At last, the dreaded January is banished from the calender. Hoorah! As we greet February, the snowdrops and crocuses are beginning to slowly emerge. At least they are this year, because they are safely ensconsed behing the Barrier. The hens can only eye them with longing, instead of scoffing them with abandon. Ha! In your chickenny faces, ladies!
The hens are still playing by the new rules when it comes to the border. I am, frankly, surprised. Usually they find a way around any obstacles pretty quickly. I can only assume that they are content to lull me in to a false sense of security. No doubt as soon as the border is erupting in to colour, they will break in and rampage around like a load of drunken students, demolishing all plant life in their path. No matter. For now, I am happy to imagine that this might work.
Spring is a strange thing in the chicken kingdom. While I can see spring on the horizon, I'm not expecting it's arrival for a few months yet. The chooks sense it is much closer. Hilda and Gladys have begun crouching, and their first eggs are imminent. At the moment, it's still only Purdy in lay, but any day now I expect her to have company. Combs are reddening up, the odd scuffle is breaking out and Doris is once again doing her deeply annoying baby seagull impression. Seriously, when I think about how I wouldn't dream of inflicting a cockerel on my neighbours, I can't quite believe that no-one has reached over the fence and stuffed Doris in a casserole dish. That hen can be shrill.
Over the winter, the pecking order stays static. There is little in the way of dominance displays, and Mabel very much retreats in to the general flock. But as soon as the days start lengthening, she feels the need to knock the flock in to shape. Many startled hens have been happily minding their own business only to be flattened to the floor by our Illustrious Leader. She is coming up to 3 years old, and is showing no signs of giving up her throne.
Maeve is watching the two youngest flock members keenly. Gladys seems quite content to stay near the bottom of the flock and does her best to avoid confrontation. She isn't bullied in any way, and is obviously a quiet character. The same cannot be said for Hilda. Hilda has decided that she likes the look of the upper echelons of chicken society. Purdy, Celia and Doris have all been challenged, and I can see her sizing up the world famous ASBO Chicken.
I am watching this with trepidation. Maeve is biding her time, and ignores the young upstart unless she sashays past a little too close. A well aimed hiss tends to make her sashay faster, but she doesn't break out in to a full blown waddle. This displeases Maeve. I suspect that any day now, Hilda will launch a full assault. Indeed, sometimes when Maeve is eating Hilda has the metaphorical balls to stand next to her and eat like her equal. This is currently being tolerated, which makes me distinctly nervous. I only hope that when Maeve eventually loses her patience she leaves the younger hen enough feathers to keep her warm for the rest of the winter.
I might end up fashioning a chicken jumpsuit.

Showing posts with label garden. Show all posts
Showing posts with label garden. Show all posts
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
February Dawns
Labels:
ASBO chicken,
Celia,
Doris,
garden,
Gladys,
Hilda,
Mabel,
Maeve,
pecking order,
Purdy
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, 1 January 2011
New Year, New Plans
Yes, yes. I know. Just yesterday I was saying how it's probably best that I don't know what this year has in store for me. But that was yesterday. Today I feel the urge to make plans. I was outside earlier, adding a top dressing of garlic powder to the girls' feed (another attempt to cure Doris and prevent any further sniffles), and found myself looking about the winter battered garden. Last year, we were planning on moving, so the garden was a bit neglected. This year, I plan to get stuck in.
Anyone who keeps hens will tell you that they are not very kind to your gardening ambitions. What they don't eat they tend to stomp on. There are three solutions to this problem. Firstly, you can just give up and let the chooks totally take over your garden. This is only really an option if a) you don't care that there will be a stinky quagmire outside your back door and that b) neither will your neighbours. It is extremely unlikely that b) will occur. The second solution involves giving up a portion of your garden as a chicken-only domain. Personally, I tend to think that unless you have acreage, this just condenses the problem highlighted in the first solution. Plus, I actually enjoy seeing the hens roaming about the place. From a certain angle and with a certain set of rose tinted specs, it can look lovely and romantic. You just have to ignore the trails of destruction.
