Painting The Palace

I can hardly believe that it's been a year since the girls moved in to the Palace. I spent months trying to find the perfect coop for my pampered ladies and I have to say that I am delighted with my choice. However, perfection doesn't come cheap, so in an effort to protect my investment I decided to paint it. The recent warm weather made me think that today would be ideal. Naturally, the temperature has plummeted by around ten degrees and the wind has picked up. I also have two helpers at home, as the children are on their Easter holidays from school. Despite these possible hiccups, it went reasonably well.

I kept the hens in the run while I painted the outside, figuring that it's the outside of the structure which suffers the most weathering. I want to treat the inside as a red mite preventative, but what with the serama occupying the garage and my tomato seedlings taking over the greenhouse, I have nowhere to stick the pekins while it dries. So for now, the inside of the coop will have to wait. After giving the children strict instructions on the handling of the creosote substitute and putting them in some old clothes, we got started.

The creosote substitute (creocote) smells like creosote, but is thin and watery. So naturally it goes everywhere. The hens watched with interest as the youngest mostly covered his own shoes and arms in the runny mix, while I attempted to duck out of the eldest's spray. Doris kept up a running commentary in her baby seagull stylee, while the others muttered in the manner of little old ladies at bus stops that go 'Ooh!' about everything. After around twenty minutes of watching the carnage, I thanked my helpers graciously and sent them indoors to eat Easter eggs. The hens and I eyeballed each other, all of us grateful for the reprieve. I think the girls were tiring of dodging out of the way of random creocote showers.

With my helpers not helping, it was finished in no time. It doesn't take very long to slap a coat of creocote on to your chicken housing and can make a huge difference to both the longevity of it and also any red mite attacks. I heartily recommend spending a messy, stinky hour doing so. Just be prepared that you won't be able to smell anything else for hours as the fumes singe your nose hairs.

Now, I realise that I haven't mentioned Vera and the eggs yet. Apologies. The thing is, there is nothing more to tell. Tiny tapping sounds continue to be heard from the nest, and Vera continues her steady vigil. As yet, there are no chicks.

The waiting continues.

Cleaning The Palace

As the year oozes in to November, I have a strong suspicion that the opportunities for a full on Palace scrub are probably ebbing away. So today, despite having a hideous dose of woman flu, I decided to give the girls' residence a deep clean. Armed with scrubbing brush, dustpan, broom, bucket and disinfectant I headed outside to disrupt the chooks busy schedule of lazing about the place and pooing in inconvenient places.

First, I had to remove all the aubiose from the run. Removing all of the chicken paraphenalia (drinker/feeder/grit hopper/interesting perching log) I shovelled the well used bedding in to a bucket before emptying said bucket in to the bin. Theoretically, this should take no more than ten minutes. It takes significantly longer when a very bad tempered chicken decides to 'help'. As I began to fill the first bucket, the relentlessly arsey ASBO Chicken appeared in the doorway. She watched me half fill the bucket and then jumped up in to it. Suddenly I found myself with a loaded dustpan staring down at a hissing Maeve. I deliberated for a moment, and then unceremoniously dumped the contents of the dustpan in to the bucket anyway. This did not please our would-be dictator, and she squawked and flapped her displeasure. She still didn't get out of the bucket, though. After emptying another two fragrant loads over Maeve, I realised that she was not going to admit defeat and leave voluntarily. Briefly, I considered emptying her in to the bin with the bucket's contents. In the end, though, I bribed her with imaginary corn. Cupping my hand and cooing 'Chook, chook, chook!' at her, I led her from the Palace grounds. She eyed me with suspicion initially, but greed got the better of her.

As Maeve hunted for the invisible corn, I turned my attention to the coop. Removing the perch block, I emptied all of the old newspaper and started sweeping out the nest boxes. Celia is still broody, and clamped determinedly to the fourth nest box. Gingerly, I reached out to move her. She managed to get the soft flesh between my thumb and first finger and give it a really good twist. I treated the psychotic harridan to some inventive swearing before using the sleeves of my coat like oven mitts and dumping her on to the lawn. She lay there muttering like a boneless tea cosy for a moment before drunkenly staggering off. Now the Palace was empty and clean. Good.

