A Helicopter Rant

This is less a blog post and more a furious out pouring. Someone local to me has recently acquired a new toy. Unfortunately, it isn't a football or a bike or even a pogo stick. No, it is a fully functioning helicopter. Not the model type, but an actual, sit in and fly helicopter. Fair enough I suppose. If you want to zoom about in a helicopter that's your business. But I'm fairly certain there are rules about how you fly the effing thing. And buzzing over my estate low enough that I can see your stupid, grinning face is probably illegal, you arse.

Chickens are sensitive creatures. Like all birds, they are prone to stress. They learn to adapt to new sounds and objects in their immediate area, but it takes time and constant exposure. A helicopter suddenly whizzing by at ear splitting volume is not something you can acclimatise them to. This morning the helicopter did a fly by for the second time since the weekend, and it caused chaos. The hens were all happily free ranging when we began to hear the tell tale wasp hum. Initially they froze, then went tall and skinny looking for the threat. I rushed to get corn to try and get them undercover before it appeared overhead, but was too slow. It seems to burst out of nowhere, loud and ugly, before disappearing again. The girls panicked, big time. From their perspective, a big loud predator had just appeared over the garden.

All six current residents of the Palace hot footed it in to the coop. The serama bolted for the garage in their roadrunner way. But poor Flo and Winnie didn't know what to do with themselves. They ran about in a panic, running laps around the Palace and constantly missing the door in their desperation to get under cover. I managed to scoop them up and put them in the garage, but before I could secure them in their run they had escaped and hidden under a pile of garden furniture. By this time the helicopter had long gone.

A quick check found the pekins huddled in the coop, Maude and Celia panting. The serama were huddled in their nest box, heads under each others' tails. And the baby pekins were still taking refuge in the garage. I confess that my heart was in my mouth when making these checks. There was a chicken keeper on the news last year who was losing birds and couldn't work out why. It turned out that hot air balloons were flying across the field early in the morning, and the birds were so frightened they were literally dropping dead with fright. With that in my mind, I was very afraid that I'd find one of my precious girls dead. Luckily, that wasn't the case. But stress is a funny thing, so I'm keeping a close eye.

It took half an hour to coax the baby pekins from their hiding place. All of the birds are now skittish and a bit quiet. I'm adding ACV and poultry spice to their rations in a bid to combat any lasting stress, and swearing inventively the entire time using 'whirly' as a prefix.

If it flies over again, the pilot may find me giving some very direct hand signals.

This Is A Restricted Area

I have no wish to decieve anyone via my blog. Much as I adore my girls, it would be wrong of me to only highlight the amusing positives of hen keeping. So, today I am tackling one of the downsides. The garden.

As mentioned several times before, my back garden is not measured in acres. In fact, it can be measured in a few fence panels and long strides. Therefore certain allowances must be made. If you've ever heard a back garden chook keeper say that their hens make no impact on their garden, I can safely say that they either keep their birds confined, have no interest in their garden looking nice for the neighbours, or own a country estate. The truth is that chickens are like any other pet. They rearrange the landscape somewhat.

If you're going to keep chooks in the garden, get used to poo picking. And not once a week either. We're talking daily vigilance. Unlike say, a dog that thoughtfully defecates once a day, a hen will poo as she roams. And she will poo a lot. The more you let your hens roam, the wider a poo picking area you have to cover. And don't expect them to have any respect. Anywhere is fair game.

Now that my pampered ladies have the Palace to call home, I am restricting their free ranging. Many people would argue that letting them out for 3-4 hours a day is actually quite a lot, but usually they have been given their freedom for most of the day. In the summer that equals approximately 12 hours of pooing, munching and digging. This year, I am taking back control.

I have got in to the routine of letting them out in the morning, and shutting them back in to the run at lunchtime. They are tolerating this at the moment, but I know that when the longer days roll around they will be most miffed. Thing is, this comes back to the poo issue. Twelve hours of unfettered wandering leaves the garden smelling less than fragrant. Sizzling chicken poo has a scent straight out of Hades. Until someone invents a nappy for chickens, letting them spread manure all over the place in the heat is off the menu. While I love seeing the girls sunbathe and laze about the garden on sultry summer evenings, I'd also quite like to have some flowers. Or any plants really. Apparently, I can't have both.

