The Ladies Move Down In The World

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

So now they are going to live here.

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

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

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

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

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

I hope the house warming is a quiet affair.

We're Baaaaaaaaaack!

Oh, sweet, sweet broadband! After three months without a phone line, we are finally back in the technological age. And oh, dear reader, I have so much to tell you. So much in fact that I'm bound to forget something and need to add stuff. So please bear with me.

Firstly, some very sad news. I lost both my beautiful serama. Betsy went down with a mystery illness at the end of April. She was hunched and not eating well, so I brought her inside in the warm and nursed her. At first I thought maybe she was just depressed at being bullied, as she was very much the bottom hen. But then her neck was starting to go wry, and she was missing her food bowl when trying to eat. I suspect it was some kind of neurological condition. I treated her with baytril in the hope that if it was a bacterial infection she might pick up, but sadly she passed away on the first of May. None of the other birds seemed ill, but I added a tonic to their water and scrubbed the coop anyway.

We were away on June 5th when my lovely chicken sitter found Vera dead in the coop. There was no sign of illness, although her vent was a little mucky. However, this could have happened at the time of death and she was in fine form when I saw her two days previously. Her weight was good, there was no sign of injury and all in all it's a head scratcher. The other birds were afected by her passing, as she'd had the audacity to cark it infront of the pop hole. Pekins have such stumpy legs that they couldn't clamber over her corpse and had to wait until the chicken sitter's mid morning visit to get breakfast. I like to think that she did it on purpose. She had spirit, that little bird. Losing both girls inside of a few weeks was very disheartening. I now have four pekins left, Mabel, Maude, Maeve and Hilda.

As I watched my four remaining girls pootle around the garden it occurred to me that I have gone a full circle. I started off with four hens, and now I am back to four. Now that we have the nutty pup, I am not prepared to go through the trauma of new introductions to such an established group. So my new plan is this.

My remaining girls will live out their lives without getting to bully any newcomers. But they will do so in a smaller residence. Yes, with a heavy heart I have decided to sell the Palace. It's far too big for four birds, and in the winter they'd freeze. So I have purchased a smaller coop, not so different from my original Convent, which they will find cosy yet still adequately spacious. In fact, said coop has just been delivered in two enormous boxes. I am going to landscape around the new coop with the aid of a garden designer and make it a feature of the border. Hopefully.

And so, the girls. You'll be pleased to hear that my magnificent mille's are still going strong at 4 years old, and even still laying the odd egg. Sometimes very odd. One of them layed an egg last week which looked like it had been shot. There was a perfect, round hole at the blunt end, surrounded by a black ring which looked singed. I actually cracked it to see if there was a projectile inside. The egg itself was perfectly normal and the membrane intact. I checked both girls, too, and found no hidden laser stashed under anyone's bum feathers. Another strange chickenny mystery.

Hilda has been broody for a month now. I kick her from the nest regularly, dunk her in water and basically wait for her to snap out of it. If last year is anything to go by, that should happen when she moults. So around August, then.

In much scarier news, the fearsome ASBO Chicken has also fallen under the broody spell. So narked is she if disturbed that she has taken to lunging at the pup through the mesh of the run if he gets too close. I swear there's some rottweiler in that bird's DNA.

It's good to be back.

Integration Update

The serama have been in the Palace for three nights now, so I guess I'm committed. I peek in to the coop every so often, just to make sure none of the girls have harpooned Betsy to the wall with a specially sharpened talon, and so far so good. In fact, Betsy got quite brave this morning and even dared to make a grab for some stale bread I'd thrown in as a treat. Naturally, she got a sound duffing for her troubles, but her confidence seems to be growing.

Vera seems unbothered by her change of abode. She keeps a sensible distance from the narky pekins, but other than that just gets on with being a small fluffy chicken. Her apparent ease unsettles the pekin ladies. They like to see a bit of reverence and fear in their underlings. Unsure of how to tackle this new development, they tend to ignore Vera and focus their chickenny wrath on Betsy.

