Garden Sharing

Pekins are not very fond of getting their feet wet, so when the weather is inclement they tend to sit on the perches in the run, muttering and fluffed up. One or two daring explorers might leave the shelter of the run for a quick grass scoff, but on the whole they are content to stay within the confines of the Palace. The serama will venture forth in the rain as long as it isn't cold, but their silkie feathers are rubbish at keeping them warm so I have to monitor their excursions. As it is peeing down today, the hens are not bothered in the least by not getting hours of freeranging time. However, when it isn't raining they would much rather be out digging up my borders and pooing on the patio. Naturally.

But now we have the puppy. And the puppy must also have access to the garden. Quick access, unless you want wet feet. So it's a bit of a problem. I had been restricting the pekins free ranging anyway this year in a bid to have some plants, so they had been out for about 4 hours a day. I would often let the serama have longer than that, as the damage they can do to the garden is extremely limited by their tiny stature. This has now been severely cut down.

At present, the birds are getting approximately an hour and a half free range a day. The puppy has a long snooze after the school run, so that's when I let the girls out. However, once he wakes, he needs to pee. So the girls have to be coaxed back in to the run. They are not best pleased. In the end, I hope to desensitise the puppy to the chooks, so that there can be some managed integration. But we are some distance from that. He will sit by the run, intently watching them, and occasionally barking at these exciting, noise making feathery things. Training will be a long and arduous process.

I feel guilty. I feel dreadful. I feel like the worst chicken keeper in the world. I've considered putting up a more permanent fence around the coop so that the puppy can't get near and the hens can still roam. But he has successfully dug under my border netting, and I can't bring myself to suggest electric fencing in our average suburban garden to the ever tolerant husband. I think he'd laugh and then wrestle my debit card away from me. Probably rightly, to be honest.

So that leaves me with few options. I can either start leaving the girls out when I'm walking the puppy and hope that his copious leavings in the garden would protect the girls from any potential predators. Or they have to cope with being more restricted than I'd like, but remain completely safe. It's a dilemma that I haven't had to tackle before. I am even more distressed that the serama are confined to their garage hutch, but at this time of year they need to be sheltered. And realistically I know that the hutch is perfectly big enough for two tiny birds. But still.

I shall think on.

The Chaos Continues

I'm not neglecting you, honest. It's just that I've been dealing with some teething problems. Actual teething problems. The puppy is chewing everything in sight, and is rather keeping me on my toes. Coupled with the fact that we were both attacked by a very angry dog yesterday, means that my blogging time has been seriously compromised. But no matter. Right now the pup is chewing a shoe (I'm pretending I haven't noticed) and I have a few minutes to update the Chronicles. So here goes.

My girls are on an egg strike. I'm not sure if this is in protest at the dog's arrival, or just the natural changing of the seasons. I suspect a bit of both, to be honest. Either way, no eggs for me. They are now eating less as well, and barely touching their oyster shell. In reality I doubt I'll see another egg until 2012. They watch me as I hopefully open the nest box, and no doubt snigger as I trudge dejectedly away again. As always with chickens, the less they give you the more you give them. So out comes the mixed corn, and the viatmin supplements, and the ACV, in an attempt to get them through the moult they've decided to communily have. Maude is strutting about looking resplendent and smug, having finished her moult a few months back. But everyone else is looking tatty and miserable. They are also increasingly narky, and many a hen is getting an unprovoked peck to the bonce just for existing. Even poor Vera is losing feathers left, right and centre. The miniscule hen is disappearing before my eyes.

The pekins are decidedly wary of the hound, and keep a sensible distance. Well, most of them do. Flo and Winnie seem to not have a natural fear response to a slathering mutt charging towards them, and in fact take great delight on sitting on the back step, beak to nose with the yelping puppy, driving him mad. Maeve is only acknowledging his existence if he dares to look at her, at which point she raises her hackles and hisses at him in her Dark Lord manner. He is unsure about this, and loses interest in playing with her rather rapidly. She saunters away, occasionally throwing an evil glance in his direction.

The serama are having none of it, and hide in the top part of their hutch if they hear him coming. I can't say as I blame them. I am hoping that he can be trained not to fetch chickens in to the house every five seconds. The thought of a disgruntled Maeve being caught, carried in a canine mouth, and then deposited in my living room doesn't bare thinking about.

I suspect we would all pay a heavy price for such treatment.

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.

Almost, But Not Quite

In all the excitement of being hideously mauled by a tiny chicken yesterday, I forgot to tell you about my almost bravery. I have to say almost, because when push came to shove I bottled it. But, we very nearly had serama/pekin integration yesterday evening.