In an effort to give the newly sprouting plants a fair chance, I am going to fence in the main border. I've tried keeping the hens penned in, and frankly they treat such measures with total disdain. It usually works for five minutes before one by one they harrier jump jet over the netting and wander off to eat something. I am hoping that penning the plants in has more success.

Ask me if it's worked around May.

Being Watched is Rather Off-Putting

Like countless other lunatics in January, I am attempting to make my body a temple. It's not going very well so far, to be honest, but I am trying. One of the ways in which I'm trying is by following a virtual fitness trainer. The emotionless avatar puts me through my paces while I swear inventively at her. It works for us.

I stand in the living room facing the telly and try hard not to asphixiate or fall over. The only problem with this is that the hens seem to find it fascinating. I start my puffing and panting without an audience, but it isn't long before one curious hen spots me doing jumping jacks through the kitchen door. It doesn't take a moment for her to communicate this to the others, and after a few minutes I turn my head to find eight hens with their beaks up against the back door watching me. As I lunge, they track me like spectators at Wimbledon. This usually results in me losing it completely and laughing.

Laughing doesn't impress the virtual trainer, and she with the perfectly sculpted abs tells me off with her patronising lilt. So I close the kitchen door and try to concentrate. Unfortunately, the kitchen door appears to be on a slant, and during my next series of squats it slowly swings open to once again reveal my audience. They are utterly bewitched by my aerobics, and sit along the back step like a luxurious chicken-headed draught excluder.

When I turn off the evil trainer woman, they don't immediately disperse. It seems to take a while for them to come out of their exercise trance. This might be useful if you ever have a handling resistant bird. Trouble doing a health check on that narky hen? Do a few star jumps or knee touches and she will be putty in your hands. A cockerel that would ratehr kill you than eat out of your hand? Have you considered the power of the squat lunge?

As the great Iggy Pop once said, it's just like hypnotising chickens.

Seriously Unimpressed

When I look out in to my garden, I see a six inch covering of snow. Everything is white and sparkly and beautiful. Icicles hang from the Palace's roof and frosted spiders webs decorate the fence. Where once there was water there is now ice. And where once there were eight chickens pootling about the garden there are now....well, no chickens pootling about the garden.

The chooks are refusing point blank to engage with the weather in any way, shape or form. They make brief excursions out in to the run to eat and drink, but that's it. The rest of the time they are holed up in the coop no doubt muttering darkly about the lack of sunshine and heat. I make frequent visits to break the ice in the drinker and check on my feathered friends. No amount of bribery will bring them out of the Palace. I even tried throwing an enticing handful of corn out on to the frozen tundra, but they watched the arc of the treat fly through the air like specatators at Wimbledon and then stared at me. The message was clear: you'll have to do better than that.

Keeping them clean and warm has been a bit of a challenge if I'm honest. The newspaper I use under the perch was frozen to the coop floor this morning and when it finally came loose, peeled off in a solid sheet. Thankfully the copious amount of poo was similairly frozen and adhered to said sheet. I found myself in the strange position of trying to fold this befouled tabloid in to the compost bin. It wasn't as brittle as you'd expect.  The girls watched all of this from the perches in the run and complained bitterly about being temporarily evicted from their quarters. Replacing the paper and perch, I threw in a few handfuls of woodshavings to help with the extra dung being produced by eight housebound hens.

Here's hoping that the arctic conditions let up soon.

Dining Al Fresco

One of the first lessons I learned when I went in to chicken keeping is that chickens will eat just about anything. They will eat most of your garden, and also most of the food that you like to eat. Naturally, I restrict their diet for their own good, but they are never happier than when they procure some 'illegal' food stuff and hot foot it under the rhododendron bush so that I can't seize it. The youngest is regularly relieved of biscuits and cakes in this way, and comes inside howling with indignation. Eventually, he will learn that if you don't want to share, don't take it outside.

