Day 56.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

We went on a Great Gizzard Gravel Gather today. It was fun. Jack led us all the way down the drive, past the mountain and down to the small patch of gravel at the end, very near to the death strip that the people call a ‘road’ (we did NOT cross it). We all staggered back with full gizzards. One of the Boys did this crazy body-jerk thing, which made the gravel in his gizzard rumble like distant thunder. An enchanting party trick to be sure.

Gravel has uses other than party tricks though. Gizzards are naturally rough and this helps to grind up our food. But add a bit of gravel and the whole process is sped up – plus the added ground-up rocks help the shells of our eggs be super strong. I wonder if Steve appreciated THAT when she stomped on her eggs?

Day 55.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

Sure enough, The Old Ones left yesterday and today the feed hopper is no longer full. Not good! Still, it’s nice to see our people back.

Day 54.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Disrespectful members of the flock: the whole bloody lot of them!

I sure love being a mother and a grandmother, which is just as well as sometimes you are treated with such utter disrespect that it can really stretch that love.

The Old Ones called us to the treat bowl and we all came running but we were way down the hill and I was a bit slow getting back up (just out of breath, not old). Well, pluck my feathers if I didn’t arrive at the treat bowl (last) to find it completely EMPTY. The ungrateful, disrespectful, good-for-nothing bastards had eaten everything! No one would look me in the eye as they obviously realised how rude they’d all been. It made me sad and put me in a real funk until The Old One tracked me down later and hand-fed me a special treat – he had obviously appreciated how rude they’d all been and treated me with the respect I deserve.

Day 53.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full.

This place where we live (Pecka Pecka) is rather lovely. It is quite different from where I grew up (Otooky). I was one of nine hens raised in a small pen. Lots of different pens, with lots of different hens, all separated according to breed and colour (quite racist now when I think about it). A nice male person looked after us and made sure we were healthy and well fed but it was a strange existence.

We were born in a hotbox, we had no mother, no freedom, just waiting to be split up and sold off. It didn’t make for good lasting friendships. Still, I’ve really clucked in living here at Pecka Pecka. The Female Person chose me to join the tiny flock she had started. Until I came along she was buying chickens of fashion rather than chickens of substance – colourful, fanciful fowl with ugly hairdos, pathetic laying capabilities and the tendency to drop off the perch and die for no apparent reason other than severe inbreeding. I changed all that though. I was bred for elegance, egg-laying ability and excellent health. I haven’t let her down either (until very recently with a slight drop-off in egg production).

And here at Pecka Pecka I have freedom, friends and stability. I do miss the mother I never had though, and I suppose that is why I love being a grandmother and having young families around me.

Day 52.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Slightly rude cloud formations spotted while on my back in the dust bath: three.

Had a lovely dust bath today. Very cleansing. Very tiring.

Day 51.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full.

I wrote a great cat poem to complement yesterday’s entry. I was obviously dripping with poetry then but had to let it percolate overnight into something truly terrific:

Cats by Ruby
Cats are stealthy
Cats are quick
Cats have habits
That make me sick

Cats are mean
Cats are ferocious
And their attitude towards birds
Is really quite atrocious

(And by birds I mean chickens as well, of course).

Day 50.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Snappy sayings for the day: one, Knowledge = Power.

I hate cats (especially after what happened to Steve’s chick and myself recently). I mean, their people feed them, but still they feel the irresistible need to pounce on and eat anything that moves. It’s disgusting.

I actually have a friend who’s a cat. Well, not a friend really, more of an informer. A sleek little cat, lovely dark-brown fur, she’s cheeky and likes to alarm us but has never actually harmed us (I’m just dripping with poetry at the moment). I chat to her sometimes. Jack thinks I’m mad but Steve and Brian think I’m quite the brave hen. But mainly I’m friendly with her because it gives me insider knowledge of a cat’s one-track (killing) mind. Not that the acquired knowledge did any good the other day but it may save someone’s life in the future.

Day 49.

Blacky's 15th birthday. Photography by Susan Campbell

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: one – caused by fright. Feed hopper: full.

The wicked cat that took Steve’s chick had a go at ME today. It just came out of nowhere like a big tabby nightmare. It leapt on my back and tried to bite my head off. Luckily, in the heat of the moment I remembered a trick told to me by The Ancient One, Blacky, and ran under a low branch to swat the cat off! (She used it to great effect with amorous roosters). It was terribly effective. The whole episode gave me a huge fright and made my legs go all wobbly. I had to go and sit down in the dark, which explains the egg.