Betsy is fast, however. Much, much faster than a pekin in full waddle. She zig zags around her would-be tormentors, squawking her tiny head off. The noise is so astonishing that it frequently stops a pile on in its tracks. Of course, it helps that at this time of year chickens tend to be at their most lethargic. The long nights, the cold and the annual moult tend to put them off their stride somewhat. When I attempted integration in the summer, I had to abandon the idea as the pekins were in full feisty mode and I feared for the seramas' lives. Not now.

Last time, the charge on the miniscule chickens was lead by a fearsome Maeve. Now that we're in December, however, she really can't be bothered. If they wander too close they might get an ASBO Chicken special, aka a shrill growl and a puffing up of feathers. But she can't find the enthusiasm for giving chase of squashing anyone. Without their malevolent General to orchestrate chaos, the others have rather lost the taste for it. Well, all apart from Hilda.

Hilda still looks utterly ridiculous. She is no longer bald, but her sprouting feathers make her look a bit like a shuttlecock that a spiteful cat has been at. She seems to know that she looks like a berk, and to make sure that none of the other hens laugh at her, she has taken to attacking anyone that comes within range. Higher hens in the flock respond in kind, and she is getting in to a lot of fights. Poor Betsy and Vera bear the brunt of her filthy mood. Yet without back up, she is unable to do any real damage, and with Betsy able to run like a roadrunner while making a noise like a foghorn on helium, she's no real threat.

I always planned on having a united flock, so I very much hope that this works out. The serama have much more space in the Palace run than they do in their garage hutch, and they take up so little room they don't really impede on the others' space.

The only one who seems really put out is the pup, who very much enjoyed jumping up at the serama hutch and making them flap.

Being Broody Makes You Unpopular

Hilda is still broody. This isn't an unusual situation when it comes to pekins. In my experience, they are a tag team of nest hoggers. Of course, this brings it's own problems. A broody hen takes up space in the nest box, and that gets right on the other hens' bosoms.

Naturally, Hilda has set up her hormonal vigil in the favourite nest box. Never mind that there are four, yes, four, nest boxes to choose from, given half a chance they all prefer the one furthest from the pop hole and nearest the coop door. And now when the rest of the flock goes in to lay, there is an inflatable white pekin filling it up with her craziness and growling. Initially everyone took this with good grace, or at least the minimal of grumbling. But now Hilda has been broody for nearly a fortnight and their patience is running out.

Increasingly a commotion can be heard from the Palace as a narked hen wedges herself on top of the broody Hilda to lay her egg. As the laying hen leaves, she is wont to give Hilda a sharp peck to the comb, just to show her displeasure at the lack of privacy. As a result, Hilda's comb is beginning to look a little...nibbled. She isn't seriously hurt, but it could tip over in to violence at any time.

Under normal circumstances, I'd have broody caged the errant hen over the weekend. However, we won't be here so I can't. For the next two days Hilda will have to stay broody as I can't ask my chicken sitter to don the gardening gloves and broom handle necessary for handling a psychotic chicken. But her broody days are numbered. As of Monday, she's in the slammer.

Vera is still sitting tight to her eggs. I am trying very hard not to interfere in any way, but must admit I am struggling. I'm worrying that she isn't eating enough, or drinking enough, or pooing enough. She is such a tiny little thing, I won't take any chances with her welfare. However, every time I open the hutch to peer in at her, she glares at me in a distinctive 'Naff off' manner, so I suspect she is doing everything just as she should.

Betsy is missing her pal enough to attempt making friends with the pekins. Despite being chased and generally having iot made clear to her that she's not welcome, Betsy proves determined. She follows the flock about like an annoying little sister and even makes herself at home in the coop. The girls watch this audacity with slightly stunned inaction. So far, she has avoided any repercussions because of her 'Roadrunner' abilities. Serama are speedy.

Two weeks until hatch day.

Quick Edit: I have separated Hilda. I couldn't go away knowing that Maeve was attempting to eat her from the comb down. So now she is on the floor of the garage covered with a broody cage, most put out and kicking her water everywhere. I hope my chicken sitter doesn't kill me.

