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.
Showing posts with label serama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label serama. Show all posts
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Tough Times, And I'm Posting After Wine
This is hard to post, but post I must. After lots of tooing and froing both here and in real life, and much angst, I will be parting with four of my girls. Celia, Gladys, Winnie and Flo will be heading to pastures new as soon as a good home can be found. I've posted an ad on Preloved with a heavy heart, and once they are gone I will be selling the Palace and buying a smaller, less grand home for the remaining hens. I should also be listing the serama for sale, but at the last minute I just couldn't do it. Serama are so little, surely no one will even notice them?
I'm not sure what will happen next.
I'm not sure what will happen next.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
A Brief Catch Up
I know, I know. I have been neglecting you. Would it help if I gave my list of excuses? We're trying to move. It has snowed. A lot. We had to travel to visit the ever tolerant husband's family. Oh, and I have the plague (or a cold, depending on how dramatic you want to be. But this cold does come with a mouth ulcer named Kevin). So, I suppose I should fill you in.
Spring is just around the corner (no, really) and the hens are starting to wake up from their long winter slumber. As any keeper of pure breeds knows, these pedigree chooks tend to go in to stasis through the cold and dark months. They eat, drink and sleep their way through Guy Fawkes night, Christmas and Valentine's day. You barely see them, except for cleaning out and the odd sighting as they come down from the coop for feed. The suddenly, you notice that you're topping up the feeder more often. The odd egg appears in the nest box, and crucially, they find their voices again. Oh yes. You know that spring is about to be sprung when you hear the mournful caterwauling of a laboring chicken at 7.30 in the morning.
I am getting the odd egg, and I suspect that Flo is the culprit. The older ladies have yet to recommence laying duties, but their combs are bright red and they've resumed strutting. I'm not expecting too many eggs from Mabel, Maude and Maeve from now on, as they're pushing 4 and 3.5 respectively. But the others will soon be back in to full production. So now is the time to make sure that they have mixed poultry grit and access to grass. My girls pretty much ignore the grit during the winter, but nosh it at a rate of knotts come February. A laying hen needs the calcium, or else they leach it from their own bones. This cannot be a good thing.
I can pretty much rule out Winnie laying at the moment, as in a fit of total craziness she has decided to go broody despite never having layed an egg. This does not bode well for her laying abilities, to be honest. Still, she's a plucky young bird and if there is no egg to sit on, she tries to incubate enormous poos. Deeply unpleasant when I rootle about under her to find and eggs, but it's keeping her busy. And hideously fragrant.
The serama are still road runnering about the pekins, and in this way have avoided being a) eaten and b) flattened. They work in a tag team of distraction, leading the homicidal pekins on a wild serama chase while the other one scoffs pellets. Everyone seems to be coping with the situation, and even Maeve is getting bored of 'pluck the serama'.
The next big thing will be the move.
Spring is just around the corner (no, really) and the hens are starting to wake up from their long winter slumber. As any keeper of pure breeds knows, these pedigree chooks tend to go in to stasis through the cold and dark months. They eat, drink and sleep their way through Guy Fawkes night, Christmas and Valentine's day. You barely see them, except for cleaning out and the odd sighting as they come down from the coop for feed. The suddenly, you notice that you're topping up the feeder more often. The odd egg appears in the nest box, and crucially, they find their voices again. Oh yes. You know that spring is about to be sprung when you hear the mournful caterwauling of a laboring chicken at 7.30 in the morning.
I am getting the odd egg, and I suspect that Flo is the culprit. The older ladies have yet to recommence laying duties, but their combs are bright red and they've resumed strutting. I'm not expecting too many eggs from Mabel, Maude and Maeve from now on, as they're pushing 4 and 3.5 respectively. But the others will soon be back in to full production. So now is the time to make sure that they have mixed poultry grit and access to grass. My girls pretty much ignore the grit during the winter, but nosh it at a rate of knotts come February. A laying hen needs the calcium, or else they leach it from their own bones. This cannot be a good thing.
I can pretty much rule out Winnie laying at the moment, as in a fit of total craziness she has decided to go broody despite never having layed an egg. This does not bode well for her laying abilities, to be honest. Still, she's a plucky young bird and if there is no egg to sit on, she tries to incubate enormous poos. Deeply unpleasant when I rootle about under her to find and eggs, but it's keeping her busy. And hideously fragrant.
The serama are still road runnering about the pekins, and in this way have avoided being a) eaten and b) flattened. They work in a tag team of distraction, leading the homicidal pekins on a wild serama chase while the other one scoffs pellets. Everyone seems to be coping with the situation, and even Maeve is getting bored of 'pluck the serama'.
The next big thing will be the move.
Monday, 12 December 2011
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.
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.
Friday, 4 November 2011
Garden Sharing
Pekins are not very fond of getting their feet wet, so when the weather is inclement they tend to sit on the perches in the run, muttering and fluffed up. One or two daring explorers might leave the shelter of the run for a quick grass scoff, but on the whole they are content to stay within the confines of the Palace. The serama will venture forth in the rain as long as it isn't cold, but their silkie feathers are rubbish at keeping them warm so I have to monitor their excursions. As it is peeing down today, the hens are not bothered in the least by not getting hours of freeranging time. However, when it isn't raining they would much rather be out digging up my borders and pooing on the patio. Naturally.
But now we have the puppy. And the puppy must also have access to the garden. Quick access, unless you want wet feet. So it's a bit of a problem. I had been restricting the pekins free ranging anyway this year in a bid to have some plants, so they had been out for about 4 hours a day. I would often let the serama have longer than that, as the damage they can do to the garden is extremely limited by their tiny stature. This has now been severely cut down.
At present, the birds are getting approximately an hour and a half free range a day. The puppy has a long snooze after the school run, so that's when I let the girls out. However, once he wakes, he needs to pee. So the girls have to be coaxed back in to the run. They are not best pleased. In the end, I hope to desensitise the puppy to the chooks, so that there can be some managed integration. But we are some distance from that. He will sit by the run, intently watching them, and occasionally barking at these exciting, noise making feathery things. Training will be a long and arduous process.
I feel guilty. I feel dreadful. I feel like the worst chicken keeper in the world. I've considered putting up a more permanent fence around the coop so that the puppy can't get near and the hens can still roam. But he has successfully dug under my border netting, and I can't bring myself to suggest electric fencing in our average suburban garden to the ever tolerant husband. I think he'd laugh and then wrestle my debit card away from me. Probably rightly, to be honest.
So that leaves me with few options. I can either start leaving the girls out when I'm walking the puppy and hope that his copious leavings in the garden would protect the girls from any potential predators. Or they have to cope with being more restricted than I'd like, but remain completely safe. It's a dilemma that I haven't had to tackle before. I am even more distressed that the serama are confined to their garage hutch, but at this time of year they need to be sheltered. And realistically I know that the hutch is perfectly big enough for two tiny birds. But still.
I shall think on.
