Mabel was still in the nest box. This isn't unusual. Mabel really likes to make the most of her nest time and can often hog the best box for hours. However, these weren't normal 'Mabel in labour' sounds. These were more 'Naff off or I'll eat you' sounds. Curious, I opened the nest box and peered in. I saw Mabel's voluminous derriere, but that was all. The other boxes were vacant. With a frown, I secured the door and went to check on the serama. I found Betsy dust bathing happily in the wood shavings, but no sign of Vera. A quick scout about the garden proved fruitless, and with a slightly panicky feeling I considered the probability of Vera having escaped through the garage while the ever tolerant husband was filling the skip. In my mind's eye, she was road-runnering up the road as I stood there, half way to Birmingham.
Before I sent out a search party, I opened the nest boxes again and was greeted with Mabel, side on. She had shifetd herself around a bit, which gave me then a view through to the coop proper. Suddenly, a small black head popped up over the lip of the nest box. Mabel raised all of her hackle feathers and squawked. The little head dropped back out of sight. Mabel relaxed. The head reappeared, agitating my top hen all over again. No wonder Mabel had spent so long on the nest. She was being taunted by a very cheeky serama playing the chicken equivalent of 'Knock Down Ginger'. I grabbed the errant Vera from her hiding place in the coop and deposited her back with Betsy. She seemed quite happy about her little adventure, and a mere five minutes later Mabel announced her egg. With no small measure of relief, I'm betting.
This could be interesting.
I have more or less resigned myself to having a split flock at this stage. I mean, I've always thought that my pekin ladies were petite, but next to the serama twosome they are truly enormous. The serama are understandably wary, and if they do get too close to the others a chase usually ensues. In fact, Gladys and Hilda seem to zoom out of nowhere and run Betsy and Vera back in to the furthest recesses of the garage.
Today was a big clean out day, however, and as the ever tolerant husband was throwing things with enthusiasm in to a skip, I thought it best to keep the serama contained. As the pekins roamed about the garden, the serama were safely pecking about in the Palace run. After a bit, it became apparent that Hilda and Mabel needed to lay. As I was outside anyway, I decided to open the run door and see what would happen.
Initially, Betsy and Vera sat on the perch nearest the pop hole and tried to blend in with the wood work. As our Illustrious Leader and the grubby white hen had their legs crossed, however, they didn't bat an eyelid at the intrusion and just waddled up the ramp in to the coop with barely a glance at the newbies. I expected one of the other girls to chase them out soon enough, but after twenty minutes of being totally ignored Vera went looking for trouble. She alighted on to the ramp and had the audacity to stick her head in to the inner sanctum. Instantly, two narked hens squawked at her. Yet this didn't phase her one bit. I watched in amazement as she sauntered in to the coop, only pausing to call her side kick in with her.
With both serama now in the coop, I chewed my nails fretfully. Every so often, a stroppy 'Bwaaaaaaark' issued forth from the nest boxes, but no real sounds of trouble. Unable to bear it any longer, I peeked inside the door. Unbelievably, Betsy and Vera had climbed in to the nest box between Mabel and Hilda and were chattering gently. Mabel looked suitably disgusted. She is a very private chicken, and the others usually show her the respect her position deserves by letting her lay in peace. Now not only was Hilda in the nest boxes with her, but now two pip squeaks were chatting right by her left ear. Unbelievable.
Hilda was busy laying, and only had time to hiss at me in passing.
Deciding that the hens had obviously called a truce, I left them to it. An hour later, the ever tolerant husband stuck his head in the door to tell me that ASBO Chicken had chased Betsy across the lawn and back in to the garage. I wasn't surprised. I expected that both serama would be back in their lodgings discussing the morning's events within minutes, and thought no more of it. Until a while later when I went out to hang the washing.
I could hear that Mabel was still in the nest box. This isn't unusual. Mabel really likes to make the most of her nest time and can often hog the best box for hours. However, these weren't normal 'Mabel in labour' sounds. These were more 'Naff off or I'll eat you' sounds. Curious, I opened the nest box and peered in. I saw Mabel's voluminous derriere, but that was all. The other boxes were vacant. With a frown, I secured the door and went to check on the serama. I found Betsy dust bathing happily in the wood shavings, but no sign of Vera. A quick scout about the garden proved fruitless, and with a slightly panicky feeling I considered the probability of Vera having escaped through the garage while the ever tolerant husband was filling the skip. In my mind's eye, she was road-runnering up the road as I stood there, half way to Birmingham.
Before I sent out a search party, I opened the nest boxes again and was greeted with Mabel, side on. She had shifetd herself around a bit, which gave me then a view through to the coop proper. Suddenly, a small black head popped up over the lip of the nest box. Mabel raised all of her hackle feathers and squawked. The little head dropped back out of sight. Mabel relaxed. The head reappeared, agitating my top hen all over again. No wonder Mabel had spent so long on the nest. She was being taunted by a very cheeky serama playing the chicken equivalent of 'Knock Down Ginger'. I grabbed the errant Vera from her hiding place in the coop and deposited her back with Betsy. She seemed quite happy about her little adventure, and a mere five minutes later Mabel announced her egg. With no small measure of relief, I'm betting.