This year I am going to attempt the third option. The plan is to plant the garden with hen resilient plants. I believe that I have mentioned this in a previous post, but now is the time for action. From now on, when I visit a garden centre of plant nursery, I will be focused. No more wistfully wandering amongst the pretty perennials for me. From now on my botanical hunting ground will be amongst the hardy and rugged. Woody shrubs are possibly the way forward. I am contemplating a low lavender and rosemary border around the Palace. I may even build raised beds and tightly pack them with plants to prevent the inevitable dustbathing. In short, right now I have many ideas. We shall see how they pan out over the next few months. I fully expect the girls to test these new arrangements to the limit.
If anyone's had success with chicken landscaping, please let me know.
Anyone who keeps hens will tell you that they are not very kind to your gardening ambitions. What they don't eat they tend to stomp on. There are three solutions to this problem. Firstly, you can just give up and let the chooks totally take over your garden. This is only really an option if a) you don't care that there will be a stinky quagmire outside your back door and that b) neither will your neighbours. It is extremely unlikely that b) will occur. The second solution involves giving up a portion of your garden as a chicken-only domain. Personally, I tend to think that unless you have acreage, this just condenses the problem highlighted in the first solution. Plus, I actually enjoy seeing the hens roaming about the place. From a certain angle and with a certain set of rose tinted specs, it can look lovely and romantic. You just have to ignore the trails of destruction.
This year I am going to attempt the third option. The plan is to plant the garden with hen resilient plants. I believe that I have mentioned this in a previous post, but now is the time for action. From now on, when I visit a garden centre of plant nursery, I will be focused. No more wistfully wandering amongst the pretty perennials for me. From now on my botanical hunting ground will be amongst the hardy and rugged. Woody shrubs are possibly the way forward. I am contemplating a low lavender and rosemary border around the Palace. I may even build raised beds and tightly pack them with plants to prevent the inevitable dustbathing. In short, right now I have many ideas. We shall see how they pan out over the next few months. I fully expect the girls to test these new arrangements to the limit.
If anyone's had success with chicken landscaping, please let me know.
Saturday, 11 September 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
This Means War!
Now, I love my girls. Their chickenny pottering makes me smile, and their chicken chatter soothes my life frazzled nerves. I love standing at the sink, doing some dull domestic task, and glancing out of the window to see them tearing about the garden chasing whichever one of them has caught a worm. It still makes me laugh the way they turn their heads to the side to look up at the rain, only to run around in a panic when a drop hits them in the eye. They are brilliant, magnificent pets.
However, they have zero respect for my other great love: gardening. They poo copiously over my lawn. They eat my favourite plants, or sit on them. My beloved greenhouse is pebble dashed in chicken poo and feathers. Maeve has taken to sitting on my seedlings when she wants a nap. Enough is enough.
The feeble barrier around the Convent is getting an overhaul this weekend. I'm not sure how yet, but I will devise a way to keep the little vandals contained. A concerted effort is going to be made to move Maeve from my greenhouse, so that instead of growing mounds of droppings, I can start growing my salads. A broody cage is in the process of being obtained so that Belinda can be returned to her slightly less psychotic laying state.
In short, I'm taking back control.
However, they have zero respect for my other great love: gardening. They poo copiously over my lawn. They eat my favourite plants, or sit on them. My beloved greenhouse is pebble dashed in chicken poo and feathers. Maeve has taken to sitting on my seedlings when she wants a nap. Enough is enough.
The feeble barrier around the Convent is getting an overhaul this weekend. I'm not sure how yet, but I will devise a way to keep the little vandals contained. A concerted effort is going to be made to move Maeve from my greenhouse, so that instead of growing mounds of droppings, I can start growing my salads. A broody cage is in the process of being obtained so that Belinda can be returned to her slightly less psychotic laying state.
In short, I'm taking back control.