Day 48.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: one (just to confuse The Old One). Feed hopper: full. Doubly unlucky bugs: one.

Good day, not much going on though. A bug got stuck in my throat at one stage, would have been a bit of a problem had not Jack chosen that very moment to mate me and the force of him leaping on from behind shot the bug out from my gullet. Just shows that even recreational sex can have a purpose after all.

Managed to eat the bug again too – it was trying to crawl away but being stuck in my throat must have stunned it, as it was an easy, tasty, SLOW target.

Day 47.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Emotional weather: a happy, relaxing day.

The adult people have gone away and left The Little People in the care of The Old Ones. I rather like The Old Ones as they pull the nasty prickly blackberry in the chicken run, give us lots of treats and always, ALWAYS keep the feed hopper full.

The male Old One, as I have mentioned before, is particularly wily at finding nests. They call him The Chicken Whisperer but he actually talks to us in his normal voice so it’s not a terribly accurate description. It’s a real challenge to keep eggs hidden from him. Wattles! He even finds nests WE’VE forgotten about!

Day 46.

Ruby. Oil on canvas by Bev Taylor

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Weird aspirations of small chicks: one.

To cheer up Steve’s lucky (hopefully) last chick I told it the story of when my portrait was painted. I had always known that the Female Person thought I was special and the portrait just confirmed it.

Anyway, one day the Female Person chased me with the camera – I was a bit reluctant to pose as I had just pigged out on pellets so my crop was huge and lopsided. I tried to give her my other side (which is my best anyway) but she kept on trying to position me so that the sun was in my eyes and then I would have to move or blink. She must have got what she wanted though because some time later she showed me this lovely painting of yours truly looking thoughtful and beautiful against a glowing background of golden straw. It was very nice, had great artistic merit and was apparently painted by this country’s premiere poultry painter (what a splendid and fulfilling subject to devote one’s life to). [From the Editor: This portrait is the background image used for this blog.]

Steve’s chick was suitably impressed with the story and seemed relaxed and happy afterwards. It even said something about wanting to be a painter when it grew up!

Day 45.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Poetic thoughts: zero.

The birds were singing their tiny brains out today. It was quite wonderful. Sometimes I wish I could sing and fly but I can’t so it doesn’t pay to dwell on it. What I can do, and they can’t, is lay two hundred and ten eggs a year! (Well, used to). A sparrow once told me she laid a whopping eighteen eggs in three clutches one summer; what a miserly effort.

Oh, and of course I can write wonderful poetry, too. But not today.

Day 44.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Amount of hope in the world: immense.

I’m not sure what Jack said but it worked: Steve is out, she’s smiling (as much as one can with a beak) and the sun is shining on a beautiful mid-spring day. Onwards and upwards my little hen friend.

Day 43.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Emotional weather: a sad day.

I remember when Paula’s and the Boys’ sister was killed. A hawk swooped down and took the dear little week-old chick in an instant and there was nothing we could do except stand around and squawk our heads off. Brian got over the loss of her little chick in time, but she had five others to keep her going.

That’s a really good plan for motherhood, not having only one chick at a time, spreading the risk. The people have a similar principle – “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket,” they say. I can never work out why they have the eggs in a basket in the first place though.

Steve stayed in the nest again today. Jack had a bit of a heart-to-heart with her at one point, but she’s not budging for now.

Day 42.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Weather: a blustery, trying day.

Steve had a rough night last night, as you would expect. She wishes she’d never had chicks and exposed herself to the vulnerability you feel being a mother.

She stayed in the nest the whole day. The only way we got the remaining chick out to scratch was by promising to surround it in a protective circle.

The weather didn’t help and everyone’s nerves were frayed.

Day 41.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: one – caused by shock! Feed hopper: full. Amount of grief in the world: immense.

A CAT has taken one of Steve’s chicks! Steve is DISTRAUGHT. Steve kept on saying she only turned her back for a moment but the chicks were getting “so independent” and “running off a lot”. It appears it was the little rooster who’d taken off to tag along with the Boys. It’s SO hard to get the balance right – you want to keep them under your wing and safe forever, but the day they are born you have to start letting them go. Independence is critical for the development of little chicks but they are so small and so fragile. The poor remaining chick is going to have a hard time growing up independent; ‘only’ chicks are often a bit strange/selfish from being overprotected.