This could be interesting.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
Only Girls Allowed
Now that our brief stint of cockerel ownership is over, I can reflect on the experience with some clarity. It was lovely to see Rocky fussing around Betsy and Vera and finding them tidbits to eat. He was charming in his behaviours and hugely entertaining. However, the early morning crowing outweighed all of the positives. I spent a week living on my nerves, so now it is lovely to go back to just enjoying my ladies.
I was a little concerned that Betsy and Vera would miss their suitor, but in typical chicken fashion they are simply enjoying the extra coop space. One thing he did manage to do was to coax the serama out of the garage. Even without their bodyguard, they are now venturing out in to the garden more often. I am still shutting the pekins in to the Palace run for the afternoon to allow the micro chooks a chance to explore unmolested, but most of the pekins seem bored of the 'eat the mini chickens' game. The 'most' was deliberate.
Anyway, today has been a warm, glorious spring day and the girls have all been making the most of it.
I was a little concerned that Betsy and Vera would miss their suitor, but in typical chicken fashion they are simply enjoying the extra coop space. One thing he did manage to do was to coax the serama out of the garage. Even without their bodyguard, they are now venturing out in to the garden more often. I am still shutting the pekins in to the Palace run for the afternoon to allow the micro chooks a chance to explore unmolested, but most of the pekins seem bored of the 'eat the mini chickens' game. The 'most' was deliberate.
Anyway, today has been a warm, glorious spring day and the girls have all been making the most of it.
ASBO Chicken monopolises the dust bath while Mabel looks on.
The most unintentionally hilarious pic of Celia ever. Just how surprised does this chook look?
Betsy and Vera standing still long enough for me to get a shot. A rare occurence.
And busy stripping the border of all vegetation. Sigh.
A grubby Hilda waiting for me to turn away so that she can jump in the laundry basket for a poo. Don't ask me why, the crazy hen seems to be litter trained.
So now to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. At least until the new hatching adventure begins.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
The Terror Of Suburban Cockerel Keeping
So day 3 of owning a cockerel dawned quietly. It wasn't until the ever tolerant husband was brushing his teeth that Rocky decided to greet wednesday. As I listened to his muffled squeaks through the eldest's bedroom floor, I was quietly pleased with myself. You see, last night I covered the serama hutch with some old carpet, and I'd say it makes a considerable difference to the volume. Whether it deadens the sound enough so that no-one else can hear it remains to be seen. Indeed, as I stood outside the school this morning one of my neighbours from over the back approached me. I confess to breaking out in a cold sweat and thinking: this is it. Gulp. It was somewhat of an anti-climax when she asked me if I had any eggs spare. Anyway, this is Rocky crowing in the garden:
Such is my cockerel paranoia that I actually downloaded a decibel meter app for the ever tolerant husband's iPhone. I packed him off to work with my decidedly uncool mobile, and decided to try and measure Rocky's output, as it were. I spent an hour sat outside bundled up in many layers of clothing while he watched me with interest. As if he knew my intention, the little blighter stayed stubbornly silent until 2.30pm. However, I did get a reading. The background level was around 50 decibels, the dog barking over the back registered at 67 decibels, and Rocky's best effort was 80 decibels measured right next to him. I have no idea what this proves, so if anyone reading this can tell me that would be great.
After the school run, I decided to bite the bullet and let all of the chickens out together. The pekin ladies were happily munching a slice of toast (provided by me as a distraction tactic) when Rocky just strolled among them, cool as a breeze. It took a moment for this to sink in, and then Maude bit him on the arse. He shrieked a bit and ran over to round up his serama harem. Hilda and Gladys both gave chase, but a pekin's waddle is no match for a serama's road runner-esque gait. So, no surprises there really. Except this is the first time that Betsy and Vera have voluntarily stayed anywhere near the pekin hordes. And Rocky was very sweetly herding them away whenever a sly ASBO Chicken made out that she was just strolling towards them totally innocently. He even stole them some toast to munch on.
Interestingly, I observed both Mabel and Maude attempting a cockerel like dance towards the younger hens. They have never done this before, and I can only assume that it's a power display. It did look less than elegant, and the younger hens watched it all with a quizzical eye. Mabel gave up after a bit as if embarassed, but Maude got quite in to it.
Maybe they'll challenge Rocky to a dance off.
Such is my cockerel paranoia that I actually downloaded a decibel meter app for the ever tolerant husband's iPhone. I packed him off to work with my decidedly uncool mobile, and decided to try and measure Rocky's output, as it were. I spent an hour sat outside bundled up in many layers of clothing while he watched me with interest. As if he knew my intention, the little blighter stayed stubbornly silent until 2.30pm. However, I did get a reading. The background level was around 50 decibels, the dog barking over the back registered at 67 decibels, and Rocky's best effort was 80 decibels measured right next to him. I have no idea what this proves, so if anyone reading this can tell me that would be great.
