Murder

A slight drizzle this morning sent some of the hen clan into the workshop.  Not put off by power tools or petrol they stay in the dry and inspect for any lonesome insect or dropped dog food pellet.  They're a big fan of the dried dog food.  No matter what I do to move them away they always come back.  It can't be good for them.  And I don't want that passed through the food chain into my eggs thanks very much.  But for now they're just interested in staying warm and dry.  If I left the back door open I would easily find a few sitting around the fire amongst the collection of assorted indoor pets casually arranged around the living room.  If there is ever proof of reincarnation, I'll plead right now not to come back in my next life as a rooster.  They get a rough deal.  They never get a day off and are frequently dispersed for just being a rooster.  We have many as we're not the type to murder anyone on our farm so as a result you can hear the sound of crowing at just about every hour of the day and night.  Quite ok if you don't live cheek by jowl next to your neighbours.  And there lies the problem.  People dispatch roosters because they make noise.  Jeez, if that's all they do!!  A neighbouring property did exactly that recently only to leave his hens wandering around with no one to protect them, point out food and set boundaries for other predators and roosters.  As a result no doubt, and exactly what has happened before, one of our maturing gentlemen will wander over one moonlit night and serenade and woo and before long they'll have a rooster.  Although, if the rumours persist that it's a bit of a chook Midsomer Murders next door, he might encourage his girls to move in here.  But I just don't need any more, truly.  We're all full here.

Cock a Doodle Don't

We're in need of some family planning on our farm.  We don't cull anybody and we don't eat anybody either so if all is left to one's own natural instincts, we get more chickens than we can handle.  The cacophony at the moment around 5am is concerning.  Every rooster trying to out crow the other leaves us wide awake wondering why the most popular spot appears to be under our bedroom window.  I've been attempting to cease the broody hen situation by turfing Patsy out of the nesting box on a daily basis.  Apart from the fact it must be at least 45 degrees in there (it's tin and only insulated with spider webs), every afternoon I pick her up and toss her into the chook yard to eat and drink.  Which she does and then returns the next day.  And more often than not there is not a single egg under her.  I'm at a loss as to why she'd persist with this.  Hens being on some occasions more smarter than we think, then hide a pile of eggs under a tree or shrub somewhere only to emerge about 4 weeks later with a fluffy dozen like the ones in this picture.  And as cute as they are, when they start to crow, not so cute.  The learning to crow stage is pretty funny though.  Some will get up to pitch but fail to hold key.  We've got one out there at the moment that sounds like someone has pulled the plug on him half way.  A bit like the sound of a record player being turned off at the power mid way through the tune (if you recall such a thing).  So the next person that talks about the peaceful life of country living, I will understand - has never actually lived there.

When you're a Jet

This is Harold.  He's one of the previous batch of chicks born and bred on our property.  We know he's a he because he acts like one, and the crowing was a bit of a give away.  Harold is a loner.  He won't assimilate with the rest of the chicken family.  He's broken away into his own gang and recruited a couple of the younger hens into his posse.  He's always in trouble and is constantly chased by Cyril our team leader rooster who pulls him by his feathers but cannot get him to join the group.  Cyril storms off spitting white down all the way back to the hen house.  We attempted to move Harold on before we even knew he was a Harold.  He was destined to move with three other chicks to a family nearby whose kids were excited about their new pets.  Harold busted out and took off before we could get him on the bus.  He trusts no one since that day.  He's cuts a lonely figure in the yard, living by his own rules.  If I found cigarette buts behind the fishing shed I'd suspect Harold.  His gang hang around as opposed to the energetic foraging done by the others.  They hang out in trees and look down on the others.  Their request for a pool table has been denied.  I'm not sure about Harold's future if the rumbles continue.  I've seen the likes of Harold's along the edge of highways.  They ignore the rattle and thunder of the early morning traffic as if they've turned their backs on civilisation.  They're chicken outlaws.  Prone to holding up wagon trains I suspect.  We can only hope that one day he'll grow up and turn out to be fine upstanding rooster as the others are.  Failing that we'll have a chicken stomping around our property in a leather jacket.