I will have to take some responsibility for this thievery, though. I am an extremely indulgent chook owner. When preparing the human meal, I often make a bit extra for my girls. Particularly when the weather is cold. Therefore, it is not unusual to see the human family sat at the table eating a roast dinner, and the chicken contingent sitting just the other side of the patio doors waiting for their share. Spoiled doesn't really cover it.

Yesterday we had jacket potatoes. Now, if there's one thing a chicken really, really likes, it's a spud. Once I was reasonably certain that the ever tolerant husband wasn't watching, I lobbed a 'spare' jacket in to the garden. The hens were in raptures. They attacked it like mini jack-hammers. Bits of potato flew. The aim of the game appears to be burrowing in to the potato faster than your flock mates, therefore getting all of the good squishy spud. Maeve regularly wins this contest, and ends up wearing the potato shell like a helmet. Once it has been completely hollowed out, then begins the race for the skin.

Eating the skin is harder work, but they seem to see it as a delicacy. There is often a lull in proceedings as they all catch their breath. They regard Maeve and her potato helmet solemnly for a while, before one of them leads the war charge. Last night, Mabel did the honours.

Maeve and her spuddy head gear is then chased about the garden, in a Benny Hill stylee. I think that this is a very clever way of burning off all those carbs. During the race, the potato will begin to disintegrate. Maeve becomes a sort of chicken pinata, shedding yummy flecks of skin as she goes. Impressively, the rest of the flock barely break their stride as they hoover them up. Eventually, Maeve loses her edible crown, and the rest is devoured. They then laze about in a gluttonous stupor, occassionally pecking bits of spud from each other's heads.

The dance of the jacket potato is complete.

The Latest Season's Trends!

My millefleur girls are very special to me. They're special because they were the ladies which introduced me to the realities of hen keeping. I spent many weeks researching chickens, and the best way in which to keep them. Once Mabel and Maude arrived, I had to put all of my theoretical knowledge to the test. Every time one of them sneezed, I panicked and thought: myco. Every time one or other of them snaffled a stray knicker feather, I thought: calcium deficiency. Now, experience has taught me that a hen that sneezes might be doing so because she stuck her beak in something unsavoury, and that feather snaffling is sometimes done just because they don't yet know the difference between each other and food. Me and my mille's have been on a journey together, that thankfully they have survived.

Both girls are currently going through their moult. Typically, they spend the first half of said moult feeling rather rubbish. As the old plumage falls out and the new quills push through their skin, they are obviously in some discomfort. I always ensure that the flock is given supplements during moulting season. It takes considerable energy to grow new feathers, and this is a prime time for illnesses. Luckily, my mighty mille's have survived this first stage with nary a sniffle. They are now in to the emerging pattern phase.

The picture at the top of my blog is of Mabel when she was in her first year. Post moult, she became a lot whiter and more matronly looking. So I am watching her with interest as the new feathers begin to emerge. She is much happier in herself, and has decided to randomly thunder up the garden towards the new chicks, causing them to scatter in amusing ways. Once satisfied with their terror, she boks happily to herself. I can already see that her markings are going to be even whiter than last year. Do hens lose feather pigment as they age, I wonder? Will Mabel eventually be as white as Hilda and demand a blue rinse?

Maude is spending oodles of time dustbathing. I wonder if the new feather growth is itchy, and this is her way of scratching. Maude emerged from her moult last year stunningly beautiful. I very much hope that we have a similair effect this year.

The other girls will moult in turn, but it's not nearly as exciting as seeing what the mille's will do. A single colour hen will moult and grow back single colour feathers. A patterned hen, though, could surprise you. Not with corporate advertising on their backside, granted, but still. There are possibilities.

They should be displaying their latest creations within a fortnight.

Welcome To The Jungle

The British summer continues in it's usual soggy manner. The hens can regularly be seen, huddling in the convent, throwing disgusted looks out at the rain. The humans are behaving in a very similar fashion, actually.

All this rain has encouraged the garden to go wild. Weeds are springing up everywhere, and the grass is having a definite growth spurt. It desperately needs taming, but as our garden is on clay, at the moment it is a squelchy bog. The girls can no longer weeble along, but have to hop and jump from one spot to the next. The long grass gets tangled up in their foot feathers, leading to the hilarious sight of small chickens tethered to the ground and having to eat their way out.