But now we have the puppy. And the puppy must also have access to the garden. Quick access, unless you want wet feet. So it's a bit of a problem. I had been restricting the pekins free ranging anyway this year in a bid to have some plants, so they had been out for about 4 hours a day. I would often let the serama have longer than that, as the damage they can do to the garden is extremely limited by their tiny stature. This has now been severely cut down.
At present, the birds are getting approximately an hour and a half free range a day. The puppy has a long snooze after the school run, so that's when I let the girls out. However, once he wakes, he needs to pee. So the girls have to be coaxed back in to the run. They are not best pleased. In the end, I hope to desensitise the puppy to the chooks, so that there can be some managed integration. But we are some distance from that. He will sit by the run, intently watching them, and occasionally barking at these exciting, noise making feathery things. Training will be a long and arduous process.
I feel guilty. I feel dreadful. I feel like the worst chicken keeper in the world. I've considered putting up a more permanent fence around the coop so that the puppy can't get near and the hens can still roam. But he has successfully dug under my border netting, and I can't bring myself to suggest electric fencing in our average suburban garden to the ever tolerant husband. I think he'd laugh and then wrestle my debit card away from me. Probably rightly, to be honest.
So that leaves me with few options. I can either start leaving the girls out when I'm walking the puppy and hope that his copious leavings in the garden would protect the girls from any potential predators. Or they have to cope with being more restricted than I'd like, but remain completely safe. It's a dilemma that I haven't had to tackle before. I am even more distressed that the serama are confined to their garage hutch, but at this time of year they need to be sheltered. And realistically I know that the hutch is perfectly big enough for two tiny birds. But still.
I shall think on.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
The Chaos Continues
I'm not neglecting you, honest. It's just that I've been dealing with some teething problems. Actual teething problems. The puppy is chewing everything in sight, and is rather keeping me on my toes. Coupled with the fact that we were both attacked by a very angry dog yesterday, means that my blogging time has been seriously compromised. But no matter. Right now the pup is chewing a shoe (I'm pretending I haven't noticed) and I have a few minutes to update the Chronicles. So here goes.
My girls are on an egg strike. I'm not sure if this is in protest at the dog's arrival, or just the natural changing of the seasons. I suspect a bit of both, to be honest. Either way, no eggs for me. They are now eating less as well, and barely touching their oyster shell. In reality I doubt I'll see another egg until 2012. They watch me as I hopefully open the nest box, and no doubt snigger as I trudge dejectedly away again. As always with chickens, the less they give you the more you give them. So out comes the mixed corn, and the viatmin supplements, and the ACV, in an attempt to get them through the moult they've decided to communily have. Maude is strutting about looking resplendent and smug, having finished her moult a few months back. But everyone else is looking tatty and miserable. They are also increasingly narky, and many a hen is getting an unprovoked peck to the bonce just for existing. Even poor Vera is losing feathers left, right and centre. The miniscule hen is disappearing before my eyes.
The pekins are decidedly wary of the hound, and keep a sensible distance. Well, most of them do. Flo and Winnie seem to not have a natural fear response to a slathering mutt charging towards them, and in fact take great delight on sitting on the back step, beak to nose with the yelping puppy, driving him mad. Maeve is only acknowledging his existence if he dares to look at her, at which point she raises her hackles and hisses at him in her Dark Lord manner. He is unsure about this, and loses interest in playing with her rather rapidly. She saunters away, occasionally throwing an evil glance in his direction.
The serama are having none of it, and hide in the top part of their hutch if they hear him coming. I can't say as I blame them. I am hoping that he can be trained not to fetch chickens in to the house every five seconds. The thought of a disgruntled Maeve being caught, carried in a canine mouth, and then deposited in my living room doesn't bare thinking about.
I suspect we would all pay a heavy price for such treatment.
My girls are on an egg strike. I'm not sure if this is in protest at the dog's arrival, or just the natural changing of the seasons. I suspect a bit of both, to be honest. Either way, no eggs for me. They are now eating less as well, and barely touching their oyster shell. In reality I doubt I'll see another egg until 2012. They watch me as I hopefully open the nest box, and no doubt snigger as I trudge dejectedly away again. As always with chickens, the less they give you the more you give them. So out comes the mixed corn, and the viatmin supplements, and the ACV, in an attempt to get them through the moult they've decided to communily have. Maude is strutting about looking resplendent and smug, having finished her moult a few months back. But everyone else is looking tatty and miserable. They are also increasingly narky, and many a hen is getting an unprovoked peck to the bonce just for existing. Even poor Vera is losing feathers left, right and centre. The miniscule hen is disappearing before my eyes.
The pekins are decidedly wary of the hound, and keep a sensible distance. Well, most of them do. Flo and Winnie seem to not have a natural fear response to a slathering mutt charging towards them, and in fact take great delight on sitting on the back step, beak to nose with the yelping puppy, driving him mad. Maeve is only acknowledging his existence if he dares to look at her, at which point she raises her hackles and hisses at him in her Dark Lord manner. He is unsure about this, and loses interest in playing with her rather rapidly. She saunters away, occasionally throwing an evil glance in his direction.
The serama are having none of it, and hide in the top part of their hutch if they hear him coming. I can't say as I blame them. I am hoping that he can be trained not to fetch chickens in to the house every five seconds. The thought of a disgruntled Maeve being caught, carried in a canine mouth, and then deposited in my living room doesn't bare thinking about.
I suspect we would all pay a heavy price for such treatment.
Monday, 22 August 2011
Sometimes, It's Just A Pleasure
Yesterday was a bit stressful for me and the chooks. I basically bunged them all in to the Palace for two hours and sat next to the weld mesh waiting for a riot to break out. Surprisingly, it didn't. I mean, of course there was some stroppy squawking and chasing, but on the whole it was strangely peaceful. Betsy and Vera mainly lurked in the coop, occasionally venturing in to the run when they felt like tormenting one of the bigger girls. Winnie and Flo managed to keep mostly out of beaks way, and when Maeve did corner Winnie she merely issued a couple of half-arsed pecks before ambling off to eat something. This is very encouraging.
But today, I didn't feel like giving myself a stress fuelled heart attack. So I just let them get on with it and attempted to tidy the garden. So often as a chicken keeper you can be focused on this ailment, or that broody, that you can easily foget to simply enjoy the greedy feather bags mooching about the garden. You should sit back and smell the roses, as it were. So today I sat back and smelled the evil broody poo.
Maude is coming through her moult at long last, and is as beautiful as ever. Now that her quills are through she isn't in any discomfort and I can breathe a sigh of relief at another non-fatal moult. Mabel is holding on to her top hen status and continues to be a benevolent ruler, only sometimes feeling the need to flatten an underling. She doesn't bother with the newbies at all. Celia is still determinedly broody despite my best efforts. I am continuously turfing her out of the nest box and smothering her in mite powder. She stares at me glassily and coos at her imaginary eggs. Loon. Our beloved ASBO Chicken continues to skulk like a feathery ninja, and stages the odd ambush. She isn't particularly fussed whether her victim is human or chicken, but has a particular fondness for hiding under the trampoline and pouncing on the children's feet as they dismount. That's my girl.