After the school run, I decided to bite the bullet and let all of the chickens out together. The pekin ladies were happily munching a slice of toast (provided by me as a distraction tactic) when Rocky just strolled among them, cool as a breeze. It took a moment for this to sink in, and then Maude bit him on the arse. He shrieked a bit and ran over to round up his serama harem. Hilda and Gladys both gave chase, but a pekin's waddle is no match for a serama's road runner-esque gait. So, no surprises there really. Except this is the first time that Betsy and Vera have voluntarily stayed anywhere near the pekin hordes. And Rocky was very sweetly herding them away whenever a sly ASBO Chicken made out that she was just strolling towards them totally innocently. He even stole them some toast to munch on.
Interestingly, I observed both Mabel and Maude attempting a cockerel like dance towards the younger hens. They have never done this before, and I can only assume that it's a power display. It did look less than elegant, and the younger hens watched it all with a quizzical eye. Mabel gave up after a bit as if embarassed, but Maude got quite in to it.
Maybe they'll challenge Rocky to a dance off.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
The Great Escape
The Barrier has been in place for several weeks now. It has been pretty successful in keeping the marauding flock out of the flower bed, and I am now able to look out of the kitchen window and see some early tulips and daffodils being battered by the force 9 gales. Still, the colour is pleasing. This morning, however, I had a mystery on my hands.
A mere ten minutes after letting the girls out to free range, I spotted a soil fountain behind the rosemary bush. On closer inspection I found Maeve happily dust bathing. Carefully, I extracted her from the border and plonked her back amongst the flock on the lawn. She was most disgruntled, and I earned myself a swift peck on the heel for my insolence. I returned to the house, assuming that the determined ASBO Chicken had managed to scale the fence with a gale assisted flap.
A short while later, I discovered that Maeve was back in her favourite spot, and this time she had company. Hilda and Celia were busy attempting to dig up some late flowering bulbs. With a muttered 'bloody hens' I traipsed back out to remove them all. They didn't put up a fight and all just sat waiting to be transported. Which was odd. I mean, usually we have a bit of a flap at an eviction. But nope, they were all a picture of serene good naturedness. So naturally I was suspicious. I decided to watch them to see if I could find their access point.
After twenty minutes of watching the girls mooch about looking innocent, I decided to empty the dishwasher. This took approximately five minutes, during which time all seven pekins breached the barrier and trampled over the new poeny growth. At this point I thought darkly about wing clipping, or perhaps leg weights. It turns out, however, that I was completely on the wrong track. After turfing them all back on to the lawn, by chance I turned around just at the moment that Maude walked back through the barrier, like some cyborg, 'Terminator' chicken. Now chickens have many interesting properties, but the ability to pass through a fence via osmosis isn't one of them.
On closer inspection, I found that the netting had frayed. But it had frayed in a most interesting way. The hole was exactly at the spot that I have a heavy plant pot weighing down the fencing, in a bid to stop chook tunnelling. It is perfectly placed for a small, canny hen to jump up on to the plant pot, and then squeeze through the gap. And the gap is virtually undetectable unless you are actively looking for it (or see Maude going ghost). It's all just a bit too....convenient. I find myself contemplating just how long it would take a determined hen to saw through nylon strings with their beak. I find myself thinking of 'The Shawshank Redemption', and shuddering. Using some garden twine, I have resealed their point of entry.
Maeve watched me work with glittering, interested eyes.
A mere ten minutes after letting the girls out to free range, I spotted a soil fountain behind the rosemary bush. On closer inspection I found Maeve happily dust bathing. Carefully, I extracted her from the border and plonked her back amongst the flock on the lawn. She was most disgruntled, and I earned myself a swift peck on the heel for my insolence. I returned to the house, assuming that the determined ASBO Chicken had managed to scale the fence with a gale assisted flap.
A short while later, I discovered that Maeve was back in her favourite spot, and this time she had company. Hilda and Celia were busy attempting to dig up some late flowering bulbs. With a muttered 'bloody hens' I traipsed back out to remove them all. They didn't put up a fight and all just sat waiting to be transported. Which was odd. I mean, usually we have a bit of a flap at an eviction. But nope, they were all a picture of serene good naturedness. So naturally I was suspicious. I decided to watch them to see if I could find their access point.
After twenty minutes of watching the girls mooch about looking innocent, I decided to empty the dishwasher. This took approximately five minutes, during which time all seven pekins breached the barrier and trampled over the new poeny growth. At this point I thought darkly about wing clipping, or perhaps leg weights. It turns out, however, that I was completely on the wrong track. After turfing them all back on to the lawn, by chance I turned around just at the moment that Maude walked back through the barrier, like some cyborg, 'Terminator' chicken. Now chickens have many interesting properties, but the ability to pass through a fence via osmosis isn't one of them.
On closer inspection, I found that the netting had frayed. But it had frayed in a most interesting way. The hole was exactly at the spot that I have a heavy plant pot weighing down the fencing, in a bid to stop chook tunnelling. It is perfectly placed for a small, canny hen to jump up on to the plant pot, and then squeeze through the gap. And the gap is virtually undetectable unless you are actively looking for it (or see Maude going ghost). It's all just a bit too....convenient. I find myself contemplating just how long it would take a determined hen to saw through nylon strings with their beak. I find myself thinking of 'The Shawshank Redemption', and shuddering. Using some garden twine, I have resealed their point of entry.