It's not unusual to find the serama in the palace when the hens are all free ranging. And now that Vera is without her chicks, integrating has once again become a real possibility. Why would I bother, you ask? Well, my serama girls are tiny and silkied. If we get another harsh winter I'm not entirely sure they'd be ok in their garage hutch. If I had a few more, they could huddle together and produce more heat. However, I've decided to stick to my two serama girls for now. The hutch really isn't big enough to house more ladies at this time, and my garden isn't big enough to take another palace type set up. So, it's a case of expecting the serama to spend some of the winter in the downstairs loo perched on the radiator (which would be rather off putting, apparently), or try and get them pally with the pekins. A pekin is basically a high tog duvet on legs. Despite temperatures getting down to -14c last December, my pekin girls were toasty warm.

So, I was cunning. I tempted the entire flock with some cleaned wheat, and threw it in to the palace run. The pekins waddled in and began scoffing. The serama road runnered in behind them. And then I closed the door. As the bolt shot in to place, Betsy and Vera stood upright, looked at each other, and then looked back at the closed door. Chickens don't have obvious Adams apples, but if they did I imagine I'd have seen a deep swallow in a 'Oh, crap' manner.

The pekins were too busy eating to bother with the tiny trespassers, so with characteristic stealth Betsy and Vera gingerly picked their way through the chowing hens, and then hot footed it up the ramp in to the coop. I hovered anxiously in the garden, half heartedly pruning things and weeding. About five minutes after the micro chickens had hidden inside, Hilda began ascending the ramp in to the dark house. Gulp.

Initially, there was no reaction. Perhaps she didn't see them. I have no idea whether chickens have decent night vision. However, something alerted her to the intruders and she began screeching her head off. I peeked in to the coop and saw that Vera was perched on the edge of the preferred nest box. Betsy was actually in the preferred nest box. Hilda was apoplectic, and took to shrieking her displeasure in between tearing up the newspaper floor covering.

The other hens took the bare minimum of notice at the increasingly hysterical Hilda. The serama seemed unbothered by the kerfuffle. I retreated slightly, wondering if chickenny vengeance would soon be wrought. I heard the unmistakable thump of a pekin advancing. At the last minute, the pitter patter of a serama reached my ears, and I breathed a sigh of relief. They had seen sense, and moved. A quick peek inside revealed that Betsy had seen sense. Vera was still perched on the nest box edge, and was almost eye to eye with the fluffed up, growling Hilda. The tiny hen was making herself as tall as possible and attempting to intimidate the much larger chicken. Vera has small man syndrome.

Just as I expected Hilda to eat Vera, both hens seemed to back down. Hilda stepped back uncertainly, and Vera attempted a casual stroll away from the nest box entrance. She joined Betsy on the perching block, and Hilda clambered in to the nest with her legs crossed. Peace reigned again. This seemed significant, so I left them all to it. I even left the serama in the palace while I popped out for an hour. They occasionally made forays in to the run, and were chased about a bit in a half hearted way. I seriously considered leaving them in there overnight. The only reason I didn't, was because at this time of year I have to close the coop door in order to prevent a 4am dawn chorus. I didn't fancy the teeny chooks' chances if closed up with bored, hungry pekins. So they went back to their hutch last night to sleep.

Eventually, I'm going to have to bite the bullet.

Rampaging Chicken Mauls Owner!

As the very last 'News Of The World' has rolled from the printing press today, I thought I'd give you a tabloid style headline. Its technically true, although I dont think you can legitimately claim that a chicken has rampaged. They just dont really have the capacity. I have certainly seen severe narkedness from a hen, and occasionally even full on high dudgeon. But actual rampaging has been thin on the ground. But as the photo below proves, I have in fact been mauled:

Now, you'd be forgiven for thinking a kitten, or a small dog had scratched me. But no. It was a tiny, teeny chicken. Namely, this one:

Yep, Flo. In her defence, she was trying to climb her way up on to my shoulder. From her perspective, perhaps I resembled a mountain which needed conquering, and she felt it necessary to break out the crampons. As she scaled my upper torso using her considerable talons for purchase, I had a small amount of time to wonder at the sharpness of her tiny baby nails. I don't think I've ever known a pekin with razor sharp tootsies before. These claws resemble more hawk than domestic poultry, and I find myself trying to remember when I last had a tetanus booster. I am considering flooring the run with sandpaper in an effort to make her less lethal.