Gladys is found next to Celia in the nest boxes, and her back end is indistinguishable from her front under all of the frizzling. She does have the sense to wander from the nest several times a day, though, so I'm more confident that she'll snap out of it of her own accord. Hilda is currently sporting exquisitely well manicured fingernails, as I gradually file them down. Her weeks of being broody led to crazy talon growth, so now when she walks across the patio she sounds like she's wearing heels. Now there's an image.
Betsy is still laying the odd egg. Very odd. If it isn't soft shelled it's the size of a five pence piece. I have given up worrying about it and just assume that Betsy's egg laying gubbins is wonky. She is not in the least bit bothered. Vera is still herding her giant babies and busy telling them off at every possible opportunity. It's really rather sweet. For their part, Winnie and Flo are wonderfully tolerant of the barmy Serama. Flo made her first proper 'bok-ARK' yesterday, and was exceedingly pleased with herself. She is growing in to a real beauty. Winnie is still playing catch up, but is a gentle and quiet pullet so far. I can see her being bottom of the pecking order, but not really minding much.
As I watched all ten of them scavenging the wheat I'd just thrown on the lawn, I thought to myself: I must post about this. That it's not all tragedy, illness or comedy gold. Sometimes it's just bloody lovely.
So go and watch your chooks and remind yourself why you bother.
But today, I didn't feel like giving myself a stress fuelled heart attack. So I just let them get on with it and attempted to tidy the garden. So often as a chicken keeper you can be focused on this ailment, or that broody, that you can easily foget to simply enjoy the greedy feather bags mooching about the garden. You should sit back and smell the roses, as it were. So today I sat back and smelled the evil broody poo.
Maude is coming through her moult at long last, and is as beautiful as ever. Now that her quills are through she isn't in any discomfort and I can breathe a sigh of relief at another non-fatal moult. Mabel is holding on to her top hen status and continues to be a benevolent ruler, only sometimes feeling the need to flatten an underling. She doesn't bother with the newbies at all. Celia is still determinedly broody despite my best efforts. I am continuously turfing her out of the nest box and smothering her in mite powder. She stares at me glassily and coos at her imaginary eggs. Loon. Our beloved ASBO Chicken continues to skulk like a feathery ninja, and stages the odd ambush. She isn't particularly fussed whether her victim is human or chicken, but has a particular fondness for hiding under the trampoline and pouncing on the children's feet as they dismount. That's my girl.
Gladys is found next to Celia in the nest boxes, and her back end is indistinguishable from her front under all of the frizzling. She does have the sense to wander from the nest several times a day, though, so I'm more confident that she'll snap out of it of her own accord. Hilda is currently sporting exquisitely well manicured fingernails, as I gradually file them down. Her weeks of being broody led to crazy talon growth, so now when she walks across the patio she sounds like she's wearing heels. Now there's an image.
Betsy is still laying the odd egg. Very odd. If it isn't soft shelled it's the size of a five pence piece. I have given up worrying about it and just assume that Betsy's egg laying gubbins is wonky. She is not in the least bit bothered. Vera is still herding her giant babies and busy telling them off at every possible opportunity. It's really rather sweet. For their part, Winnie and Flo are wonderfully tolerant of the barmy Serama. Flo made her first proper 'bok-ARK' yesterday, and was exceedingly pleased with herself. She is growing in to a real beauty. Winnie is still playing catch up, but is a gentle and quiet pullet so far. I can see her being bottom of the pecking order, but not really minding much.
As I watched all ten of them scavenging the wheat I'd just thrown on the lawn, I thought to myself: I must post about this. That it's not all tragedy, illness or comedy gold. Sometimes it's just bloody lovely.
So go and watch your chooks and remind yourself why you bother.
Thursday, 18 August 2011
The Great Corn On The Cob Heist
I went out for dinner yesterday. If you're interested, I had a pasta dish. The eldest had spaghetti, which oddly, came with a random corn on the cob. The eldest doesn't like corn on the cob. The corn sat on the side of his plate, taunting me, for the whole meal. But I didn't want it. I don't think corn on the cob is a natural accompaniment to pasta, as it happens. However, I knew several someones who would very much enjoy that corn on the cob.
As the ever tolerant husband was busy sorting out the bill, I seized my chance. I casually picked up a napkin, gave a quick glance around the table to make sure I was unobserved, and went to grab the corn. Unfortunately, the waiter chose that exact moment to reach forward for the plate. He hesitated as I clutched my prize, and instead of simply ignoring the whole awkward situation, I blurted out for no apparent reason 'It's for Maeve. She's a chicken'. I actually felt the ever tolerant husband wither and shrink in to his chair.
When we got home, I triumphantly presented the corn to the inhabitants of the Palace. They had already retired for the evening, but the whiff of luke warm corn lured them back in to the run briefly. Chickens generally pig out before bedtime, so they had already filled their crops with pellets. After several gluttonous pecks, they admitted defeat and went back to bed. I had no doubt that they would dream of crispy, fresh corn and wake up raring to scoff.
Of course, as well as being eating machines, chickens also have pretty rubbish attention spans. So this morning, the half eaten corn lay neglected under the Palace's ramp. It hadn't been spotted by the usual suspects at breakfast, and now that they were all out free ranging it was all forgotten about. That is, until the new pekins spotted it.
Winnie and Flo regularly stroll in to the Palace at this stage. If a regular spots them, they will give a half hearted chase. But on the whole, they're ignored. So imagine the sheer joy they experienced when they found the corn. Flo actually did a lap of excitement, flapping and bouncing around the run like the total nutjob she is. They pecked at the corn gingerly, not really understanding their prize but twigging that the other pekins wouldn't want them to have it. With this in mind, they took it in turns to drag it to the run doorway.
Just as they were about to commence dragging their treat across the lawn, they were spotted by the serama. Vera has given up being broody for now, and she and Betsy clocked the newbies Getting Away With Something. They came over to inspect. Flo dropped the corn and pretended she was very interested in the grass. Winnie decided to perch on it, in an effort to hide it under her voluminous knickers. The serama were not fooled. They pecked at the corn a bit, then commenced muttering. I don't speak chicken, but it seemed to me that Vera was issuing instructions. After a quick conference, Operation Rob The Corn was back underway, now with the serama helping to drag/push/peck the corn towards the garage.
I watched all of this with a smile on my face and a cup of tea in front of me at the garden table. The pekins were mooching at the bottom of the garden, and I was frankly amazed that the tiny thieves hadn't been noticed. Of course, I should have known better. As the corn got within a metre of the garage door, Maeve ninjad out from behind the rose bush and landed in the middle of the cooperating outsiders. They wisely scattered. ASBO Chicken strolled around the corn, marking her territory. She gave the silently creeping Vera the beady eye and chuntered in a menacing manner. Defeated, Vera, Betsy, Winnie and Flo went off to dust bath.
