Sometimes, It's Just A Pleasure

Yesterday was a bit stressful for me and the chooks. I basically bunged them all in to the Palace for two hours and sat next to the weld mesh waiting for a riot to break out. Surprisingly, it didn't. I mean, of course there was some stroppy squawking and chasing, but on the whole it was strangely peaceful. Betsy and Vera mainly lurked in the coop, occasionally venturing in to the run when they felt like tormenting one of the bigger girls. Winnie and Flo managed to keep mostly out of beaks way, and when Maeve did corner Winnie she merely issued a couple of half-arsed pecks before ambling off to eat something. This is very encouraging.

But today, I didn't feel like giving myself a stress fuelled heart attack. So I just let them get on with it and attempted to tidy the garden. So often as a chicken keeper you can be focused on this ailment, or that broody, that you can easily foget to simply enjoy the greedy feather bags mooching about the garden. You should sit back and smell the roses, as it were. So today I sat back and smelled the evil broody poo.

Maude is coming through her moult at long last, and is as beautiful as ever. Now that her quills are through she isn't in any discomfort and I can breathe a sigh of relief at another non-fatal moult. Mabel is holding on to her top hen status and continues to be a benevolent ruler, only sometimes feeling the need to flatten an underling. She doesn't bother with the newbies at all. Celia is still determinedly broody despite my best efforts. I am continuously turfing her out of the nest box and smothering her in mite powder. She stares at me glassily and coos at her imaginary eggs. Loon. Our beloved ASBO Chicken continues to skulk like a feathery ninja, and stages the odd ambush. She isn't particularly fussed whether her victim is human or chicken, but has a particular fondness for hiding under the trampoline and pouncing on the children's feet as they dismount. That's my girl.

Gladys is found next to Celia in the nest boxes, and her back end is indistinguishable from her front under all of the frizzling. She does have the sense to wander from the nest several times a day, though, so I'm more confident that she'll snap out of it of her own accord. Hilda is currently sporting exquisitely well manicured fingernails, as I gradually file them down. Her weeks of being broody led to crazy talon growth, so now when she walks across the patio she sounds like she's wearing heels. Now there's an image.

Betsy is still laying the odd egg. Very odd. If it isn't soft shelled it's the size of a five pence piece. I have given up worrying about it and just assume that Betsy's egg laying gubbins is wonky. She is not in the least bit bothered. Vera is still herding her giant babies and busy telling them off at every possible opportunity. It's really rather sweet. For their part, Winnie and Flo are wonderfully tolerant of the barmy Serama. Flo made her first proper 'bok-ARK' yesterday, and was exceedingly pleased with herself. She is growing in to a real beauty. Winnie is still playing catch up, but is a gentle and quiet pullet so far. I can see her being bottom of the pecking order, but not really minding much.

As I watched all ten of them scavenging the wheat I'd just thrown on the lawn, I thought to myself: I must post about this. That it's not all tragedy, illness or comedy gold. Sometimes it's just bloody lovely.

So go and watch your chooks and remind yourself why you bother.

Celia Gets It Wrong

Today has been the first truly autumnal day of the year. Stray leaves are blowing about the garden, and all of the trees are at least thinking about throwing down a few more. The two newest ladies came out of their garage home for a wander around the grounds, decided it was cold and windy, and went back in. They were last seen snuggling up in the mini coop, deep in to the woodshavings, and having a bit of a sleep.

The rest of the flock, minus Celia, have been more resilient. With determination, Maeve lay in her favourite dustbath with the aim of catching a few rays. Eventually, she had to aknowledge the lack of hot yellow thing in the sky, puffed herself up and grumbled away in to the shrubbery. Mabel and Maude seem to be feeling the wind even more keenly in their semi-clad state and have retreated to the Palace. They venture out for snacks, but that's about it.

Celia has decided that this is exactly the right time to experiment with being broody. At first I thought she was just taking her time about laying. Upon investigation, however, it became apparent that the little madam was sitting on two eggs. The psychotic glint in her eye told me everything that I needed to know. As I reached forward she began to growl. Inch by inch, I slowly advanced. Celia's growl increased in volume and screechiness until I actually dared stick my hand under her to retrieve the eggs. This did not go down at all well, and she attempted to remove my hand at the wrist. Snatching back my much needed appendage, I solemnly regarded the young hen. She glared back. We then engaged in a ridiculous game of 'Fetch The Egg' where by I advanced on the nest, then lost my nerve. All the while Celia went from low growl to insane harpy mode. The undulations were reminiscent of an old air raid siren, and drew my neighbour to pop her head over the fence to make sure we hadn't had a chemical spill.

Finally realising enough was enough, I distracted the Evil One with a glove while snaffling the eggs. She savagely set about the glove with a quite worrying amount of glee. Certain that she had well and truly killed it, her tiny mind returned to her nest. On the discovery that her eggs were missing, she raised her hackle feathers and hissed at me. That's right, hissed.

Now I have dealt with some determined broodies over the last two years, and I have regularly run the gauntlet with the affectionately named ASBO chicken, but this hen seems positively dangerous.

On with the leather gauntlets.

Planning Ahead

I have decided that summer is over. The sun is still making the odd appearance, but on the whole autumn is in the air. The moulting Mille's are busy redecorating the garden with bits of themselves, and I am trying to come up with a chicken proof gardening scheme which will see my borders full of greenery and colour instead of chicken poo and dustbaths. Deep down, I suspect that I am tilting at windmills.

When I survey my borders, I realise two things. One, that all of my beautiful, delicate plants have mysteriously disappeared. And two, that the surviving specimens are shrubs which can bear their foliage and flowers above bouncing pekin height. Oh, and aqueligias. For some reason, they are completely ignored. Also, true geraniums, although they are nibbled. All in all, it's a heartbreaking sight for a keen gardener.

Before the Palace was installed in its current location, I did have a clump of chives which they left alone. With this in mind, I have planted several varieties of allium bulb. I am hoping that the oniony taste will put them off. In the same vein, they ignore the rosemary bush. The ever tolerant husband suspects that they avoid all of the ingredients in Paxo through instinct.

Bedding plants are a complete no-no, and this year even the roses have come under attack. The rhododendron's have escaped unscathed, but the poor ceanothus is naked from the waist down. If this continues, it will develop a tree like structure rather than that of a shrub. In fact, I might end up with a garden populated with standard plants.

Any new, tender growth is scoffed with abandon. I resorted to fencing off the border last spring to give the emerging plants a fighting chance. The hens patrolled the partition, awaiting the opening of the buffet. Next year, with the fabulous Palace, they will find their free ranging rights severely restricted during growing season.  With these restrictions in place, and some clever planting, I am hoping to have a more botanical garden next summer.

Gladys and Hilda are now free ranging with the rest of the flock. The two groups warily dance around each other, and no harm has been done by either party. Indeed, the new girls even made their way in to the Palace grounds to help themselves to lunch yesterday. The chooks watched, incredulous, as Hilda had the temerity to poo quite literally on their doorstep. This broke the stunned inertia, and Maeve evicted the newcomers with ruthless efficiency. No one lost any feathers, however, so I am fairly optimistic of a smooth transition.

Lurking in the undergrowth, a moth-eaten Mabel, Purdy, Maude, Doris and Celia.

The usually beautiful Maude, minus her knickers.

Scoffing the roses, because apparently nothing is actually sacred.

Gladys and Hilda, the newest recruits.

Gladys being marvelously frizzly.

Hilda, still impressively white.

They destroy my garden, poo everywhere and force me out of bed early even at the weekends; and I wouldn't have it any other way.