The Ladies Move Down In The World

Fate is a cruel mistress. For two years, my girls resided in the small but quaint Convent. It was easy to clean out, looked great in the border, but severely limited my flock size. So the Palace came to be. And for two years, they lived mostly harmoniously in a flock of ten. Yet, after some untimely deaths and a few girls moving to pastures new, my small flock of four began to look rather lost in their giant house.

So now they are going to live here.

This is a perfectly pleasant, back garden coop. It is not dissimilair to the Convent. Once the Palace has been taken away by its new owner, I'm sure I will embrace it with happiness and love. But as it stands in the garden, and the Palace is sill here for comparison, my heart sinks a little. This is a step backwards and there's no denying it. Yet I console myself with the knowledge that my ladies won't freeze to death in their cosy new dwelling. If this coop is a warm little flat, the Palace is a draughty stately home.

This afternoon, I moved the pekins from their old home to their new one. They reacted much as chickens will, and didn't notice for at least an hour as they were too busy scoffing toast. Then, they noticed. Maeve and Hilda, still deep in their broody psychosis, took it the hardest. They wanted a nice dark nest box to dream in, and the change in location means that their tiny bird brains can't work out how to find one. So they stand, frozen with indecision, and stare in to the middle distance. Mabel and Maude, the much more sensible mille's, spent the time pecking about at the much smaller perimeters of their new home. Once nest box angst and exploring were exhausted, however, they grouped together in the middle of the run and looked perplexed. Much chuntering ensued. They observed the puppy wandering around inside the Palace's grounds, and chuntered some more. After a brief huddle, Hilda attempted the ascent in to the house.

She managed to get half way up before her ascent became a descent. Slowly, she began to slide backwards. She greeted this development with mild surprise which quickly turned to alarm as she picked up speed. Landing on the floor in an undignified heap, she squawked her displeasure. It seems that this ramp has a steeper gradient than the Palace's.

When I next looked out, the run was empty. All four birds had found their way in to the new premises. I peered through the perspex window, and four curious birds peered back. They tested out the perches and pecked at the aubiose. The pup ran around the coop, looked in through the pop hole and made eye contact with me through the window. This blew his tiny spaniel mind.

All in all, I don't suppose they will mind the reduction in their circumstances. I'm sure I will mourn the pekin empire dream more than they will. And in the end, I know that they are well cared for and will see out their lives in comfort. This new house needs a name, though, so all suggestions are welcome.

I hope the house warming is a quiet affair.

Two Tribes

Now that the decision to sell the house has been made, it has forced me to speed up the integration process. I couldn't quite get my head around showing prospective buyers the super sparkly house, and then letting them peek into the garage only to be confronted by two demented bog brushes and acres of poo. So, two nights ago I bit the bullet and the silkies moved in to the Convent.

It went as well as can be expected. Mabel was pancaked in the nest box, so Maeve had free reign. She chased them and kung fu kicked them a few times. The other girls dived out of the way and generally muttered about the impetuousness of youth. The silkies have long legs compared to a pekin, so speed is their advantage. Eventually, everyone got bored and went to bed. Kiki and Margot waited until almost full dark before tentatively climbing the ramp to the sleeping quarters. After a little indecision, they slunk inside and huddled up in a nest box. I was quite smug about the whole thing.

My smugness didn't last, as at dawn I was up separating them. It wasn't that the chasing was particularly bad, but Doris had taken up a war cry which could wake the dead. Not the best way to keep the neighbours on side, Doris. Removing the silkies worked, and we all went wearily back to bed.

Yesterday, the new girls decided to spend their time hiding behind the greenhouse, making only the occasional foray to search out food and water. For the most part, the flock ignored them, only getting shirty if they approached any treats. Again, all perfectly normal and even promising. At dusk, my original ladies pootled off to bed. The silkies hung back, looking agitatedly for somewhere else to sleep. When they realised that there were no other options, they slunk into the Convent. I locked the door, feeling confident that all was well.

On checking the coop with a torch before bed, I found Kiki and Margot asleep under the sleeping area in the run. I unceremoniously grabbed them both and stuffed them into the coop, where they made the mistake of trying to bed down for the night on top of a grumpy Mabel. She gave them both a smart peck on the head, and much chastised they curled up in the other nest box. I half expected to be woken at dawn again, but helpfully Doris kept schtum.

We'll see how it goes tonight, after I remove the persistent Mabel from the equation.

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.

Poor Mini

I noticed yesterday that Mini had odd little scabs on the points of her comb. After a thorough inspection, I came to two possible conclusions. Mini either had fowl pox, a non lethal but possibly scarring illness, or one of the other hens was duffing her up. After a brief trip out today, Mini's comb had signs of fresh blood. One of the other girls had decided to really give Mini a hard time. The nasty wench.