Maeve didn't tell the rest of the flock, and stripped the corn bare on her own like the boss she is.
As the ever tolerant husband was busy sorting out the bill, I seized my chance. I casually picked up a napkin, gave a quick glance around the table to make sure I was unobserved, and went to grab the corn. Unfortunately, the waiter chose that exact moment to reach forward for the plate. He hesitated as I clutched my prize, and instead of simply ignoring the whole awkward situation, I blurted out for no apparent reason 'It's for Maeve. She's a chicken'. I actually felt the ever tolerant husband wither and shrink in to his chair.
When we got home, I triumphantly presented the corn to the inhabitants of the Palace. They had already retired for the evening, but the whiff of luke warm corn lured them back in to the run briefly. Chickens generally pig out before bedtime, so they had already filled their crops with pellets. After several gluttonous pecks, they admitted defeat and went back to bed. I had no doubt that they would dream of crispy, fresh corn and wake up raring to scoff.
Of course, as well as being eating machines, chickens also have pretty rubbish attention spans. So this morning, the half eaten corn lay neglected under the Palace's ramp. It hadn't been spotted by the usual suspects at breakfast, and now that they were all out free ranging it was all forgotten about. That is, until the new pekins spotted it.
Winnie and Flo regularly stroll in to the Palace at this stage. If a regular spots them, they will give a half hearted chase. But on the whole, they're ignored. So imagine the sheer joy they experienced when they found the corn. Flo actually did a lap of excitement, flapping and bouncing around the run like the total nutjob she is. They pecked at the corn gingerly, not really understanding their prize but twigging that the other pekins wouldn't want them to have it. With this in mind, they took it in turns to drag it to the run doorway.
Just as they were about to commence dragging their treat across the lawn, they were spotted by the serama. Vera has given up being broody for now, and she and Betsy clocked the newbies Getting Away With Something. They came over to inspect. Flo dropped the corn and pretended she was very interested in the grass. Winnie decided to perch on it, in an effort to hide it under her voluminous knickers. The serama were not fooled. They pecked at the corn a bit, then commenced muttering. I don't speak chicken, but it seemed to me that Vera was issuing instructions. After a quick conference, Operation Rob The Corn was back underway, now with the serama helping to drag/push/peck the corn towards the garage.
I watched all of this with a smile on my face and a cup of tea in front of me at the garden table. The pekins were mooching at the bottom of the garden, and I was frankly amazed that the tiny thieves hadn't been noticed. Of course, I should have known better. As the corn got within a metre of the garage door, Maeve ninjad out from behind the rose bush and landed in the middle of the cooperating outsiders. They wisely scattered. ASBO Chicken strolled around the corn, marking her territory. She gave the silently creeping Vera the beady eye and chuntered in a menacing manner. Defeated, Vera, Betsy, Winnie and Flo went off to dust bath.
Maeve didn't tell the rest of the flock, and stripped the corn bare on her own like the boss she is.
Monday, 11 July 2011
Almost, But Not Quite
In all the excitement of being hideously mauled by a tiny chicken yesterday, I forgot to tell you about my almost bravery. I have to say almost, because when push came to shove I bottled it. But, we very nearly had serama/pekin integration yesterday evening.
It's not unusual to find the serama in the palace when the hens are all free ranging. And now that Vera is without her chicks, integrating has once again become a real possibility. Why would I bother, you ask? Well, my serama girls are tiny and silkied. If we get another harsh winter I'm not entirely sure they'd be ok in their garage hutch. If I had a few more, they could huddle together and produce more heat. However, I've decided to stick to my two serama girls for now. The hutch really isn't big enough to house more ladies at this time, and my garden isn't big enough to take another palace type set up. So, it's a case of expecting the serama to spend some of the winter in the downstairs loo perched on the radiator (which would be rather off putting, apparently), or try and get them pally with the pekins. A pekin is basically a high tog duvet on legs. Despite temperatures getting down to -14c last December, my pekin girls were toasty warm.
So, I was cunning. I tempted the entire flock with some cleaned wheat, and threw it in to the palace run. The pekins waddled in and began scoffing. The serama road runnered in behind them. And then I closed the door. As the bolt shot in to place, Betsy and Vera stood upright, looked at each other, and then looked back at the closed door. Chickens don't have obvious Adams apples, but if they did I imagine I'd have seen a deep swallow in a 'Oh, crap' manner.
The pekins were too busy eating to bother with the tiny trespassers, so with characteristic stealth Betsy and Vera gingerly picked their way through the chowing hens, and then hot footed it up the ramp in to the coop. I hovered anxiously in the garden, half heartedly pruning things and weeding. About five minutes after the micro chickens had hidden inside, Hilda began ascending the ramp in to the dark house. Gulp.
Initially, there was no reaction. Perhaps she didn't see them. I have no idea whether chickens have decent night vision. However, something alerted her to the intruders and she began screeching her head off. I peeked in to the coop and saw that Vera was perched on the edge of the preferred nest box. Betsy was actually in the preferred nest box. Hilda was apoplectic, and took to shrieking her displeasure in between tearing up the newspaper floor covering.
The other hens took the bare minimum of notice at the increasingly hysterical Hilda. The serama seemed unbothered by the kerfuffle. I retreated slightly, wondering if chickenny vengeance would soon be wrought. I heard the unmistakable thump of a pekin advancing. At the last minute, the pitter patter of a serama reached my ears, and I breathed a sigh of relief. They had seen sense, and moved. A quick peek inside revealed that Betsy had seen sense. Vera was still perched on the nest box edge, and was almost eye to eye with the fluffed up, growling Hilda. The tiny hen was making herself as tall as possible and attempting to intimidate the much larger chicken. Vera has small man syndrome.
Just as I expected Hilda to eat Vera, both hens seemed to back down. Hilda stepped back uncertainly, and Vera attempted a casual stroll away from the nest box entrance. She joined Betsy on the perching block, and Hilda clambered in to the nest with her legs crossed. Peace reigned again. This seemed significant, so I left them all to it. I even left the serama in the palace while I popped out for an hour. They occasionally made forays in to the run, and were chased about a bit in a half hearted way. I seriously considered leaving them in there overnight. The only reason I didn't, was because at this time of year I have to close the coop door in order to prevent a 4am dawn chorus. I didn't fancy the teeny chooks' chances if closed up with bored, hungry pekins. So they went back to their hutch last night to sleep.
Eventually, I'm going to have to bite the bullet.