In protest at the ground conditions, they have taken to perching in inappropriate places. Like on top of the Convent, or the wheelie bin, or (worryingly) the barbecue. I'm assuming that this last location was chosen purely for convenience, and not as a suicide attempt.

The hemcore in the run has been so thoroughly soaked, that it's woven itself into a hemp mattress. The chooks have no chance of scratching about in it, and it's poo absorbing qualities have been severely compromised. All in all, it's pretty grim, and I prefer the easibed.

The Whole Point

Mabel and Maude show off their fluffy knickers.

Maeve munches a spud while Mini looks on enviously.

Today, while I sat on the bench in the spring sunshine, hens contentedly scoffing grass at my feet, I realised just how happy keeping hens makes me. As they mooched about, nibbling vegetation and occasionally murdering snails, I realised that my garden feels so much more alive for having the little monsters vandalising their way through it. It was an idyllic hour, with the sun warm on my face and the kids back at school. Even Belinda made an appearance of her own free will, and she didn't try to peck anyone to death. This is a completely self indulgent entry, and there is nothing more to say except, if you haven't already got some, get some hens. They really are rather fab.

Adventures in Chicken Hunting

I spotted an ad in my local petshop last week, while the sadness at losing D was still raw. Today, feeling much more chipper, I decided to call the number on the ad which claimed to be selling 'laying hens and bantams, all sorts'. It was a mobile number, and getting the answer phone, I left a short message and my number. My friend and I went off then and had a brief adventure involving casing a house and a flat tyre, but that's not relevant, so I'll pick up the story at the point where the lady called me back and said I was more than welcome to pop around and view the birds.

Denise knew the street where the hens were located, and we pulled up outside a typical (for where I live) terraced house. We were taken down a long, narrow garden, where at the bottom were several small sheds. I could hear the hens from the street, and I could smell them from a good ten feet away.

In two sheds, there were maybe thirty birds. Mostly cross breeds, with the occasional utility thrown in for good measure. In short, not pets for the garden. Several cockerals took umbridge at being disturbed, and set about crowing to show us how hard they were. The hens were all nervous and flighty. I knew fairly soon after we stepped through the hedge to the sheds that I didn't want any of these birds. So that left me with that curiously English problem of having to say no.

I made a show of examining a few birds, made a few half hearted attempts at implying I wasn't interested, then panicked. I began to seriously consider buying one of these completely unsuitable hens just so I could leave without causing offence. I asked some questions, stalling for time. Desperately, I looked through the heaving flock in a bid to pick out the smallest/healthiest/least vulture like bird available. Even that hen was far too big for my other girls. Pekins have very short legs, and these hens all looked like they were on stilts. I had visions of my ladies squawking up the garden as this amazonian hen, with her ginormous pins, goose stepped after them to deliver vicious head pecks.

Realising that the conversation was floundering, and that the lady of the house was looking at me expecting me to make my choice, I settled on a flat out lie. I casually stated that I hadn't brought a box with me to take any hens home (LIE! Denise had brought her cat carrier) and that I had to talk to my husband first (LIE! He didn't even know I was out prospecting a hen purchase). I followed up with the ultimate load of chicken guano: I'll call you (BIG FAT LIE!!!!)

I can still smell the ammonia. I think that it singed my nasal hair.

The pecking order

When I just had Maude and Mabel, I used to think that Maude was the top hen. She seemed the most confident, the most likely to come haring up the garden for treats, and the most likely to land on visitors shoulders, scaring the crap out of them. Mabel was more aloof, preferring to watch all of her sisters shenanigans from a distance. Even when we threw Doris and Belinda into the mix, I still thought that Maude ruled the roost. Both of the older chooks gave the newbies a bit of a chase and put them in their place, but it was still Maude that was the show off. I have since learned that an outgoing personality has absolutely nothing to do with hen hierarchy.

Once Delilah and Mini arrived, it became apparant very fast that Mabel was top hen. She strutted around, hackles raised, bellowing at the top of her lungs her displeasure at these new chooks being in her territory. She herded the other three members of her flock away from the interlopers, and anyone who tried to make friends with them got a severe duffing up. Her favourite game became chasing the new girls around the greenhouse in a Benny Hill stylee.