The Battle Line Has Been Crossed

The serama sisters have been with us for nearly two months now. They happily live together in the two tier rabbit hutch in the garage, and venture in to the garden when they think that the pekins aren't looking. With very little encouragement on my part, they have become silly tame. Especially Vera. The tiny black hen has a bad habit of running between your feet when you're mid step. I'm not sure if this is designed chicken evilness, in an attempt to give me a heart attack, or whether she is an adrenalin junkie. Perhaps given half a chance she'd be bungee jumping from the Palace roof.

I have more or less resigned myself to having a split flock at this stage. I mean, I've always thought that my pekin ladies were petite, but next to the serama twosome they are truly enormous. The serama are understandably wary, and if they do get too close to the others a chase usually ensues. In fact, Gladys and Hilda seem to zoom out of nowhere and run Betsy and Vera back in to the furthest recesses of the garage.

Today was a big clean out day, however, and as the ever tolerant husband was throwing things with enthusiasm in to a skip, I thought it best to keep the serama contained. As the pekins roamed about the garden, the serama were safely pecking about in the Palace run. After a bit, it became apparent that Hilda and Mabel needed to lay. As I was outside anyway, I decided to open the run door and see what would happen.

Initially, Betsy and Vera sat on the perch nearest the pop hole and tried to blend in with the wood work. As our Illustrious Leader and the grubby white hen had their legs crossed, however, they didn't bat an eyelid at the intrusion and just waddled up the ramp in to the coop with barely a glance at the newbies. I expected one of the other girls to chase them out soon enough, but after twenty minutes of being totally ignored Vera went looking for trouble. She alighted on to the ramp and had the audacity to stick her head in to the inner sanctum. Instantly, two narked hens squawked at her. Yet this didn't phase her one bit. I watched in amazement as she sauntered in to the coop, only pausing to call her side kick in with her.

With both serama now in the coop, I chewed my nails fretfully. Every so often, a stroppy 'Bwaaaaaaark' issued forth from the nest boxes, but no real sounds of trouble. Unable to bear it any longer, I peeked inside the door. Unbelievably, Betsy and Vera had climbed in to the nest box between Mabel and Hilda and were chattering gently. Mabel looked suitably disgusted. She is a very private chicken, and the others usually show her the respect her position deserves by letting her lay in peace. Now not only was Hilda in the nest boxes with her, but now two pip squeaks were chatting right by her left ear. Unbelievable.

Hilda was busy laying, and only had time to hiss at me in passing.

Deciding that the hens had obviously called a truce, I left them to it. An hour later, the ever tolerant husband stuck his head in the door to tell me that ASBO Chicken had chased Betsy across the lawn and back in to the garage. I wasn't surprised. I expected that both serama would be back in their lodgings discussing the morning's events within minutes, and thought no more of it. Until a while later when I went out to hang the washing.

I could hear that Mabel was still in the nest box. This isn't unusual. Mabel really likes to make the most of her nest time and can often hog the best box for hours. However, these weren't normal 'Mabel in labour' sounds. These were more 'Naff off or I'll eat you' sounds. Curious, I opened the nest box and peered in. I saw Mabel's voluminous derriere, but that was all. The other boxes were vacant. With a frown, I secured the door and went to check on the serama. I found Betsy dust bathing happily in the wood shavings, but no sign of Vera. A quick scout about the garden proved fruitless, and with a slightly panicky feeling I considered the probability of Vera having escaped through the garage while the ever tolerant husband was filling the skip. In my mind's eye, she was road-runnering up the road as I stood there, half way to Birmingham.

Before I sent out a search party, I opened the nest boxes again and was greeted with Mabel, side on. She had shifetd herself around a bit, which gave me then a view through to the coop proper. Suddenly, a small black head popped up over the lip of the nest box. Mabel raised all of her hackle feathers and squawked. The little head dropped back out of sight. Mabel relaxed. The head reappeared, agitating my top hen all over again. No wonder Mabel had spent so long on the nest. She was being taunted by a very cheeky serama playing the chicken equivalent of 'Knock Down Ginger'. I grabbed the errant Vera from her hiding place in the coop and deposited her back with Betsy. She seemed quite happy about her little adventure, and a mere five minutes later Mabel announced her egg. With no small measure of relief, I'm betting.

This could be interesting.