It's not unusual to find the serama in the palace when the hens are all free ranging. And now that Vera is without her chicks, integrating has once again become a real possibility. Why would I bother, you ask? Well, my serama girls are tiny and silkied. If we get another harsh winter I'm not entirely sure they'd be ok in their garage hutch. If I had a few more, they could huddle together and produce more heat. However, I've decided to stick to my two serama girls for now. The hutch really isn't big enough to house more ladies at this time, and my garden isn't big enough to take another palace type set up. So, it's a case of expecting the serama to spend some of the winter in the downstairs loo perched on the radiator (which would be rather off putting, apparently), or try and get them pally with the pekins. A pekin is basically a high tog duvet on legs. Despite temperatures getting down to -14c last December, my pekin girls were toasty warm.
So, I was cunning. I tempted the entire flock with some cleaned wheat, and threw it in to the palace run. The pekins waddled in and began scoffing. The serama road runnered in behind them. And then I closed the door. As the bolt shot in to place, Betsy and Vera stood upright, looked at each other, and then looked back at the closed door. Chickens don't have obvious Adams apples, but if they did I imagine I'd have seen a deep swallow in a 'Oh, crap' manner.
The pekins were too busy eating to bother with the tiny trespassers, so with characteristic stealth Betsy and Vera gingerly picked their way through the chowing hens, and then hot footed it up the ramp in to the coop. I hovered anxiously in the garden, half heartedly pruning things and weeding. About five minutes after the micro chickens had hidden inside, Hilda began ascending the ramp in to the dark house. Gulp.
Initially, there was no reaction. Perhaps she didn't see them. I have no idea whether chickens have decent night vision. However, something alerted her to the intruders and she began screeching her head off. I peeked in to the coop and saw that Vera was perched on the edge of the preferred nest box. Betsy was actually in the preferred nest box. Hilda was apoplectic, and took to shrieking her displeasure in between tearing up the newspaper floor covering.
The other hens took the bare minimum of notice at the increasingly hysterical Hilda. The serama seemed unbothered by the kerfuffle. I retreated slightly, wondering if chickenny vengeance would soon be wrought. I heard the unmistakable thump of a pekin advancing. At the last minute, the pitter patter of a serama reached my ears, and I breathed a sigh of relief. They had seen sense, and moved. A quick peek inside revealed that Betsy had seen sense. Vera was still perched on the nest box edge, and was almost eye to eye with the fluffed up, growling Hilda. The tiny hen was making herself as tall as possible and attempting to intimidate the much larger chicken. Vera has small man syndrome.
Just as I expected Hilda to eat Vera, both hens seemed to back down. Hilda stepped back uncertainly, and Vera attempted a casual stroll away from the nest box entrance. She joined Betsy on the perching block, and Hilda clambered in to the nest with her legs crossed. Peace reigned again. This seemed significant, so I left them all to it. I even left the serama in the palace while I popped out for an hour. They occasionally made forays in to the run, and were chased about a bit in a half hearted way. I seriously considered leaving them in there overnight. The only reason I didn't, was because at this time of year I have to close the coop door in order to prevent a 4am dawn chorus. I didn't fancy the teeny chooks' chances if closed up with bored, hungry pekins. So they went back to their hutch last night to sleep.
Eventually, I'm going to have to bite the bullet.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Strawberry Fields...Are Nasty
While rootling through the fridge yesterday I discovered half a punnet of strawberries. They were just at the point of going soft, so there was no way the children could be tricked in to eating them. I usually give the hens the tops as a treat, but with a dozen fruits going to waste I thought I'd spoil them. Feeling very generous, I gave each hen her own strawberry to eat, including the serama. Oh, what a mistake.
Chickens love most fruit, and they eagerly devoured them. There was so much strawberry juice flying about, it began to look like a massacre. As several fruit-crazed hens dashed past the kitchen door, their faces splattered with red and specks of strawberry flesh clinging to their feathers, it was all a bit 'Chicken Apocolypse'. The determinedly broody Hilda looked the most sinister, as her entire head had become a delicate shade of pink. After several piranha-like minutes, things settled down and I pretty much forgot about the treat.
So when I went out the following morning to open up the Palace, I was unprepared for the sheer horror of the strawberry scented poo lake under the perching block. Good Lord, never has a substance more heinous been created by a still living beast. The hens flapped and jumped from the perches to the pop hole, eager to escape in to fresh air. They sat in the run, staring at me with haunted eyes, seemingly unable to believe that they had produced something so noxious. Trust me, no one wants to deal with fruit induced chicken squits at eight o'clock in the morning. Not even this Madchickenlady.
I retreated to regroup my senses and work out what to do next. Naturally, my first concern was for that of the birds' welfare. However, on inspection I found that they all seemed well and remarkably slick-free. I imagine that the explosion was so violent that it didn't even get a chance to cling to any feathers. As a precaution, they all got a bum wash regardless. This wasn't greeted with any enthusiasm, and Mabel was particularly aggrieved. Considering that this was her second bath in a month, perhaps she had the right to squawk indignantly throughout. Once the hens were dealt with, I braced myself to return to the scene of the crime.
I considered my options. Carefully, I rolled the newspaper carpet towards the door. The poo lake rolled towards me in a wave. I decided that rolling was a bad idea. After some thought, I used most of my newspaper supply to soak up as much of the catastrophe as possible, pushed the whole lot in to a bin liner and then threw buckets of water and disinfectant in to the coop until my nostril hairs stopped burning. Those seven strawberries cost me an hour of hard, stinky labour. The girls watched me from the border, where they considerately jumped up occasionally to chew on my roses.
Eventually, the job was done. There was still a vague stench of strawberries in the air, but the worst of the biohazard had been tackled. With a resigned sigh, I trudged towards the garage, fully expecting to have to hose out the serama hutches and parakeet cage. I found Betsy and Smudge contentedly eating breakfast. There were a few loose droppings, but nothing like the horror in the Palace. I had, thankfully, only given Vera and the chicks a tiny piece of strawberry between them, and their hutch was therefore clean. From this, I can only conclude that pekins, while bigger and definitely greedier, have a more delicate stomach than the allegedly fragile serama. Regardless, strawberries are off the menu for the forseeable future.
I may need counselling.
Chickens love most fruit, and they eagerly devoured them. There was so much strawberry juice flying about, it began to look like a massacre. As several fruit-crazed hens dashed past the kitchen door, their faces splattered with red and specks of strawberry flesh clinging to their feathers, it was all a bit 'Chicken Apocolypse'. The determinedly broody Hilda looked the most sinister, as her entire head had become a delicate shade of pink. After several piranha-like minutes, things settled down and I pretty much forgot about the treat.
So when I went out the following morning to open up the Palace, I was unprepared for the sheer horror of the strawberry scented poo lake under the perching block. Good Lord, never has a substance more heinous been created by a still living beast. The hens flapped and jumped from the perches to the pop hole, eager to escape in to fresh air. They sat in the run, staring at me with haunted eyes, seemingly unable to believe that they had produced something so noxious. Trust me, no one wants to deal with fruit induced chicken squits at eight o'clock in the morning. Not even this Madchickenlady.