Now that my hideous ordeal has been covered, let's move on to the almost unbearable cuteness of baby pekins. The new arrivals have settled in rather well, and we're all a bit in love with them already. Even the ever tolerant husband had a cuddle with the teeny Winnie yesterday evening. There is something about Winnie which reminds me of Maeve at the same age, so I'm expecting her to grow up in to a very handsome bird with a penchant for evil. Could be very interesting. Flo, as well as an enthusiastic climber, is quite noisy. I'm hoping this settles down, or else she and Celia will have to have a sing off.

Celia and Winnie eye each other up.

Flo and Winnie investigating the Palace, safe in the knowledge that the big girls are behind weld mesh.

The adorably tiny Winnie.

I'm off to rub savlon in to my wounds.

I've Done It Again....

Yep. I can't be trusted. My 'look' at a breeder's baby pekins turned in to a 'buy'. Want a look?

The buff girl is now called Winnie, and she's about six weeks old. The charming blue and white little lady is Flo, and about eight weeks old. They are both utterly adorable and squidgy (Disclaimer: Do not actually squidge baby pekins. No good will come of it.)

The rest of the flock seem only minimally interested, although Betsy really wants to get at the growers pellets.

If I so much as look at hatching eggs, slap me.

Here We Go Again

Every time something hideous happens to the poultry contingent, I swear that I will never acquire another hen. This resolve usually lasts about two days, so it shows just how affected I am by Doris's demise that I am still at six pekins nearly two weeks after she shuffled off this mortal coil. The remaining hens potter about happily, occasionally chasing the serama for sport, but on the whole quite content. But I have an appointment to visit a pekin breeder on Saturday, and only an idiot would bet that the cat carrier will remain empty.

So what is it that keeps me coming back to the pekin. Is it their feisty temperament? Their relative intelligence? (I feel justified in this assessment, having owned silkies for a year. Now that is a stupid breed of chicken) Is it their fluffy, cuddly appearance? The comedy flares? The bickering old biddy chatter? Well, yes. It's all of those things. And it's also the way they sail across the garden in high winds, and refuse to interact with inclement weather on any level. Last year during the snow I had to bring them breakfast in bed, and they complained when they realised id left the raisins out of the porridge. I rather like that sense of entitlement.

I dally with other breeds. I have a fondness for the serama and their dainty pitter patter across the patio. I am rather fond of blue laced wyandottes. But the pekin just has that bit of magic. When they're in the mood, they're good little layers. They're friendly and easy to tame, and have very distinctive personalities. And of course, pekin babies are utterly, totally adorable. I defy anyone to watch a young pekin attempting to run across the lawn while simultaneously falling over their own foot feathers and not go 'awwwwww'. Everything about them is appealing, and their potential for comedy boundless.

So, I will almost certainly have pictures for you on Saturday. The breeder keeps a huge amount of colours, so it'll probably be hard to choose. I think I'll choose birds based on personality rather than colour this time, the flock could do with a challenge. I like to keep things interesting.

I also like to make things hard for myself, apparently.

Strawberry Fields...Are Nasty

While rootling through the fridge yesterday I discovered half a punnet of strawberries. They were just at the point of going soft, so there was no way the children could be tricked in to eating them. I usually give the hens the tops as a treat, but with a dozen fruits going to waste I thought I'd spoil them. Feeling very generous, I gave each hen her own strawberry to eat, including the serama. Oh, what a mistake.

Chickens love most fruit, and they eagerly devoured them. There was so much strawberry juice flying about, it began to look like a massacre. As several fruit-crazed hens dashed past the kitchen door, their faces splattered with red and specks of strawberry flesh clinging to their feathers, it was all a bit 'Chicken Apocolypse'. The determinedly broody Hilda looked the most sinister, as her entire head had become a delicate shade of pink. After several piranha-like minutes, things settled down and I pretty much forgot about the treat.

So when I went out the following morning to open up the Palace, I was unprepared for the sheer horror of the strawberry scented poo lake under the perching block. Good Lord, never has a substance more heinous been created by a still living beast. The hens flapped and jumped from the perches to the pop hole, eager to escape in to fresh air. They sat in the run, staring at me with haunted eyes, seemingly unable to believe that they had produced something so noxious. Trust me, no one wants to deal with fruit induced chicken squits at eight o'clock in the morning. Not even this Madchickenlady.

I retreated to regroup my senses and work out what to do next. Naturally, my first concern was for that of the birds' welfare. However, on inspection I found that they all seemed well and remarkably slick-free. I imagine that the explosion was so violent that it didn't even get a chance to cling to any feathers. As a precaution, they all got a bum wash regardless. This wasn't greeted with any enthusiasm, and Mabel was particularly aggrieved. Considering that this was her second bath in a month, perhaps she had the right to squawk indignantly throughout. Once the hens were dealt with, I braced myself to return to the scene of the crime.