Encouraging Relations

The mini chooks have been with us about a month now. They have made themselves perfectly at home, and both are now laying absolutely perfect, tiny eggs in their washing up bowl nest box. Every day, I open up the bottom section of their hutch and prop open the garage door so that they can come and go as they please. And every day they ignore the open door, and explore the garage instead.

Now, it must be said, that they have their reasons. The pekins periodically lay seige to the garage step, and occassionally cross the threshold in an effort to take part in some up close and personal intimidation. Being tiny has its advantages, and Betsy and Vera manage to hide themselves in plain sight. In fact, several times I have had to search for them and discovered them perched at the top of a step ladder or sitting amongst the paddling pool and lawnmower. They are experts at chicken camouflage.

If I carry them outside to force some outdoor time, they run hell for leather back to the garage door. Often before I've stood up from crouching to put them on the lawn. They are speedy little madams. The rest of the flock seems quite content with this state of affairs. They don't even have to make the effort to waddle after them in a threatening way. Simply being in sight causes panic and an attempt to break the land speed record.

I've allowed this to continue while the weather has been bad, but today the sun is shining and the back step is covered in a feathery duvet of sunbathing hens. Taking a deep breath, I put both serama on the patio, and attempted to shut them out of their garage sanctuary. I say attempted, because as soon as I got one out of the way the other was in danger of being decapitated by my closing the door. Eventually, using my welly clad foot as a roadblock, I got the door safely closed without anyone being dismembered.

The tiny twosome stood in the sunshine looking utterly lost. Like a parent encouraging a reluctant child on their first day of school, I attempted to coax them on to the lawn. Maeve raised her head from her prostrate position on the step and watched my 'chook, chook, chook'ing with a disdainful eye. As the serama gradually inched forwards and appeared in her line of sight, she muttered to the others that the newbies had emerged. One by one, flattened chickens roused themselves to cast a gleeful eye in the serama's direction. However, the chances for sunbathing have been few and far between, and no-one could muster the enthusiasm to actually unpeel themselves from the warm patio slabs.

Taking this as a good sign, I've left them to it.

Mt. Aubiose

Despite the fact that from tomorrow the weather is due to improve considerably, I picked today to thoroughly clean out the Palace run. I just couldn't look at the wet, dirty carpet of litter any more. The hens had started to wipe their feet on the way out in to the garden. Donning my funky chicken wellies, I trudged out to assess the situation. As I feared, the garden was a boggy mess dotted here and there with a decorative splodge of chicken excrement. Perfect.

Chickens are naturally curious creatures, and they do like to get under your feet when you're doing something potentially fatal to them. Clearing the run becomes a fun game where by the girls take it in turns to sit directly behind me, therefore risk being stood on, or sticking their head in the way of the swiftly descending rake which I use to pile up the used bedding. The more I waft, shush and generally try to get shot of them, the more fun it becomes. Luckily, everyone survived the clear out and Maeve even managed a triumphant poo right in the centre of the briefly spotless slabbed floor.

I was only harassed by the pekin tribe, though. The serama are proving reluctant to spend any time outside of the garage. While I'm sure that a glowering Gladys thundering towards you across the patio must be quite intimidating, I doubt it's the only reason. They really don't enjoy the wet, or the wind, or the cold. Basically, they behave like teenagers who just want to stay in bed all day. On saturday, the ever tolerant husband is going to fetch me a two tier hutch which will be placed outside and which Betsy and Vera will then call home. I'm hoping to a) get them used to seeing the waddling hoardes charging towards them, and b) to get them acclimatised to the great outdoors. Frankly, trying to locate them in the garage is getting rather tiresome. Especially as Vera has a penchant for burrowing.

Once everything was cleared out, cleaned and mite dusted, I dragged the bale of Aubiose to the run. It was only when I looked behind me that I realised that the bag had a hole in it, and that I had cut a muddy swathe across the lawn. Lovely. Slitting the bag open in the run, I emptied half of it on to the floor, threw in some corn and then retreated. By the time I had replaced the feeder and drinker, all of the pekins were exploring the shiny new landscape.