Within a month of the new arrivals, the pecking order was established. Mabel is top hen, and gives the others the occasional peck on the head just to remind them. Next comes Maude. Doris, Belinda and Delilah seem to be somewhere in the middle, and poor little Mini is at the bottom.

Being bottom hen is a bit rubbish. She has to eat last, go to bed last and rarely gets any of the treats. Belinda is particularly fond of grabbing a beakful of her neck feathers if she gets too close, and Doris thinks chasing her is the best fun ever. Upsetting as this can be to watch, it's normal hen behaviour. Mini isn't mature yet, so she automatically has less importance in the flock. Hopefully, when she comes into lay, she'll grow some metaphorical balls and peck back, and they'll learn to leave her alone. She is, already, more integrated in the flock than she was, and is beginning to steal bits of bread and tear off up the garden with them. My little girl is growing up, and learning that being a devious bitch might be the only way of getting her fair share. Good on her.

A recent development in the pecking order involves Mabel jumping on the others' backs, in imitation of a cockeral. The first time she did this, Doris let out a bewildered squawk. The second time, she crouched. I presume that this is just Mabel asserting her authority, and not an indication that I have a rampant lesbian chicken on my hands. Time will tell.

First egg!

I remember coming across the first egg back in January with absolute delight. I saw this little, perfectly formed ovoid shape and assumed that a) hubby was playing a trick on me, or b) the kids were playing a trick on me. But no! Delilah had laid her/our very first egg! It was a ridiculously joyous occassion, and I really hope that none of the neighbours are in possession of a video of me literally dancing around the garden with glee.

The egg was boiled, photo's were taken (I kid you not) and the the other members of my family had a spoonful each. They proclaimed it the best egg ever, and I gave Delilah an extra raisin for being such a clever girl. After that, there was no stopping her, and she now regularly gives us 5/6 eggs a week.

Maude was the next to start laying, just a fortnight after Delilah's debut. Her eggs are almost white, and bigger than D's mini eggs. Two weeks later, and Mabel joined the layers club. With three hens laying, I was getting around 14 eggs a week, far more than we'd eat, so I gave a few boxes to the neighbours.

Just this week, Doris and Belinda have started laying. They seem a little intimidated by the bigger girls though, and have taken to laying eggs in unusual places rather than use the nest boxes. I'm not quite sure what to do about that at the moment.

So now I only have little Mini not contributing to the food chain. I don't expect her to start laying for a couple of months yet, as her head gear hasn't reddened up nor does she crouch. By the end of May, though, I expect to have six hens a laying!

Christmas

When my ever tolerant hubby asked me what I wanted for christmas, I suspect he already knew that it would involve something with feathers. I casually replied I'd like two more hens, fully expecting him to laugh himself sick and then tell me to get stuffed. Instead, he told me to phone the breeder.

The breeder invited me 'round that very weekend, and after a bit of oohing and aahing, I came away with Delilah, a partridge hen, and Mini Mildrid, a splash. Mini was, and is, a very sweet hen. She's a few weeks younger than the others, and is bottom of the pecking order. Delilah is an extremely handsome hen, with a wonderful comb. She is, however, a complete cow. If she's in a mood, which is more or less constantly, she will try to peck you to death. Delilah is noisy and bad tempered, and the smaller hens stay out of her way. However, she is completely beautiful, and lays the most eggs, so we forgive her. I have a pair of gardening gloves which I use to prune the roses, and to handle Delilah. Neither of us like this arrangement, but it will have to do. Delilah can often be found staring in through the patio door, perhaps plotting chickenny vengeance.

Life with chickens

So, I jumped in at the deep end, and learnt on the job. Maude and Mabel settled in quickly, happily pottering around the garden and scoffing all my favourite tender plants. And decimating the greenhouse. The kids were fascinated for about five minutes, and then their attention was caught by something else. The ever tolerant husband grudgingly admitted that they were sweet, and weren't turning the garden into a farmyard. I had well and truly caught the bug, and talked the other half into aquiring another hen.