I considered my options. Carefully, I rolled the newspaper carpet towards the door. The poo lake rolled towards me in a wave. I decided that rolling was a bad idea. After some thought, I used most of my newspaper supply to soak up as much of the catastrophe as possible, pushed the whole lot in to a bin liner and then threw buckets of water and disinfectant in to the coop until my nostril hairs stopped burning. Those seven strawberries cost me an hour of hard, stinky labour. The girls watched me from the border, where they considerately jumped up occasionally to chew on my roses.

Eventually, the job was done. There was still a vague stench of strawberries in the air, but the worst of the biohazard had been tackled. With a resigned sigh, I trudged towards the garage, fully expecting to have to hose out the serama hutches and parakeet cage. I found Betsy and Smudge contentedly eating breakfast. There were a few loose droppings, but nothing like the horror in the Palace. I had, thankfully, only given Vera and the chicks a tiny piece of strawberry between them, and their hutch was therefore clean. From this, I can only conclude that pekins, while bigger and definitely greedier, have a more delicate stomach than the allegedly fragile serama. Regardless, strawberries are off the menu for the forseeable future.

I may need counselling.

Here Comes The Sun

The sun is shining, the weather is sweet. If you're a serama, its time to lay about on the lawn looking untidy.

Betsy catching some rays.

Smudge cautiously approaching me with the camera.

Vera and Hoppy. I need a new name for this chick.

Vera, Hoppy and the newly named Silvio. If you look carefully, you can see the difference between the month old babies in this pic. Silvio is definitely a boy, and I'm hoping that Hoppy isn't a late developer.

Amusing 'chick running' shot.

Vera makes sure that Betsy knows the score. She is getting less protective of the chicks, and to be fair the other two hens show little to no interest in the fluffballs.

Smudge. I think that once her headgear grows in, she'll look less gamey.

A running Smudge. She tends to roadrunner everywhere at the moment. The others aren't chasing her much, but I think she just likes running.

Vera tries to catch a few minutes of sun worship, while Hoppy uses her as a climbing frame.

Smudge de-mossing the patio. And making herself a rather fetching butterfly effect picture.

I imagine that this is Vera asking if Betsy will mind the kids for a bit, and Betsy is basically saying no.

I would have got pics of the pekins, but they rather sensibly had retired to the shade of the Palace. Even the possibility of chasing the micro chooks wasn't enough to tempt them forth. Hilda has gone in to the broody zone again, so had an appointment with a bucket this morning. She seems undeterred, but soggy.

It's one of those lovely days where I can't imagine not keeping hens.

Garden Timeshare

Right now, I have several poultry factions to manage. I have the pekin hordes in the Palace, Vera and the chicks, Betsy, and the new girl, Smudge. Letting them all out together is out of the question. My pekin ladies are most put out at the arrival of more micro chickens, and are unlikely to roll out the welcome mat if given opportunity to get within duffing distance. Betsy is trying to be friends with her pal Vera, but Vera's mothering instinct is strong and she's extremely defensive of her young. Throw the new pullet in to the mix, and I expect things would get ugly very quickly. So, I am juggling garden time.

The pekins get to free range in the morning. They rampage about the place, digging up my plants and attempting to gain access to the youngest's birthday present, an 8ft trampoline. So far the enclosure has baffled them, but any day now I expect to find Maeve sunbathing in the middle of it. She watches the children bouncing, and I see the wheels in her tiny chicken brain squeaking around. Some time around lunchtime, I entice them back to the Palace grounds with a treat.

Once they are safely locked away, I free Betsy and Smudge. Serama integration is nothing like as fearsome as Pekin integration. They have postured at each other a fair bit, and there's the occasional feather pull, but they seem to forget that they're supposed to be fighting for their position in the pecking order and end up mooching about the garden together or sunbathing. After several peaceful and companionable minutes, one or the other remembers they're supposed to be fighting to the death. But it's all very half-hearted, and I'm quietly hopeful that they'll be able to live together within the week. At the moment, they are still housed seperately at night.