I don't know who it is, as when they're outside free ranging there is no sign of nastiness. I suspect that the attacks are happening when Mini is cornered in the coop. If Belinda wasn't welded to the nest, she'd be my number one suspect. As it is, I can't pin down the culprit.

It could be Mabel. However, as top hen she's never really resorted to bashing up her subjects, preferring to chase them away from the treats if they get a bit uppity, and occasionally delivering a deliberate disciplinary peck. Sustained attacks aren't really her thing. She'd much rather eat a lot and poo copiously than get too physical.

So, maybe it's Maude. Maude has always been more involved in the chastisement of the younger girls, but again I don't see this level of viciousness being in her nature. Maude is essentially Mabel's hench-chicken, carrying out diabolical deeds under advisement from Don Mabel.

Doris is definitely a contender. As a lower hen in the pecking order, it makes sense that she'd want to keep Mini in her place. Being as though her best pal Lindy has gone all hormonal and psychotic, she might well turn to bullying as a way of keeping her status.

It's not Maeve. Maeve couldn't even reach the top of Mini's head, so she's in the clear.

Now I have to find a way of disguising the blood. Chickens seem to go crazy at the sight of it, and generally once blood has been shed they all become a bit mental. Blood lust in chickens is particularly unpleasant, and when the girls are shut into the coop at night Mini would have nowhere to hide. So now I need something that tastes foul and covers the colour. You can buy anti peck sprays, but this being a sunday afternoon my chances of finding anywhere open are slimmer than slim. For tonight, Mini will be wearing granny smelling talcum powder on her head. Yes, she'll look ridiculous, and smell like old people, but hopefully no one will eat her from the comb down.

Belinda Wreaks Vengeance

A broody Belind refuses to give up the nest for Maude and Doris.

Right, so the ebay eggs are on hold until we get back from our travels (yay!). Therefore, a broody Belinda will not get her chance to hatch her first clutch, which means we're still trying to persuade her that there is more to life than sitting in the dark cooing to yourself.

After what seems like weeks of rain, the sun came out today. It was too good an opportunity to miss, so I stripped the coop down to give it a good scrub and disinfect. This always unsettles the hens, who understandably take exception to someone taking their home to bits, making it smell like flowers and disposing of their favourite chickenny smells. Doris was her usual vocal self. The entire neighbourhood was treated to the gobby madam ranting at the cheek.

Belinda sat on the grass where I'd plonked her, and glared at me. She issued a low growl whenever any of the other hens ventured too close, which earned her a 'Oi! Remember who you're growling at!' type peck on the head from top hen Mabel. It was quite disconcerting to feel Belinda's evil eye boring into my back while I crawled about in the run scraping poo (yes, my life really is this glamorous!). After about twenty minutes, she stood up, shook herself, and sauntered off down towards the greenhouse. Pleased that she'd given up her vigil, I carried on battling with easibed and wood shavings.

As I began reassembling the Convent, I heard an odd noise. The other girls had also heard it, and were stood with their heads cocked to one side, listening. Thump. Hmmm. I counted four big girls, and one little Maeve dotted about the human garden (so much for the fencing). Thump. It sounded rather a lot like earth hitting glass. Odd. Thump. After extracting myself from the hen run, I walked up the garden, looking for the missing Belinda. Thump.

The sound I had heard was indeed earth hitting glass. In fact, attached to the earth hitting the glass were some young tomato seedlings. Belinda was systematically pulling seedlings from a tray on my greenhouse staging, and launching them against the lower panes. She froze, seedling in beak, when she saw me stood in the doorway. Human and chicken eyeballed each other for several seconds, before the stroppy hen spat out the current seedling and attempted to move on to my sunflowers. Grasping her firmly with both hands, I removed the chav chicken and frog marched her back to the chicken garden. The hormonal vandal let out a blood curdling shriek which set all the others off bokking and running around in a panic. Plonking her none too delicately back in the Convent's grounds, I gave her a stern look. Regally, she sashayed back up the ramp into the coop, pausing only to throw me a look of disdain before disappearing into the darkness.

I never knew that chickens were capable of such vindictiveness.

An Ongoing Battle

Belinda is teetering on the edge of full blown broodiness. If I turf her out of the nest box, she potters for a bit and eats, but if she catches sight of the coop, she legs it back up the ramp to make herself comfy. I imagine that while she sits buried in the wood shavings, she's dreaming of cute baby chicks. Now I have a fresh appreciation of the word 'broody'. Lindy is totally single minded. She can think of nothing but chicken motherhood. I actually feel quite sorry for her.

Doris pops her head into the coop to counsel her pal, clucking in a reassuring manner before wandering off again. She is definitely the kindest to Belinda's predicament. Mabel tends to barge in, sit on Lindy 'til her eyes bulge and she is forced to move, and then complain loudly that she can't lay her egg in solitude. Maude doesn't complain, but tends to sit on her anyway. Mini has decided that she wants no part of a broody Belinda, and has laid in the oft neglected other nest box. I don't blame her, Belinda isn't that nice to her when she isn't hormonal and crazed.