Maeve watched me work with glittering, interested eyes.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Mt. Aubiose
Despite the fact that from tomorrow the weather is due to improve considerably, I picked today to thoroughly clean out the Palace run. I just couldn't look at the wet, dirty carpet of litter any more. The hens had started to wipe their feet on the way out in to the garden. Donning my funky chicken wellies, I trudged out to assess the situation. As I feared, the garden was a boggy mess dotted here and there with a decorative splodge of chicken excrement. Perfect.
Chickens are naturally curious creatures, and they do like to get under your feet when you're doing something potentially fatal to them. Clearing the run becomes a fun game where by the girls take it in turns to sit directly behind me, therefore risk being stood on, or sticking their head in the way of the swiftly descending rake which I use to pile up the used bedding. The more I waft, shush and generally try to get shot of them, the more fun it becomes. Luckily, everyone survived the clear out and Maeve even managed a triumphant poo right in the centre of the briefly spotless slabbed floor.
I was only harassed by the pekin tribe, though. The serama are proving reluctant to spend any time outside of the garage. While I'm sure that a glowering Gladys thundering towards you across the patio must be quite intimidating, I doubt it's the only reason. They really don't enjoy the wet, or the wind, or the cold. Basically, they behave like teenagers who just want to stay in bed all day. On saturday, the ever tolerant husband is going to fetch me a two tier hutch which will be placed outside and which Betsy and Vera will then call home. I'm hoping to a) get them used to seeing the waddling hoardes charging towards them, and b) to get them acclimatised to the great outdoors. Frankly, trying to locate them in the garage is getting rather tiresome. Especially as Vera has a penchant for burrowing.
Once everything was cleared out, cleaned and mite dusted, I dragged the bale of Aubiose to the run. It was only when I looked behind me that I realised that the bag had a hole in it, and that I had cut a muddy swathe across the lawn. Lovely. Slitting the bag open in the run, I emptied half of it on to the floor, threw in some corn and then retreated. By the time I had replaced the feeder and drinker, all of the pekins were exploring the shiny new landscape.
Initially, they all circled at the edges of the pile and scoffed the corn which was most accessible. However, it wasn't long before this easy source of grub was exhausted and the only way to get more was to start the ascent. Gingerly, various hens began the climb, muttering with alarm as the flooring slid beneath their feet. Mabel took up a supervisory spot on the perch and directed her underlings accordingly. Slowly, the aubiose was being redistributed about the run. With a sudden show of bravado, Gladys pushed on to the summit. She stood triumphant, a whole eighteen inches above the ground, and bokked a bit. Then she dug herself a hole turning the mountain in to a volcano. Just as her crazy frizzled head disappeared below the crater, Maeve rather maliciously turned her back on the spectacle and started furiously scratching. Gladys shrieked indignantly as ASBO Chicken attempted to bury her nemesis alive.
That chicken definitely has a master plan.
Chickens are naturally curious creatures, and they do like to get under your feet when you're doing something potentially fatal to them. Clearing the run becomes a fun game where by the girls take it in turns to sit directly behind me, therefore risk being stood on, or sticking their head in the way of the swiftly descending rake which I use to pile up the used bedding. The more I waft, shush and generally try to get shot of them, the more fun it becomes. Luckily, everyone survived the clear out and Maeve even managed a triumphant poo right in the centre of the briefly spotless slabbed floor.
I was only harassed by the pekin tribe, though. The serama are proving reluctant to spend any time outside of the garage. While I'm sure that a glowering Gladys thundering towards you across the patio must be quite intimidating, I doubt it's the only reason. They really don't enjoy the wet, or the wind, or the cold. Basically, they behave like teenagers who just want to stay in bed all day. On saturday, the ever tolerant husband is going to fetch me a two tier hutch which will be placed outside and which Betsy and Vera will then call home. I'm hoping to a) get them used to seeing the waddling hoardes charging towards them, and b) to get them acclimatised to the great outdoors. Frankly, trying to locate them in the garage is getting rather tiresome. Especially as Vera has a penchant for burrowing.
Once everything was cleared out, cleaned and mite dusted, I dragged the bale of Aubiose to the run. It was only when I looked behind me that I realised that the bag had a hole in it, and that I had cut a muddy swathe across the lawn. Lovely. Slitting the bag open in the run, I emptied half of it on to the floor, threw in some corn and then retreated. By the time I had replaced the feeder and drinker, all of the pekins were exploring the shiny new landscape.
Initially, they all circled at the edges of the pile and scoffed the corn which was most accessible. However, it wasn't long before this easy source of grub was exhausted and the only way to get more was to start the ascent. Gingerly, various hens began the climb, muttering with alarm as the flooring slid beneath their feet. Mabel took up a supervisory spot on the perch and directed her underlings accordingly. Slowly, the aubiose was being redistributed about the run. With a sudden show of bravado, Gladys pushed on to the summit. She stood triumphant, a whole eighteen inches above the ground, and bokked a bit. Then she dug herself a hole turning the mountain in to a volcano. Just as her crazy frizzled head disappeared below the crater, Maeve rather maliciously turned her back on the spectacle and started furiously scratching. Gladys shrieked indignantly as ASBO Chicken attempted to bury her nemesis alive.