While the micro chooks get to know each other, I put Vera and her babies in the run. They are now four weeks old, and still keeping schtum about their possible gender. They bumble about the run, eating things and chasing each other while Vera sunbathes. She occasionally squawks at them as if correcting some undesirable behaviour, but on the whole she lets them get on with it. Vera and I have obviously read the same parenting books. After a few hours, I return Betsy and Smudge to their secure units, and I allow Vera to free range with Hoppy and Sylvie. The chicks are getting very curious now, and I have to stay out to watch over them. It's amazing the amount of trouble a tiny chook can get in to. I have so far had to rescue the chicks from a lavendar bush, a tennis racket, a stray sock and a shallow puddle. I will be incredibly glad when they reach a less labour intensive phase of development. Vera tends to just squawk at them a bit, show them food, and then leg it to the dust bath. She has been an exceptional broody, but I think her patience is beginning to wane.

When my nerves have had enough, the serama family are returned to the run, and Betsy and Smudge released again. Smudge and Vera spend some time attempting to duff each other up through the weld mesh of the run, which seems pointless to me but they seem to be enjoying themselves. Hoppy and Sylvie watch this with interest but no apparent alarm, which makes me wonder if it's a training exercise. Eventually, Vera gets bored of butting her head against the bars, and assumes the position. A sunbathing serama is an amusing sight. One skinny yellow leg is always pointing skywards. If the sun is out, they all seem to congregate together, one leg aloft. It's like a mini forest of twiglets.

Now, for a bit of self promotion. If you've come to this blog as a new keeper, or you're a more experienced poultry person, I would heartily recommend the Poultrykeeper site. There is loads of information about common poultry issues, advice about ailments and even a monthly 'What to do this month' bit by yours truly. It's definitely worth a look.

Now, back to micro-managing a garden which has to hold 7 pekins, 5 serama, a trampoline and my sanity.

Well, Betsy Was Lonely, So......

It was my duty, really, to get her a pal. This little lady is a mottled, straight feathered Serama. And her new name is Smudge. On first sight, the ever tolerant husband thought she resembled a dairy cow, so we did toy with the idea of calling her Daisy, or Ermintrude. But ultimately, to me, she looks like a Smudge. So Smudge it is. She's approximately four months old, probably rubbish type, but a sweet little thing. Well, I thought so. Betsy took one look at the newcomer and leapt on her back in a frenzy of talons and feather pulling. Thankfully, Smudge retaliated in kind. After a brief skirmish, the two micro chickens circled each other warily and kept a respectful distance. I'm hoping that given time they will be firm friends.

Smudge the incredible one legged chicken.

She is refusing to pose at the moment, but I'm hoping that she'll settle in quickly and then I can get some better pictures.

As Betsy shows, after settling in Serama are generally nosey and friendly.

The pekins look on the new arrival with an air of resignation. No doubt they will give Smudge the 'chase them 'til they're sick' initiation as soon as allowed.

Meanwhile, the serama chicks are now four weeks old. I'm no nearer to working out which flavour they are, and have a sneaking suspicion they'll keep me guessing for a while yet. Some strains mature at a slower rate than others, and I think I might have a strain that matures at about the same rate as glaciers inch their way down the mountain side. No matter, they're a joy.

A camera shy Hoppy peers out from under Vera while a more confident Sylvie gives me The Look.

Hmmm, Sylvie, are you a boy?

This week, I will mostly be juggling free range time. I might need a spreadsheet.

Rocky's Revenge

Just as I was beginning to think suburban cockerel ownership might be possible, a spanner was thrown well and truly in the works. I awoke at 6am to Rocky giving a splendid solo performance. As did the rest of the family. Curiously, he could barely be heard outside of our walls, but the bizarre acoustics of our integrated garage meant that he came at us in stereo. After a week of toing and froing about the plucky youngster, I decided with not a little regret that he had to go back from whence he came.

Decision made, I contacted the breeder and arranged to take him back this afternoon. I let him out with his harem for a few hours and watched the trio moving about the garden and annoying the sunbathing pekins sadly. But finally the time came. Fishing out the cat carrier, operation Return Rocky began.

I say 'operation' because what should have been a fairly straightforward procedure turned in to quite an epic. It should have gone a) open cat carrier, b) pick up cockerel, c) place cockerel in carrier, d) close carrier. It didn't go that way. For a start, he can fly quite well. Well enough to escape my clutches and fling himself in to the pile of crap currently occupying my garage. So for a good ten minutes I played a nerve wracking game of jenga, where the object was not to pull things out and keep a cohesive whole, but to not flatten the hiding boy chicken. After a lot of swearing, several heart stopping moments where I suspected I had squashed him and one severe shin gouging, the little sod gave himself away by chuntering on the step behind me. Oh yes, Rocky had found his way out of the pile of teetering crap undetected, and had spent some time watching the funny human injure herself.

