Miserable Weather

The rain hasn't let up here so far this week. The girls have made a few forays into the garden, but then end up running back to the relative dryness of the Convent. We're all quite miserable.

Now, the girls are generally quite spoiled, and enjoy many scraps and treats from the kitchen. However, they still require layers pellets, which is their staple diet. They tend to gorge on these when they get up in the morning, before they are let out and have access to alternatives. The sides of the Convent are strong weld mesh, so not water proof. The driving rain has been getting into the run, and more importantly, the feeder. This causes the pellets to turn into a sludgy porridge, which then sets like concrete. So, instead of dry pellets, freely running into the little dish around the feeder for the hens to scoff, the food stays put in the main body of the device, and my girls go hungry. Several times a day, I have to get soaked to the skin in order that my ladies have access to their grub. Are they grateful? Are they hell!

They complain, bitterly, about the soggy feed. Then, they queue up to leave the Convent, only to realise that it's still raining. At least one of them will then come up to me, bokking away in disgust, as if complaining to a hotel manager. If the hen in question is particularly narked, she might drop a giant poo near my foot. Then turn around, and scrape it back at me. Nice.

All in all, we'll all be relieved when the rain clears and the sun shines again.

The British Summer Returns

After last weeks burning temperatures, the British weather has done an about turn. It's raining. A lot. The garden is appreciating the wet, and the plants are replenishing their scorched leaves. The chooks, however, are not so impressed.

Feather footed birds tend to hate the wet. Their long foot feathers get matted together making getting around difficult. As a result, I have a disgruntled flock. Mabel and Maude, being a bit bigger, are able to jump from one place of relative dryness to another, but the others have to plow through the soggy grass which is by now at breast height. They bok with with ill humour, stopping every few feet to preen their feet in an effort to stop them getting knotted together. Looking miserable, they make only brief forays into the run for food and water. The rest of the time, they huddle in the coop.

Mini and Belinda are both broody, so are welded to the nest. Maeve is in a bit of a dilemma. She likes to keep outside of pecking distance from the others, but is finding it hard to do her road runner impression out in the open. As a result, she's spending a lot of her time perched in the coop, ready to flee if any of the others jump up next to her. My littlest hen is in a state of high alert, and is being quite pecky. To try and remind her that I'm a friend, and not a psychotic flock mate, I'm hand feeding her some corn while stroking her back. She is tolerating me, just. She did however karate kick my mother when she visited last week. Maeve may be the recipient of the first chicken ASBO.