That chicken definitely has a master plan.
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Micro Chickens, Meet The Flock
Maude clocks the new mini chickens sauntering towards the coop. Celia does an ostrich impression.
A quick conference is called.
The flock decides to send out it's secret weapon: ASBO Chicken. Betsy looks wary.
Maeve's slow saunter fools no-one, and Vera and Betsy keep their distance.
I think Maeve looks more curious than murderous, but the mini chooks are taking no chances.
The others gradually emerge for a closer look. Doris is more interested in the porridge.
Gladys looking marvellous, just because.
This is the closest pic I can get of the serama posing.
Betsy and Maeve size each other up, while Doris takes her snout out of the trough long enough to look on.
Out of curiosity, I weighed the serama today. My pekin girls weigh around 600g each. Betsy weighs in at 375g, and her tiny pal Vera is 275g. I think this makes Betsy overweight according to breed standards. I won't tell her though.
I don't want her to get a complex.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
February Dawns
At last, the dreaded January is banished from the calender. Hoorah! As we greet February, the snowdrops and crocuses are beginning to slowly emerge. At least they are this year, because they are safely ensconsed behing the Barrier. The hens can only eye them with longing, instead of scoffing them with abandon. Ha! In your chickenny faces, ladies!
The hens are still playing by the new rules when it comes to the border. I am, frankly, surprised. Usually they find a way around any obstacles pretty quickly. I can only assume that they are content to lull me in to a false sense of security. No doubt as soon as the border is erupting in to colour, they will break in and rampage around like a load of drunken students, demolishing all plant life in their path. No matter. For now, I am happy to imagine that this might work.
Spring is a strange thing in the chicken kingdom. While I can see spring on the horizon, I'm not expecting it's arrival for a few months yet. The chooks sense it is much closer. Hilda and Gladys have begun crouching, and their first eggs are imminent. At the moment, it's still only Purdy in lay, but any day now I expect her to have company. Combs are reddening up, the odd scuffle is breaking out and Doris is once again doing her deeply annoying baby seagull impression. Seriously, when I think about how I wouldn't dream of inflicting a cockerel on my neighbours, I can't quite believe that no-one has reached over the fence and stuffed Doris in a casserole dish. That hen can be shrill.
Over the winter, the pecking order stays static. There is little in the way of dominance displays, and Mabel very much retreats in to the general flock. But as soon as the days start lengthening, she feels the need to knock the flock in to shape. Many startled hens have been happily minding their own business only to be flattened to the floor by our Illustrious Leader. She is coming up to 3 years old, and is showing no signs of giving up her throne.
Maeve is watching the two youngest flock members keenly. Gladys seems quite content to stay near the bottom of the flock and does her best to avoid confrontation. She isn't bullied in any way, and is obviously a quiet character. The same cannot be said for Hilda. Hilda has decided that she likes the look of the upper echelons of chicken society. Purdy, Celia and Doris have all been challenged, and I can see her sizing up the world famous ASBO Chicken.
I am watching this with trepidation. Maeve is biding her time, and ignores the young upstart unless she sashays past a little too close. A well aimed hiss tends to make her sashay faster, but she doesn't break out in to a full blown waddle. This displeases Maeve. I suspect that any day now, Hilda will launch a full assault. Indeed, sometimes when Maeve is eating Hilda has the metaphorical balls to stand next to her and eat like her equal. This is currently being tolerated, which makes me distinctly nervous. I only hope that when Maeve eventually loses her patience she leaves the younger hen enough feathers to keep her warm for the rest of the winter.
I might end up fashioning a chicken jumpsuit.
The hens are still playing by the new rules when it comes to the border. I am, frankly, surprised. Usually they find a way around any obstacles pretty quickly. I can only assume that they are content to lull me in to a false sense of security. No doubt as soon as the border is erupting in to colour, they will break in and rampage around like a load of drunken students, demolishing all plant life in their path. No matter. For now, I am happy to imagine that this might work.
Spring is a strange thing in the chicken kingdom. While I can see spring on the horizon, I'm not expecting it's arrival for a few months yet. The chooks sense it is much closer. Hilda and Gladys have begun crouching, and their first eggs are imminent. At the moment, it's still only Purdy in lay, but any day now I expect her to have company. Combs are reddening up, the odd scuffle is breaking out and Doris is once again doing her deeply annoying baby seagull impression. Seriously, when I think about how I wouldn't dream of inflicting a cockerel on my neighbours, I can't quite believe that no-one has reached over the fence and stuffed Doris in a casserole dish. That hen can be shrill.
Over the winter, the pecking order stays static. There is little in the way of dominance displays, and Mabel very much retreats in to the general flock. But as soon as the days start lengthening, she feels the need to knock the flock in to shape. Many startled hens have been happily minding their own business only to be flattened to the floor by our Illustrious Leader. She is coming up to 3 years old, and is showing no signs of giving up her throne.