At this point, the ever tolerant husband wandered outside to find out what was keeping me. I roped him in to help and we spent at least fifteen minutes running laps around the garden with a jubilant Rocky easily zooming between our legs, flying over our heads and generally making us look like the clumsy mammals we are. We were certainly no match for the small yet perfectly formed powerhouse of speed watching us from the Palace roof. The pekins had come out in to the run to watch the show and were shouting encouragement. Such rabble rousers, pekins.

Finally I managed to herd him in to a corner. As I reached for him, he shot off again by running up my arm and down my back. I shrieked for the ever tolerant husband to grab him as he flew past. So fast was Rocky, the ever tolerant husband merely grabbed air, but in his haste to assist he managed to wrench his back. It took me a while to register that he was now clinging to the back wall of the house in a most unnatural pose. I only really spotted it as I dashed past the second or third time in pursuit of Road Runner. Asking him if he was alright seemed a bit pointless going by the look on his face and the interesting language he was using, so I settled for fetching him some pain killers. Now a man down, I reluctantly went to plan B. I gently herded the by now frantic young cockerel in to a corner, and swiftly grabbed him with the use of a towel. He shrieked like all the torments of Hades were upon him but didn't try to kill me, for which I was most grateful. I wouldn't have blamed him for wanting a fleshy souvenir.

The ever tolerant husband was by this time swearing less, but gurning more. More pain killers were found and ingested, and after a while we made the trip to return Rocky to his original home. When I arrived at the breeder's house, I put the carrier on the lawn and opened it. The plucky youngster was up and out of it quicker than I could blink, and leggesd it straight back to his old flock shrieking of the indignities that had befallen him.

I hope, unlike us, he isn't scarred by the experience.

Rocky Makes His Presence Known

Well, here we are. Two days in to cockerel ownership. Rocky has well and truly arrived. He was utterly silent until 9.30 yesterday morning, when he gave forth a volley of squeaky crows which made sure that I couldn't deny his existence any longer. He was then thoughtfully silent until lunchtime, when he once again gave us his best solo performance for about a minute. After that, he seemed to lose interest and didn't open his beak again until 8am this morning, which was terribly inconvenient as the ever tolerant husband was on the drive at the time about to get in to his car. He, for his part, is remaining stoically silent about the whole thing.

The girls are not quite sure what to think. I've let them out in the mornings, and then returned them to the Palace grounds so that the serama can have some free ranging time without being eaten. They have borne this amazingly well. When Rocky crows, they watch him with interest. The young cockerel has no idea of the danger he could be in, and wanders up to the door of the Palace at regular intervals to chatter to the much larger girls. For now, they merely observe him, no doubt imagining a fajita or other chicken based wrap.

The serama ladies are very accepting on the whole. Yesterday, the plucky youngster attempted to woo Vera. He staggered to the left with his wing sweeping the ground, and then staggered to the left, all the while chuntering a song of seduction. Vera watched the whole performance while scoffing some grass and seemed less than impressed. In fact, she turned away from him and began to amble off. Misreading the signals, Rocky thought she was giving him the green light and attempted to climb aboard. Not a smart move. Vera turned on him like a chicken possessed. There was much hissing and hackle raising and a few open mouthed pecks. Dejected, Rocky sloped off to hide behind a plant pot and no doubt attempt to regain some dignity.

I wish I could relax and enjoy him, but I'm still waiting for the complaints to start rolling in.

I Appear To Have Lost My MInd

Yep, it's finally happened. It's taken three years, a few deaths, a nightmare sourcing birds and the decision to try and hatch serama, but here we are. I have finally taken leave of my senses. Because right now, in the garage, is this little fella:



He is a black silkied serama boy, aged approximately 3 and a half months old. Now, before you roll your eyes, let me just explain. I saw this particular chap when I collected Betsy and Vera 5 weeks ago and thought he was adorable. In the meantime, he has become 'free to a good home', because the breeder didn't require him. And no-one wants the ratty tailed youngster. So he has been running the gauntlet with the other more dominant cockerels and was never allowed near the hens. During a discussion on the British Serama Forum, the breeder offered him to me on the basis that if he was noisy he could go back. So he's on a sort of trial run, really. I still went to my nearest neighbours to fill them in on my plans, though, and I would always advise a new keeper to do the same. Being up front from the outset can prevent phone calls to the council. Hopefully.