I retreated to regroup my senses and work out what to do next. Naturally, my first concern was for that of the birds' welfare. However, on inspection I found that they all seemed well and remarkably slick-free. I imagine that the explosion was so violent that it didn't even get a chance to cling to any feathers. As a precaution, they all got a bum wash regardless. This wasn't greeted with any enthusiasm, and Mabel was particularly aggrieved. Considering that this was her second bath in a month, perhaps she had the right to squawk indignantly throughout. Once the hens were dealt with, I braced myself to return to the scene of the crime.
I considered my options. Carefully, I rolled the newspaper carpet towards the door. The poo lake rolled towards me in a wave. I decided that rolling was a bad idea. After some thought, I used most of my newspaper supply to soak up as much of the catastrophe as possible, pushed the whole lot in to a bin liner and then threw buckets of water and disinfectant in to the coop until my nostril hairs stopped burning. Those seven strawberries cost me an hour of hard, stinky labour. The girls watched me from the border, where they considerately jumped up occasionally to chew on my roses.
Eventually, the job was done. There was still a vague stench of strawberries in the air, but the worst of the biohazard had been tackled. With a resigned sigh, I trudged towards the garage, fully expecting to have to hose out the serama hutches and parakeet cage. I found Betsy and Smudge contentedly eating breakfast. There were a few loose droppings, but nothing like the horror in the Palace. I had, thankfully, only given Vera and the chicks a tiny piece of strawberry between them, and their hutch was therefore clean. From this, I can only conclude that pekins, while bigger and definitely greedier, have a more delicate stomach than the allegedly fragile serama. Regardless, strawberries are off the menu for the forseeable future.
I may need counselling.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Here Comes The Sun
The sun is shining, the weather is sweet. If you're a serama, its time to lay about on the lawn looking untidy.
Betsy catching some rays.
Smudge cautiously approaching me with the camera.
Vera and Hoppy. I need a new name for this chick.
Vera, Hoppy and the newly named Silvio. If you look carefully, you can see the difference between the month old babies in this pic. Silvio is definitely a boy, and I'm hoping that Hoppy isn't a late developer.
Amusing 'chick running' shot.
Vera makes sure that Betsy knows the score. She is getting less protective of the chicks, and to be fair the other two hens show little to no interest in the fluffballs.
Smudge. I think that once her headgear grows in, she'll look less gamey.
A running Smudge. She tends to roadrunner everywhere at the moment. The others aren't chasing her much, but I think she just likes running.
Vera tries to catch a few minutes of sun worship, while Hoppy uses her as a climbing frame.
Smudge de-mossing the patio. And making herself a rather fetching butterfly effect picture.
I imagine that this is Vera asking if Betsy will mind the kids for a bit, and Betsy is basically saying no.
I would have got pics of the pekins, but they rather sensibly had retired to the shade of the Palace. Even the possibility of chasing the micro chooks wasn't enough to tempt them forth. Hilda has gone in to the broody zone again, so had an appointment with a bucket this morning. She seems undeterred, but soggy.
It's one of those lovely days where I can't imagine not keeping hens.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Garden Timeshare
Right now, I have several poultry factions to manage. I have the pekin hordes in the Palace, Vera and the chicks, Betsy, and the new girl, Smudge. Letting them all out together is out of the question. My pekin ladies are most put out at the arrival of more micro chickens, and are unlikely to roll out the welcome mat if given opportunity to get within duffing distance. Betsy is trying to be friends with her pal Vera, but Vera's mothering instinct is strong and she's extremely defensive of her young. Throw the new pullet in to the mix, and I expect things would get ugly very quickly. So, I am juggling garden time.
The pekins get to free range in the morning. They rampage about the place, digging up my plants and attempting to gain access to the youngest's birthday present, an 8ft trampoline. So far the enclosure has baffled them, but any day now I expect to find Maeve sunbathing in the middle of it. She watches the children bouncing, and I see the wheels in her tiny chicken brain squeaking around. Some time around lunchtime, I entice them back to the Palace grounds with a treat.
Once they are safely locked away, I free Betsy and Smudge. Serama integration is nothing like as fearsome as Pekin integration. They have postured at each other a fair bit, and there's the occasional feather pull, but they seem to forget that they're supposed to be fighting for their position in the pecking order and end up mooching about the garden together or sunbathing. After several peaceful and companionable minutes, one or the other remembers they're supposed to be fighting to the death. But it's all very half-hearted, and I'm quietly hopeful that they'll be able to live together within the week. At the moment, they are still housed seperately at night.
While the micro chooks get to know each other, I put Vera and her babies in the run. They are now four weeks old, and still keeping schtum about their possible gender. They bumble about the run, eating things and chasing each other while Vera sunbathes. She occasionally squawks at them as if correcting some undesirable behaviour, but on the whole she lets them get on with it. Vera and I have obviously read the same parenting books. After a few hours, I return Betsy and Smudge to their secure units, and I allow Vera to free range with Hoppy and Sylvie. The chicks are getting very curious now, and I have to stay out to watch over them. It's amazing the amount of trouble a tiny chook can get in to. I have so far had to rescue the chicks from a lavendar bush, a tennis racket, a stray sock and a shallow puddle. I will be incredibly glad when they reach a less labour intensive phase of development. Vera tends to just squawk at them a bit, show them food, and then leg it to the dust bath. She has been an exceptional broody, but I think her patience is beginning to wane.
When my nerves have had enough, the serama family are returned to the run, and Betsy and Smudge released again. Smudge and Vera spend some time attempting to duff each other up through the weld mesh of the run, which seems pointless to me but they seem to be enjoying themselves. Hoppy and Sylvie watch this with interest but no apparent alarm, which makes me wonder if it's a training exercise. Eventually, Vera gets bored of butting her head against the bars, and assumes the position. A sunbathing serama is an amusing sight. One skinny yellow leg is always pointing skywards. If the sun is out, they all seem to congregate together, one leg aloft. It's like a mini forest of twiglets.
Now, for a bit of self promotion. If you've come to this blog as a new keeper, or you're a more experienced poultry person, I would heartily recommend the Poultrykeeper site. There is loads of information about common poultry issues, advice about ailments and even a monthly 'What to do this month' bit by yours truly. It's definitely worth a look.
Now, back to micro-managing a garden which has to hold 7 pekins, 5 serama, a trampoline and my sanity.
The pekins get to free range in the morning. They rampage about the place, digging up my plants and attempting to gain access to the youngest's birthday present, an 8ft trampoline. So far the enclosure has baffled them, but any day now I expect to find Maeve sunbathing in the middle of it. She watches the children bouncing, and I see the wheels in her tiny chicken brain squeaking around. Some time around lunchtime, I entice them back to the Palace grounds with a treat.
Once they are safely locked away, I free Betsy and Smudge. Serama integration is nothing like as fearsome as Pekin integration. They have postured at each other a fair bit, and there's the occasional feather pull, but they seem to forget that they're supposed to be fighting for their position in the pecking order and end up mooching about the garden together or sunbathing. After several peaceful and companionable minutes, one or the other remembers they're supposed to be fighting to the death. But it's all very half-hearted, and I'm quietly hopeful that they'll be able to live together within the week. At the moment, they are still housed seperately at night.