A Bit Too Close For Comfort

I suspect that we had a lucky escape tonight. I shut the girls into the run this evening a little earlier than usual as we were going out for dinner. What I didn't remember was that my youngest child had been out egg collecting earlier, and he has a habit of forgetting to shut the main coop door. Therefore, when we got back this evening with two very sleepy children, hubby discovered the coop door open and only two visible hens on the perch. Cue much panic, until I rushed out and ascertained that the other three were bundled in the nest boxes. Note to self : not much point in making the run fox proof, and locking the side gate with two deadlocks and padlocks, if you go out and leave the sodding door swinging in the breeze.

At Her Majesty's Pleasure

We've established that my attempt at netting in the hens was rubbish. The idea was good though, so this weekend hubby and I were on a mission. A quick trip to the local DIY place later, the ever tolerant husband got on with building a proper barrier. Using short wooden stakes and some pvc netting, he managed to neatly cordon off the garden into two distinct sections; the convent and grounds, and the human garden. Brilliant.



I methodically sought out small fluffy chickens and popped them into their new area. At first, they didn't notice the new improved fence and assumed that I was just moving them around for fun. There were no complaints, just resigned clucking as I plonked them down in chicken prison. The peace didn't last long, however.



Maude was the first to notice that the new fence wasn't so easily breached as the 'cobwebs on sticks' attempt I'd made. She bokked to the others in a 'hang on, girls, I'm not liking this!' manner. Mabel waddled over, giving the netting an experimental peck. Finding the plastic unyielding, she took up a war cry. Within minutes, five pissed off hens were speedily trotting along the whole length of the barrier, looking for an out. Back and forth they went, looking very much like they should have had little tin cups in their beaks to clang along the bars of their new prison. Oh, the guilt.



Maeve was cheeping on the lawn, in the priviliged position of being allowed on the human side of the fence. This isn't favouratism, more that the others might eat her. This way she can get on with growing big enough to defend herself when the inevitable integration duff up occurs. Didn't stop her gloating, though.



Deciding that my presence was probably agitating them more, I took the cowards way out and went to have a calming cup of tea. When I next looked out, Mabel was by the back door, a glint of triumph in her eye. The absolutely tiny gap between fence and coop had proved big enough for her to squeeze her matronly bum through. We know that this was what she must have done, because we soon saw Doris do the same thing. Hubby looked at this, and then blocked the gap with a tall plant pot.



As we stood there, discussing the flaws in our security system, Maude took a running, flapping jump and joined her best pal on the other side of the fence. A problem that is not so easy to fix. However, only Maude and Mini seem capable of flying to any height, so we're hopeful that they'll get bored of being away from their chicken chums. Maybe.



Their complete disgust that the barrier was still in place when I let them out this morning was audible. Today, it was Mini that popped over for a visit. It's really more of an open prison.

A Spring Clean

After the trauma of yesterday, today we had to turn our minds to practical matters. Delilah may have died of an infectious disease, so the coop needed a thorough clean. I stripped it all down, and washed it all with disinfectant. The bedding in the run was all scraped out, and the ever tolerant husband gave it a good scrub. The dismantled coop was left to dry in the sunshine.

This was the moment when I realised I'd made a mistake. Belinda was wandering around the garden, vigorously shaking her head from side to side and muttering a low growl. Classic Belinda behaviour when she needs to lay an egg. It's almost as if she's trying to deny the inevitability of having to lay. If she could speak, I'm sure that weird growl would become, 'Ohhhhhh nooooooooo! Nooooooooo! I don't wannnnnt toooooooooo!'. Poor little chicken.

She wandered up to the coop door, and did a funny little double take as she realised that the floor of the nesting box was missing. Not to be deterred, she tried to climb into the space where the nest should be. Hens have little appreciation for the laws of physics. One small red hen tumbled inelegantly to the floor. She stood up, shook herself, muttered a bewildered 'bok?', and then went back inside to have another go. After the third attempt, I managed to stop laughing enough to shut the door and therefore thwart her comedy prat falls.

Shut out from the coop, Belinda decided to make her displeasure known by shrieking her head off while strutting around the garden. Even throwing her a handful of corn wouldn't shut her up. I hastily attempted to rebuild the nestbox, while a small red hen hopped around the lawn with her legs crossed. As I dumped in a handful of wood shavings, she streaked across the lawn, up the ramp and on to the nest. She opened her beak in a chickenny sigh of relief, and pecked me for taking so long. Typical.

Now that Belinda had control of the nest, she was reluctant to give it up. At one point there was a bizarre queue on the ramp of desperate to lay chickens. It looked like they were waiting for a bus. Who knew that hens could be so utterly British?