During my chicken research, I had come across silkies. Silkies are an unusual looking chicken, with fluffy feathers and black skin. They are also supposed to be gentle and good around children. I tracked down a farmer who said I could have one of his young hens for a fiver. Bargain!

Except she wasn't. She was evil. My eldest son named this chicken psychopath Alice, a lovely sweet name wholey inappropriate to the honking, screeching mentalist that was penned up in the back garden. Alice hated people, showing her displeasure with open beaked hisses and vicious pecking if you came within range. Alice also hated chickens, repeatedly trying to duff up the other two until they perched awkwardly on top of the drinker, refusing to come down while the crazed Alice circled underneath with that Jack Nicholson from 'The Shining' gleam in her eye. After a mere 48 hours, we decided Alice had to go. Using tea towels and a bucket, we managed to secure her in a box and the hubby took her back to the farm. I suspect she is continuing her reign of tyranny on some other poor hens as I type.

A few weeks after the Alice episode, I somehow managed to talk hubby into getting two more pekins. I did this sneakily, by telling the kids that they could have a hen of their own. I tracked down a wonderful breeder, and 6 weeks after Mabel and Maude arrived, we had a 6 week old red hen called Belinda, and a 6 week old blue hen named Doris.

Introducing chickens to an existing flock is a tricky business. There is always a fair amount of chasing, pecking and bokking. I took it very slowly, initially just letting them all see each other while in seperate pens. After a few weeks, they free ranged/ chased each other around the garden. Five weeks after Belinda and Doris's arrival, they were all in the same coop and the pecking order was established. To my knowledge, no hens were injured during this process, and it worked well for us.

So, now I had my little flock. They waddled happily around the garden, scoffing everything in site and leaving surprisingly large deposits all over the decking. They also started to make proper chicken noises, other than the chick 'meep' sounds they'd arrived with. Surprisingly loud chicken noises. Oh dear. They favour a bok-bok-bok-BOKKKKKK!! kind of call rather than gentle clucking. Basically, everyone now knew that we had hens.

The first post! Introduction

Well, I've finally managed to work out what a blog is, and get this far. I'm quite pleased with myself, actually. So, here's a bit of background.

I wanted a dog. Really, really wanted a dog. Even got so far as choosing a puppy. Said puppy then licked my eldest sons face, and he turned into Quasimodo. Not good. It was a dramatic way to find out that he was allergic to dog saliva, and put a halt on dog ownership. I was disappointed, but rallied myself and announced that we would get a cat.

The hubby and I trotted off to the local RSPCA shelter, and chose a gorgeous little kitty. She was adorable. We all fell in love, and the kids thought she was the bestest cat ever. Sadly, the next day the hubby was unable to breathe. Literally gasping for air. Bye bye kitty.

All of this aquiring pets only to have to take them back was quite demoralising. The kids were upset for about five minutes, and then wandered off to watch Ben 10. I was seriously peeved at my nearest and dearests inability to tolerate dog spit or cat fur, and might have sulked a bit.

Now, during some hormonally unbalanced stage early last year, I had toyed with the idea of chickens. It seemed like a good idea; gently clucking fat hens would wander around the back garden eating worms and aphids (the bane of a rose lovers life). When I mentioned this plan to the hubby, I got an extremely adament 'No'. As he pointed out, we don't live on a farm. Or even in the countryside, really. Also, chickens look vaguely threatening up close. A bit like dinosaurs.

However, about a week after we returned Sassy the kitten (See! She was named and everything!) he had a change of heart (I suspect the fact that living with me was a bit like living with a harpy at the time had something to do with it. I was thirty last year, so a bit mental with significant birthdayness) Hurrah!

Then began a long, drawn out process of deciding which kind of hens to keep, and also what to put them in. After a few weeks of research, the coop was ordered and I'd decided that pekin bantams were the birds for us. After a quick word with the neighbours, I set about finding a breeder.

Pekins are small fluffy chickens that look like they're wearing huge bloomers. They are also docile, easy to handle and allegedly don't dig up the garden too much (Allegedly. We'll come back to this point later) They're not the best egg layers in the world, stop laying during the winter months all together and frequently go broody. None of this put me off. In July 2008, I collected two 9 week old millefleur pekins.