Maeve is watching the two youngest flock members keenly. Gladys seems quite content to stay near the bottom of the flock and does her best to avoid confrontation. She isn't bullied in any way, and is obviously a quiet character. The same cannot be said for Hilda. Hilda has decided that she likes the look of the upper echelons of chicken society. Purdy, Celia and Doris have all been challenged, and I can see her sizing up the world famous ASBO Chicken.
I am watching this with trepidation. Maeve is biding her time, and ignores the young upstart unless she sashays past a little too close. A well aimed hiss tends to make her sashay faster, but she doesn't break out in to a full blown waddle. This displeases Maeve. I suspect that any day now, Hilda will launch a full assault. Indeed, sometimes when Maeve is eating Hilda has the metaphorical balls to stand next to her and eat like her equal. This is currently being tolerated, which makes me distinctly nervous. I only hope that when Maeve eventually loses her patience she leaves the younger hen enough feathers to keep her warm for the rest of the winter.
I might end up fashioning a chicken jumpsuit.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
My Head Has Been Turned
Don't tell the flock, but I have had my head turned. I have been introduced to another breed. A teeny, cute rare breed. I have eyed them for some time from a distance, but now the fates have conspired and I have the opportunity to acquire two pullets of my very own. I may soon be the owner of a Malaysian Serama. Or rather, two.
The serama is the world's smallest chicken. Exhibition birds tend to be around the size of a coke can (plus a tail). They are all about the bosoms and being extremely upright. Wings should, ideally, be vertical. In short (ha ha) they are, in my opinion, an odd looking show bird. However, a not quite ideal specimen is a very pretty bird. They look proud and dignified. Males have a frankly pathetic crow on the whole, although of course there is variation across the breed. I am extremely tempted.
So at the end of the month I have a decision to make. I can collect two very pretty pullets, or I can be sensible about things and decline. Of course, I don't want to decline. Yet it is the responsibility of all chicken keepers to put their birds' welfare first. It may be possible to integrate two tiny hens in with my robust pekin girls, but it cannot be assumed. There is a good chance that the others will take one look at the tiny newcomers and decide to eat them. Or squash them. Or in some other way terrorise them. Especially ASBO Chicken. If this happens, the serama would require their own lodgings. Luckily, they are so tiny that they can be kept quite happily in a rabbit hutch as long as they have access to an outside pen. A rabbit hutch would fit quite easily in the garage....
Anyway, back to the existing pekin kingdom. Doris appears fully recovered, which is a huge relief. I am still not quite sure what is going on with that hen and her eyes, but it has been suggested to me that she has an allergy. I rather hope that that is the case. Celia continues to shed featehrs like a speed stripper. She is thoroughly miserable at the moment, and spends a lot of time snuggled next to a more well covered flock mate. I have to say that the other hens are being remarkably kind and allowing this heat sharing. Even Maeve.
Last weekend, all of the girls got a pedicure. The mud and wet means that they are inclined to pick up mud balls on their feet which need soaking off. When you first approach a bucket with a chicken, they become understandably agitated. But once they are soaking their feet and getting a toe massage, more often than not they relax totally. Which can be awkward because you're balancing them in one hand. Maude even went to sleep, and she's no light weight. After a quick once over, I discovered that it was only Celia that needed her nails clipping. As she clacked away across the patio, the others watched presumably expecting a tap dance. They were disappointed.
Any thoughts about the serama would be appreciated.
The serama is the world's smallest chicken. Exhibition birds tend to be around the size of a coke can (plus a tail). They are all about the bosoms and being extremely upright. Wings should, ideally, be vertical. In short (ha ha) they are, in my opinion, an odd looking show bird. However, a not quite ideal specimen is a very pretty bird. They look proud and dignified. Males have a frankly pathetic crow on the whole, although of course there is variation across the breed. I am extremely tempted.
So at the end of the month I have a decision to make. I can collect two very pretty pullets, or I can be sensible about things and decline. Of course, I don't want to decline. Yet it is the responsibility of all chicken keepers to put their birds' welfare first. It may be possible to integrate two tiny hens in with my robust pekin girls, but it cannot be assumed. There is a good chance that the others will take one look at the tiny newcomers and decide to eat them. Or squash them. Or in some other way terrorise them. Especially ASBO Chicken. If this happens, the serama would require their own lodgings. Luckily, they are so tiny that they can be kept quite happily in a rabbit hutch as long as they have access to an outside pen. A rabbit hutch would fit quite easily in the garage....
Anyway, back to the existing pekin kingdom. Doris appears fully recovered, which is a huge relief. I am still not quite sure what is going on with that hen and her eyes, but it has been suggested to me that she has an allergy. I rather hope that that is the case. Celia continues to shed featehrs like a speed stripper. She is thoroughly miserable at the moment, and spends a lot of time snuggled next to a more well covered flock mate. I have to say that the other hens are being remarkably kind and allowing this heat sharing. Even Maeve.