Anyway, Rocky has caused quite a stir. As he explored the garden, the pekins followed his progress by running about the perimeter of the Palace run. The low 'Booooooooork's made it clear that they weren't overly keen on the idea of a dude moving on to their patch. Indeed, Maude seemed most aggrieved, and if chicken's had handbags she'd have been swinging hers. For his part, Rocky ignored the horrified madams and goose-stepped about the lawn in a strange gait which is apparently quite normal for a serama cockerel but makes me think of John Cleese. Betsy and Vera were less alarmed, and pretty much ignored him. He chattered at them gently as he foraged for goodies, but the older serama were immune to his smooth tongue.

There was no chasing at all, so feeling brave I stuck some apple in the hutch and waited to see what would happen. Betsy and Vera hopped straight in and began scoffing. After observing for a moment, Rocky jumped up to. This caused the girls to stop mid-scoff for a moment, before chowing down again. Tentatively, the new boy moved towards the apple, chattering gently all the way. Vera turned her head just enough to peck him smack on the base of his beak before turning back to the grub. But that was it. Rocky didn't react at all to the duffing, and just approached the apple again. I have left them shut in the hutch, happily eating apple together side by side. I can't quite believe it to be honest.

Now I just hope that I'm not awoken at 3am by a tiny chap with a big voice.

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.

Advice For A Newbie

I am by no means an expert, but it suddenly occured to me that I've been keeping hens for two and a half years. Which is not bad, really. So maybe, just maybe, I'm now qualified to give some pointers to anyone out there who is toying with the idea of keeping a few hens in their back garden. You don't have to agree with me on all of my keeping practices, after all if there's one thing I've learned as a chicken keeper it's that everyone has there own way of doing things. But there are a few things which everyone should know and care about. So, here goes.

Firstly, make sure that you have the space, time and permission to keep chooks on your property. Some housing will have a 'no livestock' rule in the deeds/rental agreement. It is best to check this out before you spend money on coops and feed. Chickens don't take up a huge amount of time if you don't want them to, but they still require daily attention. Even a few layers will need around 20 minutes a day for food/water/egg collecting/health check purposes. The amount of space you have available should direct you in the type of birds you can keep. If, like me, you don't have acres of land, it's best to stick to a small number of large fowl or go for bantams. Most large fowl have bantam counterparts, but bantam sizes vary. Jersey Giants are amazing looking chickens, but they will not be happy living in a confined space. In the same way that you wouldn't keep an ostrich on a balcony, you can't keep all breeds in your average garden. Best to resign yourself to that straight away. Also, consider your garden. Hard landscaping is not ideal for hens.

Secondly, invest in the best housing you can afford. It will always be cheaper to make your own, so if you're in any way competent that might be the way to go. If you're like me, however, and a bit useless, you'll have to buy a coop. I've noticed that a lot of pet shops now sell chicken housing. By and large, it is over priced and hideous quality. Do some research, and keep in mind that cheap housing is a false economy. It will fall apart, probably in the middle of a horrific weather event. It is no fun having to repair a roof in the middle of a snow storm/torrential rain/a hurricane. To be honest, I think that the housing cost highlights the lie that chickens are a cheap source of eggs. Decent housing is not cheap, but will last you a decade or more. Also, buy a bigger house than you think you'll need. A lot of housing woefully overestimates the number of birds it will hold. Overcrowding should be avoided at all costs. Birds that are overcrowded are more prone to stress, and therefore illness. They are also more likely to develop bad habits, such as feather plucking or egg eating.

Thirdly, welfare must be your priority. If you get the housing and number/type of birds right, you are on the right track. Predator protection is the next thing to tackle. Letting your birds free range is always going to be a risk. Some people leave their hens out all day even if they're not at home, knowing that there is a risk or predator attack but balancing that out with the benefits of the birds having their freedom. I personally don't, but I am at home most days so my pampered girls spend a lot of time gardening. I also have a secure run attached to the Palace for when they are confined. Some people keep their birds in a secure run all the time, and if it's big enough it isn't a problem. It is a question of risk versus benefits, and one that every keeper has to weigh up according to their circumstances. However you choose to manage your girls, they must have adequate space to roam in. They should also have access to a dust bath and if they are confined to a run it's a good idea to provide some environment enhancing features (perches, logs to jump on, treats hung on string etc).

I knew nothing about chickens when I first decided to keep them. I read a lot, but most things had to be learned on the job. It was terrifying. So my advice is to arm yourself with a basic chicken first aid kit. Personally, I always have to hand: apple cider vinegar (helps to prevent worm infestations, and is a good general tonic), anti-peck spray (to deter pecking of injuries), flubenvet (wormer, which I use every 3 months), poultry spice (a feed additive, which is useful if the hens are under the weather/in moult), gentian violet (a purple spray which can be used to mask any wounds, hens peck at the colour red), red mite powder (both as a preventative in the housing and the dust bath, and also a talc used on the hens) and a mite spray (to treat any suspected infestations on the birds). Most problems can be dealt with using these things, although of course if in doubt you should consult a vet.