While the micro chooks get to know each other, I put Vera and her babies in the run. They are now four weeks old, and still keeping schtum about their possible gender. They bumble about the run, eating things and chasing each other while Vera sunbathes. She occasionally squawks at them as if correcting some undesirable behaviour, but on the whole she lets them get on with it. Vera and I have obviously read the same parenting books. After a few hours, I return Betsy and Smudge to their secure units, and I allow Vera to free range with Hoppy and Sylvie. The chicks are getting very curious now, and I have to stay out to watch over them. It's amazing the amount of trouble a tiny chook can get in to. I have so far had to rescue the chicks from a lavendar bush, a tennis racket, a stray sock and a shallow puddle. I will be incredibly glad when they reach a less labour intensive phase of development. Vera tends to just squawk at them a bit, show them food, and then leg it to the dust bath. She has been an exceptional broody, but I think her patience is beginning to wane.
When my nerves have had enough, the serama family are returned to the run, and Betsy and Smudge released again. Smudge and Vera spend some time attempting to duff each other up through the weld mesh of the run, which seems pointless to me but they seem to be enjoying themselves. Hoppy and Sylvie watch this with interest but no apparent alarm, which makes me wonder if it's a training exercise. Eventually, Vera gets bored of butting her head against the bars, and assumes the position. A sunbathing serama is an amusing sight. One skinny yellow leg is always pointing skywards. If the sun is out, they all seem to congregate together, one leg aloft. It's like a mini forest of twiglets.
Now, for a bit of self promotion. If you've come to this blog as a new keeper, or you're a more experienced poultry person, I would heartily recommend the Poultrykeeper site. There is loads of information about common poultry issues, advice about ailments and even a monthly 'What to do this month' bit by yours truly. It's definitely worth a look.
Now, back to micro-managing a garden which has to hold 7 pekins, 5 serama, a trampoline and my sanity.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Well, Betsy Was Lonely, So......
It was my duty, really, to get her a pal. This little lady is a mottled, straight feathered Serama. And her new name is Smudge. On first sight, the ever tolerant husband thought she resembled a dairy cow, so we did toy with the idea of calling her Daisy, or Ermintrude. But ultimately, to me, she looks like a Smudge. So Smudge it is. She's approximately four months old, probably rubbish type, but a sweet little thing. Well, I thought so. Betsy took one look at the newcomer and leapt on her back in a frenzy of talons and feather pulling. Thankfully, Smudge retaliated in kind. After a brief skirmish, the two micro chickens circled each other warily and kept a respectful distance. I'm hoping that given time they will be firm friends.
Smudge the incredible one legged chicken.
She is refusing to pose at the moment, but I'm hoping that she'll settle in quickly and then I can get some better pictures.
As Betsy shows, after settling in Serama are generally nosey and friendly.
The pekins look on the new arrival with an air of resignation. No doubt they will give Smudge the 'chase them 'til they're sick' initiation as soon as allowed.
Meanwhile, the serama chicks are now four weeks old. I'm no nearer to working out which flavour they are, and have a sneaking suspicion they'll keep me guessing for a while yet. Some strains mature at a slower rate than others, and I think I might have a strain that matures at about the same rate as glaciers inch their way down the mountain side. No matter, they're a joy.
A camera shy Hoppy peers out from under Vera while a more confident Sylvie gives me The Look.
Hmmm, Sylvie, are you a boy?
This week, I will mostly be juggling free range time. I might need a spreadsheet.
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Two Weeks Old. And Resembling Penguins
When I last posted, I was fretting about eyes and possible illness. I spent an uncomfortable, anxious night worrying that I'd find very poorly serama babies in the morning. Naturally, when I staggered out to the garage shortly after dawn I found two bouncy, wide eyed chicks stuffing their chops with chick crumb. I have come to the conclusion that they are masters of emotional manipulation, and will probably out live me. Anyway, now that they are two weeks old I thought I should share with you some up to date pics.
Vera supervises breakfast.
Hoppy and Sylvie have mastered the drinker, but it took a while. They spent most of their first week sitting in it.
Sylvie showing some nice serama posing.
Hoppy, not showing some nice serama posing.
If you look closely here, you can see Hoppy's wonky toes. Sylvie is obviously flaunting his perfect tootsie.
Now that their wing feathers are growing in, I think they look more like baby penguins than anything else. And now their wing feathers are growing in, they can fly. They are incredibly light and amazingly speedy. It's like being dive bombed by dust.
The adventure continues.
Friday, 6 May 2011
Kamikaze Chicks
Being as though serama chicks are notoriously difficult to hatch, I am delighted to have two little bundles of fluff zooming about the hutch with Vera. However, I put so much effort, worry and time in to getting them to actually hatch,, that I deliberately ignored how difficult serama are to rear. There is no ignoring it now.
Vera is proving to be an exceptional mother. She calls them over to eat and drink, she sits to keep them warm at a moments notice, and she is wonderfully tolerant of me handling them. Really, I couldn't ask for more. However, there are some things that she can't do. Serama chicks suffer from a balance problem. They fall on to their backs, and can't get back up. Why this is is a bit of a mystery, but it is speculated that a short back coupled with tiny non-feathered wings doesn't help. Several times I have found one of them laying on their back in the chick crumb, legs cycling like mad and cheeping their hearts out. Vera seems unable to right them, but does take up a loud shrieking which alerts me to the problem. I think she's calling the chick rather than me, but it is immensely helpful. I was initially concerned that I would lose one through the night to this phenomenon, but like all good mothers Vera insists on an early bedtime for her young. She trundles off to the nest box at half six and they stay under her wings until breakfast. Between us, we're keeping them upright.
Another thing to be aware of with serama is their propensity to have pasted vents. For some reason, a lot of serama babies suffer from this problem. I noticed that Hoppy had poo stuck to his bum at 3 days old, and pulled it off. This morning, both Hoppy and the currently named Sylvie (because it seems a bit silvery in colour. Original, me) both were sporting a fetching berry of poo. Because I have done my reserach, I knew that the best thing to do in this instance was to steel myself and just rip it off. Of course, you can gently bathe the mess away, but as this is likely to be a recurring problem with these chicks a lot of breeders prefer the bald bum approach. It prevents the problem occurring again, and is over in a second. Still, I winced at the thought of giving such tiny chicks what amounts to a bikini wax. With a deep breath, I quickly tugged the blockage from Hoppy's derriere. He squeaked, understandably, and Vera pecked my finger in retaliation. Fair enough really. He is not hurt, though, just less fluffy and more exposed. Hopefully now I won't have to find him at death's door because his vent has been pasted shut. Sylvie proved a trickier customer, so I am keeping an eye on her today. I'm not convinced that her vent is actually blocked, more that her bum feathers are a bit dirty. She may get herself a trip to the bidet before the day is out, but eventually I suspect she will also be bald of bum. To steal a serama breeders quote: 'A bald arse is a clean arse'.