Last weekend, all of the girls got a pedicure. The mud and wet means that they are inclined to pick up mud balls on their feet which need soaking off. When you first approach a bucket with a chicken, they become understandably agitated. But once they are soaking their feet and getting a toe massage, more often than not they relax totally. Which can be awkward because you're balancing them in one hand. Maude even went to sleep, and she's no light weight. After a quick once over, I discovered that it was only Celia that needed her nails clipping. As she clacked away across the patio, the others watched presumably expecting a tap dance. They were disappointed.
Any thoughts about the serama would be appreciated.
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Ooh, Videos!
I have thought long and hard about uploading films to my blog. I am no Scorcese, and more pressingly I sound like a four year old on helium when captured in video form. Still, just for chuckles, here are a few short films.
A quick intro to the flock, minus the quarantined Doris.
Just to show the space available. You really don't need acres.
The hospital wing, and a disgruntled Doris.
And yes, I know I held the camera the wrong way up. Doh.
Friday, 31 December 2010
So, That Was 2010
Happy New Year! Nearly. As we approach the end of 2010, I find myself looking back at an eventful year in chicken keeping. This year, I lost my beloved Mini which was rubbish, but hatched my first ever chicks, which was amazing. I said goodbye to the Convent, and hello to the amazing Palace. I waved the Silkie sisters off to their fab new home, and welcomed four new girls. One of which was my much coveted frizzle. I performed emergency first aid on ASBO Chicken and kept all of my fingers (I am particularly proud of that). Yep, it's been interesting.
So, what does 2011 have in store? It's probably best that I don't know to be honest. I find that things run more smoothly if disasters are sprung upon me rather than giving me time to panic. Doris is currently sporting another bubbly eye minus any other symptoms. Rather than running off to the vet, I've decided to ignore the attention seeking faker and see if it miraculously improves. Just so that you don't think I am completely heartless, you should know that Doris has form. She also has a massive amount of tonic in her drinking water right now.
I hope this year has been kind to you, and that 2011 is downright generous.
Celia was knocking about, but managed to evade the camera. Her broodiness seems to be over. At long bloody last.
So, what does 2011 have in store? It's probably best that I don't know to be honest. I find that things run more smoothly if disasters are sprung upon me rather than giving me time to panic. Doris is currently sporting another bubbly eye minus any other symptoms. Rather than running off to the vet, I've decided to ignore the attention seeking faker and see if it miraculously improves. Just so that you don't think I am completely heartless, you should know that Doris has form. She also has a massive amount of tonic in her drinking water right now.
I hope this year has been kind to you, and that 2011 is downright generous.
Maeve aka ASBO Chicken and her incredible swivelling neck.
Gladys at her frizzly best.
Purdy, the only layer at time of writing (so she's my favourite).
Doris, Maeve and Mabel.
A super curious Hilda.
My beautiful Maude.
Purdy and Mabel.
Hilda demolishing my alpine trough. Sigh.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
The Rain It Raineth Every Day
We are in soggy, damp winter hell. In between bouts of rain, the fog descends just to ensure that everything stays dank and miserable. Several times on the way out to deal with the birds I have gone skidding across the patio on the slipperiest substance known to man: soggy chicken excrement. Lovely. I am beginning to think that the placement of these mini turds is deliberate. Maeve can often be seen loitering around the back step looking suspicious.
Poor ASBO Chicken is still in moult and it is beginning to get her down. Even her favourite pastimes of chasing underlings and ambushing superiors have lost their appeal. So desperately itchy is she that she will tolerate me rubbing her quill-spiky neck without attempting a fingerectomy. Her foot feathers have grown in beautifully, but the head, neck and hackle feathers are taking their time. Hopefully she will be back to her evilly gorgeous, bouffanted, black self by Christmas.
Celia is on day three of lock out. She seems to be coming around and taking more notice of the others, so my hopes are high that this approach will work. The dodgy-eyed Doris seems much better at this point and I am hoping that my trips to the vet are now over for this year. I think every keeper has a run of bad health in the flock, but after last years months of misery I rather feel that I've earned a few hassle free seasons. Of course, even typing this is tempting fate so I'm both touching wood and crossing fingers.
The Palace will soon have a bespoke sign courtesy of a very talented Twitter pal. Once it arrives and is in place expect a photo. It is everything I had hoped for and more, and even has the mighty Mille's featured. You will be impressed, I guarantee it.
Now I just have to source the perfect solar fairy lights and some bunting.
Poor ASBO Chicken is still in moult and it is beginning to get her down. Even her favourite pastimes of chasing underlings and ambushing superiors have lost their appeal. So desperately itchy is she that she will tolerate me rubbing her quill-spiky neck without attempting a fingerectomy. Her foot feathers have grown in beautifully, but the head, neck and hackle feathers are taking their time. Hopefully she will be back to her evilly gorgeous, bouffanted, black self by Christmas.
Celia is on day three of lock out. She seems to be coming around and taking more notice of the others, so my hopes are high that this approach will work. The dodgy-eyed Doris seems much better at this point and I am hoping that my trips to the vet are now over for this year. I think every keeper has a run of bad health in the flock, but after last years months of misery I rather feel that I've earned a few hassle free seasons. Of course, even typing this is tempting fate so I'm both touching wood and crossing fingers.