Initially, they all circled at the edges of the pile and scoffed the corn which was most accessible. However, it wasn't long before this easy source of grub was exhausted and the only way to get more was to start the ascent. Gingerly, various hens began the climb, muttering with alarm as the flooring slid beneath their feet. Mabel took up a supervisory spot on the perch and directed her underlings accordingly. Slowly, the aubiose was being redistributed about the run. With a sudden show of bravado, Gladys pushed on to the summit. She stood triumphant, a whole eighteen inches above the ground, and bokked a bit. Then she dug herself a hole turning the mountain in to a volcano. Just as her crazy frizzled head disappeared below the crater, Maeve rather maliciously turned her back on the spectacle and started furiously scratching. Gladys shrieked indignantly as ASBO Chicken attempted to bury her nemesis alive.

That chicken definitely has a master plan.

Back To Business

As we near the end of February, I am pleased to inform anyone who cares that I now have five hens laying. That is exactly half my flock. Doris, Gladys, Hilda, Purdy and Betsy have all presented me with their first eggs this year. I have decided that spring officially starts when half your flock is in lay, so I am determinedly turning my back on winter. So ner.

After Betsy's tiny egg, she decided to take a weeks break. Yesterday, however, she produced a lovely little pale cream egg. She walked around it, chattering to me for all the world as if to say 'Ha! Now be impressed! I am only this big, yet I got this relatively large egg out of my behind. Aren't I clever?'. I have to agree that she is. The egg is roughly three quarters the size of a pekin egg. Considering that Betsy is half the size of a pekin...well, I'll leave the maths to you. It was never my strong point.

I am getting closer to purchasing a decent sized rabbit hutch for the serama. Although I still hope to integrate eventually, it's clear that it will take some time. At least with a decent hutch I can put them outside and they can all get used to looking at each other. At the moment, the pekins wander in to the garage to spy on the micro chickens, and Betsy and Vera hide in their cage. Or else get lost in the tangle of junk occupying the garage. It is not fun trying to extricate two tiny hens from the Jenga like pile of garden chairs and camping equipment. There is always the risk of...squashing.

Conditions here haven't really improved weather wise, but we are due a break from the rain towards the end of the week. I am itching to get out and clear the Palace run, especially now that I've managed to track down some aubiose. It doesn't take much to make me happy.

Now for some blatant self promotion. If you are reading this, you are likely to be a chicken lover. If you're in the UK, you might well purchase a magazine entitled 'Practical Poultry'. And if you were to purchase April's edition (on sale from the 25th of February), you might spot a familiar character.

That's all I'm saying.

Let The Sun Shine

A glorious morning here in the midlands. For the first time this year, I was eager to pull on my wellies and get stuck in to the garden. The ravages of the winter were still apparent, but new promises of spring are cheerfully making their presence known. Now that the hens have been denied access to the border, bulbs are poking through the soil and buds are beginning to ripen on the rose bushes and shrubs. All in all, most satisfactory.

The chooks followed my progress as I pruned and weeded, and Mabel chattered away to me with her head on one side as if asking my opinion on something. Not being able to speak chicken, I think I rather disappointed her in not being able to help. As I worked, I left neat piles of clippings so that I could collect them later. Silly me. When I looked back I found that the girls had helpfully rearranged my piles all over the lawn, as they picked up various prunings and threw them around looking for bugs or tasty new growth. Chickens love to help with the gardening.

The serama tentatively explored the garden. Occassionally, Hilda or Gladys would chase them a bit before getting distracted and forgetting about them. I felt happy enough to leave them freeranging with the bigger girls and headed inside to fill the drinkers. As I gazed out of the kitchen window, contemplating crisps (as you do), I noticed that the flock had gone very tall and quiet. Uh oh. Dashing outside, I found the hunter cat stalking along the top of the fence, his predatory gaze fixed on the oblivious micro chickens. Waving the broom, I hissed at him and chased him away. Maeve watched me with interest, and a calculating expression across her chickenny chops. Merely minutes later, I lost sight of the tiny newbies and went searching. I found them by the side gate, and the hunter cat perched above them on the gate post. This might be a very real problem.