My last piece of advice is this: get to know your birds. Take the time to build up trust and handle your ladies at least weekly. A well handled bird makes all of your husbandry easier. It makes health checks a breeze, and stops the bird (and you) going in to a stress induced panic. Spend time just observing them. You quickly get to know what is normal behaviour, and what is just a bit off. Chickens are amazing at masking their illnesses, so often your first indication that something isn't quite right will be a slight change in behaviour. There are many ailments which can be effectively treated if caught early.

Now, I hope I haven't put anyone off.

Gently Does It

The chooks are unimpressed. Frequent downpours keep the garden a soggy mess, and my delicate feather-footed girls really dislike the way the wet makes their feet straggly. They examine the streamers trailing from their toes with disgusted mutters, and shake their feet with irritation as they become one with the longer grass. As they have just come through their moult, this problem is at it's worst. Their new foot feathers are particularly long.

Betsy and Vera are not affected by this problem. However, being silkied, they are not really designed for wet and windy conditions. On their brief trips in to the garden, they are buffeted about by the inclement weather and frequently retreat to the garage to poo all over the place and perch on the step ladder.

In an attempt to cheer them all up, I threw an apple out on to the lawn. The pekins watched it roll past, looked at me, and then went back to sulking. Even the greedier hens couldn't find the enthusiasm to stuff their beaks. The serama considered running the gauntlet of many garden obstacles, but then thought better of it. I think we're all missing the sun.

I noticed this afternoon that Betsy and Vera were scratching and shaking their heads, much like the pekins were just a few weeks ago. I wouldn't be surprised if the cause of this irritation was a mite, possibly of the ear variety. As the tiny chooks have been spending time in the Palace run, I am beginning to wonder if this beastie is living in the horse bedding. So this weekend I'll be clearing the run, scrubbing the slabs and dusting everything in mite powder. In the meantime, all birds got another spray with anti-mite and a light dusting of powder. In fact, I managed to gently dust the serama while they perched, looking up in wonder at the gently falling beastie killer.

It was quite festive.

Tiny Chickens Rock

I have been to Worcester today to pick up my Valentine's day present from the ever tolerant husband. Now, can you say 'awwwwwwww'?

Introducing Betsy, a 7 month old serama hen already in lay.

Betsy and her pal Vera, a 4 month old serama pullet.

You can see some slight cockerel damage to Vera's wing here, and also the ever tolerant husband's foot.

Tiny ladies with attitude.

And fluffy bums.

I have tried my hardest to get a pic of them in profile, but they won't have it. They are far more interested in eating toast crumbs off the rug. Neither are show quality serama, but I think they are little beauties.

I am not quite sure what the pekins will think.

How The Garden War Progresses

Well, to be honest, it's going ok. After the initial installation of the Barrier, Maude achieved vertical take off and landed straight on the ornamental curly grass. With a firm hand, I removed her and plonked her back down on the lawn side. There was much chattering about this development and disgusted strutting. However, so far, no one else has attempted to trespass. Hmmm.

Perhaps I've been looking in to the psyche's of my hens for too long, but I can't help feeling that they're just biding their time. They have taken to patrolling the Barrier while throwing surreptitious glances back towards the house. Something is probably, maybe, almost certainly up. Every time I look out of the window I expect to find eight feathery vandals tossing bulbs hither and thither with glee. It will almost be a relief when it happens at this stage. This compliance is unnervingly out of character.

Just to prove that they haven't gone completely soft, there was a concerted effort to murder one of the rose bushes yesterday. A team effort of digging around the base left it leaning in a most alarming manner. The guerrila gardeners watched with interest as I firmed it back down all the while swearing like Mutley. Perhaps they are running interference. Or trying out new torture techniques. Either way, my reaction probably means that it mill happen again. I am seriously considering making chicken guards from chicken wire to prevent the little madams from scratching up my favourite plants.

In other news, I have to make a decision about the serama by friday. I am still torn between really, really wanting them and being nervous of rocking the boat. I adore my pekins, and the silkie experiment did not end well. The ever tolerant husband just rollls his eyes when I prattle on about flock integration, and he was most ungentleman-like when I asked him if he thought the heat lamp could be threaded through to the Palace at 2am the other morning. To be fair, he migt have a point on that one.

We shall see.

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.