The ramp and perch block tend to get rather mucky so I always scrub them down with a weak disinfectant solution. As I set about scrubbing the ramp, Hilda and Gladys wandered over to investigate. With every upward scrub the cleaning mixture sprayed skywards. The two adolescent newbies thought this was brilliant and took to running back and forth in front of me, looking for all the world like toddlers in a sprinkler. Unfortunately this water was rather mucky and Hilda is now covered in dots of poo. Lovely.

Before replacing the run bedding and nest box woodshavings I sprinkled the Palace liberally with red mite powder. I have yet to have an outbreak of the dreaded mite, but it is better to be safe than sorry. Once everything was dry, I returned it to its rightful place. There is something inherently satisfying about cleaning out the hens, and I stood back to admire its pristine cosiness. The hens wandered over to investigate the new arrangements. We then all stood for a moment, taking in perfection. Sadly the spell was broken as Mabel defecated on the doorstep and then Doris booted aubiose in to the drinker, but it was nice while it lasted.

I like to think that they appreciate my efforts.

A More Integrated Flock

It's finally happened. It's only taken a few months, endless patience and the destruction of my greenhouse, and we now have a complete flock! Maeve has been accepted into the fold. I have even observed her preening Belinda. I am a happy chicken keeper.

Naturally, she's made to sleep on the floor with the poo. She is also occasionally given a peck as she ambles past, and is often chased away from the treats. However, she has not been duffed up in any great way, so they must secretly like her. Mini is pretty much in the same boat, so the little splash hen and the little (alleged) mottled pullet have formed a shaky alliance. It's quite sweet, really.

Having all of the girls in the convent has helped with the husbandry side of things, too. Maeve's mini coop has been relegated to the garage to be used as a hospital wing if needed, and my growbags are safe from the feathery vandal that had been occupying my greenhouse. Bliss.

The red mite issue seems to have resolved itself with a liberal sprinkling of red mite powder and a thorough clean. However, I'm not being complacent as I know that the evil beasties are never too far away.

We are currently broody, illness and beastie free.

I wait with baited breath for the next disaster.

Rescue Mission

The thing with chicken keeping is, there is always another crisis around the corner. Having tackled the broody issue, and finally having an integrated flock, we now have the dreaded red mite. I was out doing my daily sweep of the poop tray, when I saw one of the evil little beasties crawling across the roof. Squishing it with the end of my thumb, I looked more closely. Yep, definitely red mite. Bum.

Red mite are little tiny parasites which feast on the blood of roosting birds. During the day, they hide in any cracks or crevices in the coop, and come out at sundown to munch on the poor sleeping girls. A severe infestation leads to a drop in egg production, ill looking hens, and if untreated, death. Luckily, I always keep a supply of diatom which is a pretty effective beastie killer.

The kids were delighted to help me commit insecticide. They happily squashed the critters with a stone, gleefully disgusted at the splatter, while I scrubbed, swept and disinfected. Mabel became quite distressed, pacing back and forth and peering through the pop hole at the void that used to be the nest box. I kept shooing her out, but she obviously needed to lay, and would not be deterred. So desperate did she become, that she tried a novel way of gaining entry to the nest.

The coop is on slabs against the fence. Between the mesh of the run and the fence, there is a gap of approximately four inches. The hens have never attempted to go down this narrow alley, until today. Mabel had obviously worked out in her tiny chicken brain that this might be another route to her desired destination. Hearing some soft clucking, I turned slowly around to see Mabel beginning to wiggle her way into the gap. Uh oh.

Mabel edged her way along, before the message that the space was too tight finally reached her brain. Deciding at that point that she didn't like it, she tried to turn around. I now had a chicken who's face was squished against the wire mesh, side on, and who's voluminous backside was mashed against the fence. Somehow, her wings were pinned above her. She looked for all the world like a ballerina attempting a pirouette. A severely narked ballerina.

The other girls gathered to watch their illustrious leaders humiliating fall from grace, while the children and I panicked. Every so often, she would have a frenetic attempt at freeing herself, but she seemed firmly wedged. I attempted to move the Convent, but it was far too heavy. In a moment of complete flappery, I phoned the ever tolerant husband at work. While I was on hold, with my back to the stricken bird, she managed to free herself. I found myself on the phone, trying to explain to the baffled husband that there had been a problem, but everything was okay now.

Never a dull moment.