They appear to be developing well, but left to their own devices I can see why they have the reputation of being difficult to have success with. They are certainly not a beginners breed. However, with a large dose of luck and some intense hands on rearing, I am hoping to have at least one new flock member.
Now, back to ensuring that no-one drowns themselves/eats the bedding/blocks up their vent/gets stuck in an impossibly small space.
Vera is proving to be an exceptional mother. She calls them over to eat and drink, she sits to keep them warm at a moments notice, and she is wonderfully tolerant of me handling them. Really, I couldn't ask for more. However, there are some things that she can't do. Serama chicks suffer from a balance problem. They fall on to their backs, and can't get back up. Why this is is a bit of a mystery, but it is speculated that a short back coupled with tiny non-feathered wings doesn't help. Several times I have found one of them laying on their back in the chick crumb, legs cycling like mad and cheeping their hearts out. Vera seems unable to right them, but does take up a loud shrieking which alerts me to the problem. I think she's calling the chick rather than me, but it is immensely helpful. I was initially concerned that I would lose one through the night to this phenomenon, but like all good mothers Vera insists on an early bedtime for her young. She trundles off to the nest box at half six and they stay under her wings until breakfast. Between us, we're keeping them upright.
Another thing to be aware of with serama is their propensity to have pasted vents. For some reason, a lot of serama babies suffer from this problem. I noticed that Hoppy had poo stuck to his bum at 3 days old, and pulled it off. This morning, both Hoppy and the currently named Sylvie (because it seems a bit silvery in colour. Original, me) both were sporting a fetching berry of poo. Because I have done my reserach, I knew that the best thing to do in this instance was to steel myself and just rip it off. Of course, you can gently bathe the mess away, but as this is likely to be a recurring problem with these chicks a lot of breeders prefer the bald bum approach. It prevents the problem occurring again, and is over in a second. Still, I winced at the thought of giving such tiny chicks what amounts to a bikini wax. With a deep breath, I quickly tugged the blockage from Hoppy's derriere. He squeaked, understandably, and Vera pecked my finger in retaliation. Fair enough really. He is not hurt, though, just less fluffy and more exposed. Hopefully now I won't have to find him at death's door because his vent has been pasted shut. Sylvie proved a trickier customer, so I am keeping an eye on her today. I'm not convinced that her vent is actually blocked, more that her bum feathers are a bit dirty. She may get herself a trip to the bidet before the day is out, but eventually I suspect she will also be bald of bum. To steal a serama breeders quote: 'A bald arse is a clean arse'.
They appear to be developing well, but left to their own devices I can see why they have the reputation of being difficult to have success with. They are certainly not a beginners breed. However, with a large dose of luck and some intense hands on rearing, I am hoping to have at least one new flock member.
Now, back to ensuring that no-one drowns themselves/eats the bedding/blocks up their vent/gets stuck in an impossibly small space.
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Gratuitous Chick Pics
Being as though I have spent all day watching the new additions, I thought I'd force lots of pictures on you lot too. Like a new mother brandishing albums full of junior being sick, here I come. And there is no escape. Mwahahahahaha!
Here we have Hoppy, 3 days old, and back in his shoe to see if we can straighten that middle banana toe a bit more.
This is the new chick, as yet un-named even temporarily, a mere 16 hours post-hatch.
Vera shows Hoppy how to eat: 'You open your face. Like this'.
Hoppy is a quick learner.
Hoppy attempts the serama pose, but looks a bit odd without any impressive feathers.
Although he is wearing very fetching 'Adam Ant' style make-up.
Holding claws.
I like to think of this look as 'Come any closer to my offspring, human, and you'll lose something fleshy'.
Handsome little devil, isn't he?
Catching up on the rugby scores.
It's the amazing six-legged chicken!
Well, chick 2 keeping warm anyway.
Hello!
I have lots more. Run. Run away while you still can!
Sunday, 1 May 2011
First Chick - First Pics
While obsessively watching Vera and her new chick, I noticed that the little micro chook had mixed up toes. It's outer toe crossed under the foot, so it couldn't walk properly. In fact, it was walking on the side of it's foot. So I googled, consulted some poultry peep friends of mine, and fitted it with a tiny shoe. Well, when I say shoe, I mean a plaster. The ever tolerant husband assisted by holding the plaster still, while I placed the chick's toes straight on it. Then we simply folded the plaster over the top, holding the toes in the correct position. The chick was unimpressed with this whole treatment, and cheeped it's tiny head off the whole time. Vera watched us carefully, but remained calm and once her little charge was returned to her, happily stashed it back under her wing. It seems that Vera has lost her appetite for small fuzzies.
Notice how I am saying 'it' in a feeble attempt not to get attached.
Who am I kidding.
Chick 1, sporting this seasons must have eyeliner.
If you look carefully, you can see that it's right foot is curled. The outer toe is not visible, but was curled under the foot and resting near the inner toe. By the time the shoe was fitted, the poor thing was desperate to get back to Vera so there is no comedy 'giant plaster shoe' pic.
Notice how I am saying 'it' in a feeble attempt not to get attached.
Who am I kidding.
Day 22 - First Chick!
So, here it is. The moment of hatching, captured by the ever tolerant husband:
I just hope that those are pecks of love, not contemplating a snack.
I just hope that those are pecks of love, not contemplating a snack.
Day 22 - Pipping
So, as of Vera's toilet break mere minutes ago, this is the state of play:
She returned to the nest after pooing, drinking a gallon and scoffing a cropful of corn.
She returned to the nest after pooing, drinking a gallon and scoffing a cropful of corn.
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Day 21
Yep, today should be hatch day. Yet there is nothing to report. Despite knowing that serama are hard to hatch, I confess to feeling a little crestfallen. As I watch Vera determinedly clamped to her five eggs, I can only wish that at least one of them makes her a chicken mama. She has been an excellent broody, and it seems such a shame that after all of her diligent care she ends up chick-less. If it was in my power, I would rush out and get her some day old serama chicks to nurture. Unfortunately, getting hold of serama chicks is a bit like getting hold of moon beams. So, I continue to sit at the nest side, straining my ears and hoping against hope that I'll hear a cheep, or a crack, or something.
It's quite windy today, so the rest of the flock are a bit put out. They dislike being blown up the garden, and it doesn't make sunbathing pleasant. Betsy is refusing to leave the garage, as anything more than a slight breeze tends to toss the serama about at whim.
If anything happens, I'll let you know.
It's quite windy today, so the rest of the flock are a bit put out. They dislike being blown up the garden, and it doesn't make sunbathing pleasant. Betsy is refusing to leave the garage, as anything more than a slight breeze tends to toss the serama about at whim.
If anything happens, I'll let you know.
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