Monday, 20 April 2009
The Whole Point
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.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Mini wants a cracker
Delilah seems slightly improved this evening, managing to eat a few beakfuls of weetabix from a spoon and flexing her left leg a bit. She's also been preening a little. This sudden worry over her feathers has made me relax a little bit. Surely a hen at deaths door wouldn't concern herself with feather shininess?
In between hen intensive care, I pottered about in the garden today. Poor little Mini followed me about like a puppy. She's not sure what to do without Delilah. Feeling sorry for her, I kept sneaking her treats. This led to her deciding I was her very best friend, and when I bent down to fill the watering can she decided to move our relationship up a level.
I managed to water the greenhouse with a small chicken on my shoulder, but it wasn't easy. She happily chattered in my ear and occasionally peered around to stare me in the face (quite unnerving). In order to stay perched, she dug her talons into my jumper and at least the top layer of my skin. Ow. More disturbingly, she decided to turn around. I then found myself cheek to chicken arse. Not particularly fragrant.
In order to get her down, I had to bend low to the ground so that she could sort of abseil down my back. She promptly ran around to the front and pecked my hand to check for treats. Finding nothing, and deciding that my usefulness was therefore all used up, she waddled off to eat a snail.
Got to love hens.
In between hen intensive care, I pottered about in the garden today. Poor little Mini followed me about like a puppy. She's not sure what to do without Delilah. Feeling sorry for her, I kept sneaking her treats. This led to her deciding I was her very best friend, and when I bent down to fill the watering can she decided to move our relationship up a level.
I managed to water the greenhouse with a small chicken on my shoulder, but it wasn't easy. She happily chattered in my ear and occasionally peered around to stare me in the face (quite unnerving). In order to stay perched, she dug her talons into my jumper and at least the top layer of my skin. Ow. More disturbingly, she decided to turn around. I then found myself cheek to chicken arse. Not particularly fragrant.
In order to get her down, I had to bend low to the ground so that she could sort of abseil down my back. She promptly ran around to the front and pecked my hand to check for treats. Finding nothing, and deciding that my usefulness was therefore all used up, she waddled off to eat a snail.
Got to love hens.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Garden v Farmyard
I had this notion that I could keep chickens in my back garden as sort of living statues. They would artfully pose in the borders, adding a certain rustic charm to the view from the kitchen window. I would occassionally throw them a handful of corn, and they would cluck gently all day before taking themselves off to bed at dusk, so that we could sit outside and have a barbie. Oh, the naivety.
Chickens are only like living statues if the statues in question leave their own weight in poo all over the garden. Seriously, they are manure machines. And they don't stick to the borders. In fact, their absolute favourite place to poo is just outside the back door, where they stand glaring in at me until I fetch them something nice to eat. I can regularly be seen sweeping the decking and lawn with a yard brush, looking like a complete fruitcake. The chooks watch me with interest, before running over to the newly swept ground to check for interesting and tasty bugs. To make room for these delicious morsels, they will of course need to poo. Great.
We have a charming wooden coop for the hens, that I have nicknamed 'The Convent'. It has an attatched covered run, enabling me to leave the girls outside if I'm not at home. In the run, I use horse bedding. They love to dig/scratch around in this stuff, and it absorbs the poo (Poo is becoming a bit of a theme, don't you think?) Despite the ever tolerant husband putting a little enclosure around the bottom of the run, they still manage to fire an enormous amount of this bedding out into the garden. Seriously, it's carnage. Now that they are laying, they also like to get lumps of this bedding and deposit it around the garden as temporary nests.
The hens and I are at war over ownership of the garden. At first glance, it appears that they are winning.
Chickens are only like living statues if the statues in question leave their own weight in poo all over the garden. Seriously, they are manure machines. And they don't stick to the borders. In fact, their absolute favourite place to poo is just outside the back door, where they stand glaring in at me until I fetch them something nice to eat. I can regularly be seen sweeping the decking and lawn with a yard brush, looking like a complete fruitcake. The chooks watch me with interest, before running over to the newly swept ground to check for interesting and tasty bugs. To make room for these delicious morsels, they will of course need to poo. Great.