I have no wish to keep Betsy and Vera caged, and after all they need to do normal chicken things. So, I think the best solution will be to get some kind of movable enclosed run so that they can enjoy scratching, dustbathing, scoffing things etc without becoming some feline's latest toy. The stalking cat is the same one that Maeve saw off some months ago. However, a feisty pekin is a very different creature to a soft serama. Personally, I don't fancy their chances if it came down to a stand off.

After tidying away the pekins 'help', I sat on the back step with a cup of tea and surveyed my suburban idyll. The hens laid in shafts of sunlight, catching some rays. Even Betsy assumed the position, strangely with one leg pointing skywards. She looked a bit like she was auditioning for an exercise video. The gentle peace was shattered by a squeaky 'bok bok bok-ARK'. Human and chickens alike looked about, wondering if any of the neighbours ahd recently acquired chickens. Then Vera strutted around the corner in to view, throwing her head back and really going for it. I'm sure she meant to show us all who was boss, but frankly the noise was pathetic. A bit like she was bokking quietly in to a paper bag. If chickens could laugh, the others would have sniggered. As they can't, they just went back to their collective sun worship. Vera wound down with a vaguely embarassed air, and started preening.

Bless.

Micro Chickens, Meet The Flock

Maude clocks the new mini chickens sauntering towards the coop. Celia does an ostrich impression.

A quick conference is called.

The flock decides to send out it's secret weapon: ASBO Chicken. Betsy looks wary.

Maeve's slow saunter fools no-one, and Vera and Betsy keep their distance.

I think Maeve looks more curious than murderous, but the mini chooks are taking no chances.

The others gradually emerge for a closer look. Doris is more interested in the porridge.

Gladys looking marvellous, just because.

This is the closest pic I can get of the serama posing.

Betsy and Maeve size each other up, while Doris takes her snout out of the trough long enough to look on.

Out of curiosity, I weighed the serama today. My pekin girls weigh around 600g each. Betsy weighs in at 375g, and her tiny pal Vera is 275g. I think this makes Betsy overweight according to breed standards. I won't tell her though.

I don't want her to get a complex.

Getting On With It

Despite my best efforts to convince the ever tolerant husband that tiny chickens can be house pets, the serama are now happily relocated to the garage. We picked up a large parakeet cage which will serve as a temporary home, and they seem totally unphased by all the changes. During the transition from house to outbuilding, I risked letting them have a little fresh air.

If it's possible, they looked even tinier stood on the patio. After a few moments of sussing out their general surroundings, they sprinted over to the bird feeder (knocked down by the recent gales) and scoffed the home made fat ball. The flock seemed to notice the newbies all at once, and eight fluffy chickens did their best beady eyed statue impersonations. Mabel clucked quietly at this new development. I watched this initial interaction carefully. Betsy and Vera seemed oblivious to the bigger girls. I doubt they'll get away with that for long. No move was made towards the miniscule ladies, but I suspect that was more out of shock than kindness. The look on Maude's cocked head suggested she thought she might be hallucinating. Perhaps seeing tiny chickens is the poultry equivalent of seeing pink elephants. That apple cider vinegar is good stuff.

I briefly allowed them some freedom today while cleaning their cage (They are exceptionally messy eaters). As they dashed about the patio, pecking in the cracks, the flock slowly ambled their way. Unsurprisingly, it was Gladys leading the reconnaissance mission. In my experience, it is always the current bottom hen who is most forthright with new flock members. I suppose she has the most to lose. Their slow mooch didn't fool me for a second. This is the chicken equivalent of creeping up on your enemy. A nonchalent peck at the ground as you gradually close in might just fool your prey that you're not going to eat them. I allowed them to get to the edge of the patio for a better look, but picked up the serama and returned them to their quarters before the chase could begin. Again, Betsy and Vera seemed totally at ease with the situation. The pekins were less serene.

Purdy has been back in lay for a while now, but over the last week I have noticed an increase in egg production. Today I finally caught the secret layer in the act. It seems that Hilda has come of age. I had a sneaking suspicion it might be her, as she keeps being squashed by a narky Mabel. Mabel might not be in lay yet, but she won't let the younger hen forget who's boss. I expect the other hens to follow Purdy and Hilda's lead very soon. Oh, and speaking of eggs...Betsy is in lay and has been running with a cockerel. If she lays for me over the next week, I might put her eggs in the little incubator.