The Palace will soon have a bespoke sign courtesy of a very talented Twitter pal. Once it arrives and is in place expect a photo. It is everything I had hoped for and more, and even has the mighty Mille's featured. You will be impressed, I guarantee it.
Now I just have to source the perfect solar fairy lights and some bunting.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Maeve Loses Her Mojo
Maeve is half the chicken she was. Before our very eyes, she is diminishing in size. It goes without saying that she is seriously narked about the whole affair. She angrily rips out stray feathers and spits them contemptuously on the grass. The coop is generously upholstered with black fluff which the other hens tip toe warily around. I wonder if chickens are superstitious and fear that ASBO's cowbag tendencies might be catching. In the middle of this feather storm sits a seething, raggedy creature no bigger than a pigeon.
I have tried comforting her, but got a nasty peck for my troubles. The welt is still on my finger. If I offer her treats, she either ignores me or picks up the piece of apple or crust of bread and tosses it on to the floor. All the time her orange eyes glitter with malevolence. I find it best to back slowly away.
The other hens are in fine form. Gladys and Hilda appear to have been accepted fully at this point, and all the girls sit together on the run perches and preen. Apart from Maeve, of course. Maeve is not feeling particularly proud of her appearance. To be fair, she does currently have a band of spikes where her neck feathers should be and no arse. It is not her best look. They studiously ignore her as she stroppily rips up the newspaper I use to line the coop floor and tosses it out of the pop hole door. They rightly recognise her attention seeking behaviour, and like good parents everywhere, pretend it isn't happening.
So far we are weathering the storm.
I have tried comforting her, but got a nasty peck for my troubles. The welt is still on my finger. If I offer her treats, she either ignores me or picks up the piece of apple or crust of bread and tosses it on to the floor. All the time her orange eyes glitter with malevolence. I find it best to back slowly away.
The other hens are in fine form. Gladys and Hilda appear to have been accepted fully at this point, and all the girls sit together on the run perches and preen. Apart from Maeve, of course. Maeve is not feeling particularly proud of her appearance. To be fair, she does currently have a band of spikes where her neck feathers should be and no arse. It is not her best look. They studiously ignore her as she stroppily rips up the newspaper I use to line the coop floor and tosses it out of the pop hole door. They rightly recognise her attention seeking behaviour, and like good parents everywhere, pretend it isn't happening.
So far we are weathering the storm.
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Doris The Incredible Colour Changing Chicken
Huh. This is an odd thing. Doris, my blue pekin, is currently going through her moult. The poor thing hasn't enjoyed it much. Doris is prone to myco-type infections and any stress brings on a return of symptoms. For a few days, she had the sneezes and a runny eye. Luckily, it all seems to have settled down again now without me having to resort to Tylan. However, something unusual has occurred.
Doris has always been a pure blue pekin. Well, a pretty grey colour in reality, but blue is the official colour. Today while giving her the once over I found one jet black feather near her tail. Thinking it was a stray from Maeve, I went to pluck it free. Doris's shriek let me know that it was very firmly attached to her behind. I stared at in bemusement. Never has Doris, in her two years of residency, had a black feather. How curious. I quickly checked for any other randomly coloured plumage but came up blank. Hmmm.
I have two theories. One, that Doris in some bizarre reverse aging process is changing from her original grey to a darker hue. Perhaps she will be downhearted by this sign of impending decrepitude and will start tapping on the back door looking for an application of 'Nice'n'Easy'. Or, and I admit this is unlikely, ASBO Chicken is attempting to take over the flock by assimilation and Doris is her first victim. Perhaps the other birds will start showing random black feathering, slowly increasing until I have a coop full of Maeve clones. A chilling thought for Halloween.
I would be willing to hear a more plausable explanation.
Doris has always been a pure blue pekin. Well, a pretty grey colour in reality, but blue is the official colour. Today while giving her the once over I found one jet black feather near her tail. Thinking it was a stray from Maeve, I went to pluck it free. Doris's shriek let me know that it was very firmly attached to her behind. I stared at in bemusement. Never has Doris, in her two years of residency, had a black feather. How curious. I quickly checked for any other randomly coloured plumage but came up blank. Hmmm.
I have two theories. One, that Doris in some bizarre reverse aging process is changing from her original grey to a darker hue. Perhaps she will be downhearted by this sign of impending decrepitude and will start tapping on the back door looking for an application of 'Nice'n'Easy'. Or, and I admit this is unlikely, ASBO Chicken is attempting to take over the flock by assimilation and Doris is her first victim. Perhaps the other birds will start showing random black feathering, slowly increasing until I have a coop full of Maeve clones. A chilling thought for Halloween.
I would be willing to hear a more plausable explanation.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Happy Halloween!
ASBO Chicken reveals her true nature.
(Many thanks to the ever tolerant husband and his computer wizardry. Also huge respect to him for not even raising an eyebrow when asked to do this. He is marvellous).
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