We have a charming wooden coop for the hens, that I have nicknamed 'The Convent'. It has an attatched covered run, enabling me to leave the girls outside if I'm not at home. In the run, I use horse bedding. They love to dig/scratch around in this stuff, and it absorbs the poo (Poo is becoming a bit of a theme, don't you think?) Despite the ever tolerant husband putting a little enclosure around the bottom of the run, they still manage to fire an enormous amount of this bedding out into the garden. Seriously, it's carnage. Now that they are laying, they also like to get lumps of this bedding and deposit it around the garden as temporary nests.
The hens and I are at war over ownership of the garden. At first glance, it appears that they are winning.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Spring has sprung
Quick update re Delilah: No change. I'm trying to tempt her to eat, but she's not really interested. She's shuffling about if disturbed, but otherwise just looks pretty sad and unwell. I suspect a trip to the vets is on the cards for this evening.
The fit five are happily destroying my lovingly tended garden. They seem to ignore any new plants, until they start looking lush and pretty. Then it's carnage. The windflower by my back door has no foliage at all, although they have left the flowers. A couple of hardy geraniums that were filling in nicely are now nowt but stalks. Bugger.
The sun is out, the sky is blue and the chooks are in playful mood. As well as the aforementioned garden wrecking, they have taken to 'singing'. In a futile attempt to attract a cockeral (good luck with that, ladies) they are shrieking their little hearts out. Bok, bok, bok, bok-ARK!!!!! Now, this wouldn't be so bad if they weren't in competition with each other. Once one starts, they all join in until there's only one triumphant hen bellowing across the county. Every time this madness starts, I can be seen wafting a tea towel at the offenders and theatrically whispering 'Shhhhhh!'. Of course, they ignore me and just get louder. Bum.
At the moment, Doris is queen of the leader board, managing an eardrum bursting bok-arkkkk! at the end of her song that has actually shocked next doors dog into silence. No mean feat, I can tell you. Luckily, the neighbour on the other side is a drummer, and has damaged his own hearing so much he doesn't seem to have noticed. Fingers crossed, eh?
When they're not singing, garden wrecking or pooing on the decking, they like to get in a little greenhouse vandalism. I have to take my share of the responsibility for this, as I stupidly left the door open. Fearing the suspicious silence, I poked my head out of the back door to see all five of them happily pricking out my seedlings, and eating them. Thanks girls.
The fit five are happily destroying my lovingly tended garden. They seem to ignore any new plants, until they start looking lush and pretty. Then it's carnage. The windflower by my back door has no foliage at all, although they have left the flowers. A couple of hardy geraniums that were filling in nicely are now nowt but stalks. Bugger.
The sun is out, the sky is blue and the chooks are in playful mood. As well as the aforementioned garden wrecking, they have taken to 'singing'. In a futile attempt to attract a cockeral (good luck with that, ladies) they are shrieking their little hearts out. Bok, bok, bok, bok-ARK!!!!! Now, this wouldn't be so bad if they weren't in competition with each other. Once one starts, they all join in until there's only one triumphant hen bellowing across the county. Every time this madness starts, I can be seen wafting a tea towel at the offenders and theatrically whispering 'Shhhhhh!'. Of course, they ignore me and just get louder. Bum.
At the moment, Doris is queen of the leader board, managing an eardrum bursting bok-arkkkk! at the end of her song that has actually shocked next doors dog into silence. No mean feat, I can tell you. Luckily, the neighbour on the other side is a drummer, and has damaged his own hearing so much he doesn't seem to have noticed. Fingers crossed, eh?
When they're not singing, garden wrecking or pooing on the decking, they like to get in a little greenhouse vandalism. I have to take my share of the responsibility for this, as I stupidly left the door open. Fearing the suspicious silence, I poked my head out of the back door to see all five of them happily pricking out my seedlings, and eating them. Thanks girls.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)