Just as an experiment, you understand.

The Thaw

The snow has finally departed. We are now left with a boggy quagmire where the back garden should be. Even the very air is saturated, and the thick fog adds a deeply unfestive gloom. The hens all look like they're sporting wet look gel in their feathers and squelch forlornly across the lawn in search of bugs. It's nice to see them emerge from the Palace, even if conditions are less than favourable. Although there is something rather majestic about a short, shuffling chicken emerging from the fog.

Wet, muddy conditions are a pain in the neck when it comes to pekins. Their beautiful foot feathers get clogged up with balls of mud which have to be gently soaked away so as to not cause serious foot problems. Luckily for me, my girls are pretty sensible and dislike getting their feet dirty. After a brief foray, they can be seen perched in the run fastidiously cleaning their feathers. I still check their feet regularly during the winter. It is a problem which can easily be rectified if spotted early, and a real welfare concern. Many pekin breeders who show never let their birds free range for this reason (plus broken foot feathers from digging up your plants looks scruffy). Personally, I'd rather give the odd pedicure and have them careering about the place.

During the summer months, the chooks use various inconsiderate places to dust bath. Barely a pot or container is left undisturbed in their efforts to beautify themselves. During the cold/snow/frozen ground/muddy months, things get a bit trickier. I have run out of clean, dry dustbathing materials and the girls are not happy. In fact, so great is Purdy's displeasure that she decided to bathe herself in the soggy border. She is now stalking about the garden looking like someone has used her to clean around a U-bend. Spikey, scrawny and covered in mud, I can't help thinking that this was not the effect she was aiming for. Every so often she strectches up and flaps her wings, sending arcs of sloppy mud flying across the rest of the flock. They mutter offendedly and shuffle further away from the skanky hen.

I will be buying some play sand in the morning.

Hanging In There

We're back from our wanderings, and I'm pleased to report that Doris seems to be on the mend. The spot has vanished and the inflammation looks like it's on the retreat. So a collective sigh of relief all round. My heroic chicken sitter managed to administer all of the medicine without serious incident so I will be delivering a bottle of wine to her door with copious amounts of grovelling thanks. Hopefully she hasn't been put off for life.

The Palace stood firm in the face of extreme gales the night we left, for which I am eternally grateful. I can just imagine the ever tolerant husband's face if we came home to a pile of very expensive timber. My chicken sitter came to check on the girls early the next morning and confessed that she was apprehensive about what she would find, the wind was that strong. The hens were apparently unmoved by the whole experience and just demanded raisins. Typical of them, really.

The temperature has plummeted over the last few days and this morning we awoke to a thick frost. Pekins are not generally happy about cold/wet conditions, so when released this morning they hopped from one foot to the other across the lawn to the relative comfort of the sunny patio. The lawn gets a break over the winter from chickenny attentions, but the patio takes a beating. I am not looking forward to chiselling rock hard poultry poo from the slabs before the ever tolerant husband gets home.

All in all, it's good to be home.

The Final Straight

So, now I find myself on day 14 with my pekin frizzle eggs. All chicks are alove and (literally) kicking at this stage, so I am quietly thrilled. However, anything could happen between now and hatch day, so I am learning the truth of the old adage about chicken counting. Still, just in case I do have chicks by next weekend, I have to be prepared.

This weekend I will be organising the brooder in the garage. I'm undecided just yet on whether to use the wooden box I used for Purdy and Celia as babies, or whether to put any resulting fluff balls in one of the childrens old plastic toy boxes. Regardless, the heat lamp will have to be set up and some non-slip flooring installed. I have a chick drinker, which I have been reliably informed needs to be filled with marbles to protect against any drownings. I need to pick up some medicated chick crumb to protect against cocciodosis, and then I should be all set.

The chicks were always going to be housed in the garage, yet a slight complication has put a spanner in the works. We are having two entire bathrooms delivered next week, and they will also need to be stored in the garage. I'm not quite sure how this will work yet, beyond envisioning the chicks living in the bath. We shall see.

The main flock have been most put out by the wet weather. Bad tempered pecking is on the up, and the silkies have taken to gobbling like deranged turkeys at the sky. A nightingales song it is not. Mabel is randomly flattening underlings, apparently more out of boredom than anything else (Actually, while I've mentioned Mabel, it seems that she has become a bit of a pin up. Several of my twitter pals are currently incubating millefleur pekin eggs based on her magnificence. She would expect nothing less).

The next week should be very interesting.

Decision Time

Right, I have contacted every pekin breeder listed within a fifty mile radius and no one has any frizzles for sale. In fact, some don't even have eggs, what with the pekins love of brooding. Up and down the country, nest boxes are filled with flattened hens staring off in to the distance and muttering absently.

So yesterday, I recovered my accidental ebay purchase incubator from the understairs cupboard. I switched it on, just to test, and discovered that the bulb had gone. Bum. Just in case I should ever need it, I thought i really ought to buy some more bulbs. I also thought that buying some poultry disinfectant might be wise. This morning, at early o'clock, the postie delivered my bulbs. Now my incubator works wonderfully, and I have a few spare bulbs, just in case. I also found a small amount of disinfectant in the garage, so it is technically ready to be used, should I ever need to.

Purely out of interest, I rang 'round a few breeders this morning in case any might be selling hatching eggs. I was referred back to the pekins love of pancake impersonation, and advised that frizzle pekin eggs are unlikely to become available until early autumn. Hmmm.

Innocently trawling ebay, I have found a well known seller with six frizzle eggs for sale. My finger keeps hovering over the bid button. I very much want my frizzle, but I also need to think about the practicalities of homing the inevitable boys.

Decisions, decisions......

Has Anyone Seen Any Pekin Frizzles?

Well, I shouldn't have got so excited yesterday. My pekin frizzle contact has just informed me that he won't have any for months, if at all. And he'll only sell pairs and trios. As one of these two/three will absolutely cock-a-doodle-doo, it's a dead end. Humph.

If anyone knows where you can get a couple of frizzle pekins, even if it's on the moon, could you please let me know? Thanks .

Adventures in Chicken Hunting

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clean knickers

Delilah has become a bit whiffy, what with lying in her own filth for days, so this morning she had a bath. I'm rather glad that she feels too ill to fight me, as I suspect that a healthy Delilah plus a bath would equal me losing an eye. As it was, she settled for giving me a look of pure malice while I washed her drawers.

Delilah is only the second chicken that I have bathed, so this is probably a hideous generalisation, but chooks seem to really enjoy being blow dried. D lay on a towel, eyes closed and lifted her wings as I blasted her with the hairdryer (on a low setting, I had visions of spontaneous combustion otherwise). During all this palaver, I realised that D is actually bald all along her underside. This is a classic symptom of a broody hen, so I suspect that she was going broody. A broody hen doesn't eat or drink very well, and is therefore much more likely to succumb to illness. The mycoplasma would have been in her system, waiting for her to weaken enough for it to take hold. She's giving it a run for its money, though.

After syringing water/medicine into the poorly chook, and shoving her beak into some weetabix until she either ate or suffocated, I went outside to tidy up the healthy girls. Pekins have huge fluffy knickers, and they can easily get covered in minky cloacal poo. Wiping a chickens bum not only feels weird, but doesn't really achieve anything. Think playdoh in a deep pile carpet. Hence, when those knickers need cleaning, out come the scissors.

I donned my pink 'chicken business' glove, armed myself with the scissors and grabbed the first hen. Mabel was less than impressed with my chicken grooming, and her beautifully rounded undercrackers are now severely lopsided. Oops. It isn't an easy task, though, and requires more hands than I actually have. I've had to adapt the technique, and the results are functional but not particularly aesthetic. Grabbing a handful of the poo coated bum fluff, I gingerly trim them below said poo. At the same time, the hen is desperately pulling in the other direction in a bid for freedom. Therefore, when the last feather is snipped, the chook goes bombing up the garden, totally unprepared for the sudden release. Bloody funny to watch.

So now they all have clean underwear, but I'll never make a hairdresser.

Christmas

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

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

Life with chickens

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

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

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

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

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

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