Oh, poor Steve. Oh, Dear Me. Oh, WICKED cat!

Day 40.

 Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: empty.

Bit of a slow day, some nice treats in the treat bowl at one stage – pasta (my favourite), bread, an egg shell (!?) and an unopened lime. What the feathers were we supposed to do with the lime? The Boys kicked it around for a bit in a game they called “Greenball.” Not a very original name but a fun game to watch.

The treat bowl is up by the house and is where the Female Person puts all the people scraps. It’s always worth a wander past to see if anything has been quietly slipped in there, but if there is a real tasty treat on offer the Female Person gives us a call (“Here Chooky, Chooky, Chooky!” – also totally unoriginal) and we all come running. Brightens up a dull day.

Day 39.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: empty (finally), we must be off our food. Number of low notes successfully crowed by the Boys: none – yet.

The Boys’ crowing has certainly improved. They must be practicing in secret somehow as Jack won’t tolerate it openly now. They’ve got rhythm, they’ve got style, but they have no volume, lasting power, or depth. It’s going to be a treat (not for Jack though) when they are all in full voice.

Day 38.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: almost empty now. Pesky flies in the chicken house: a few now, more soon I’m sure.

Look, we tried and we tried hard but it is very difficult to always be thinking and calling for “Matthew! Mark! Luke! John!” Hensforth it is back to being “The Boys” (besides, they do seem to do everything collectively).

Steve’s chicks are growing rapidly. They are well behaved and rather lovely. The one with the dark stripe is also fond of following the Boys around – a rooster in the making, methinks.

Day 37.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: still a smidgen left. Total amount of food in the treat bowl: three raisins – pathetic.

Despite the lack of treats from them recently I do like people. They are like relaxing moving garden ornaments. They’re quite fascinating to study as well. They have a pecking order much like ours: male thinks he’s on top but female actually rules the roost. The Little People are way below but are always testing the order. People are also clean, low maintenance, and make lovely soothing sounds. But the best thing is when they run – it’s hilarious. The only annoying habit they have is collecting our eggs. I have no idea what they do with them but I wish they would keep their odd looking pink claws off them. Yet, if you’re ever looking for interesting and worthwhile pets I would highly recommend people.

Day 36.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: still not quite empty. Sneezes sneezed before breakfast: at least seven huge ones from me.

Oh dear, spoke too soon about everyone being in fine feather. I woke up this morning with a feather stuck to my nose. Not mine either. I checked around and Brian was looking rather worse for wear with a pile of feathers under her perch. And once one chicken starts moulting we all start soon after. It’s almost like it’s contagious. Never mind, the winter coat was getting a little warm and itchy.

Day 35.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: not quite empty.

Beautiful day. Good scratching’s were had by all. Everybody is in fine feather, and no visits by the (stupid) ducks. A perfect day! Actually the ducks have been keeping a very low profile lately, which is fine, of course. Usually they only come up if their feed hopper is empty for a while so I guess the female person has been keeping everybody’s feed hoppers pretty full, or more likely pretty empty but not for long.

Day 34.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: quarter full. Naughty tree roots: one.

Another boring day, relieved slightly at one point when Jack (who was strutting around with his beak in the air) tripped and fell. We knew that nothing but his pride was hurt so we had a good laugh at his expense. Mean, perhaps, but humour, after all, is about unfortunate events happening to chickens other than oneself.

Steve’s chicks had a good laugh too but got a severe pecking from Jack and myself for their troubles. Got to keep them in order.

Day 33.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Number of peek-a-boo games played with the chicks: too many to count.

Bit of a boring day today really. We got up, we ate pellets, we scratched all day, we ate more pellets, and we went to bed. Some days are a bit like that. Thank goodness for the chicks – they alleviated some of the boredom for us all.

However, in my busy schedule of nothing to do I did find time to write another terrific poem:

Boring Day by Ruby
It’s a boring day
If I had my way
We’d all be happy and gay
We’d keep the grumbles at bay
With a roll in the hay
And fresh eggs to lay
If I had a say
Come what may
We’d sit in a sunray
And be as happy as a jay.

Fantastic rhyming. It’s hard to sustain great rhymes AND get the rhythm right too. Takes real talent.

Day 32.

The Fabulous Jack. Photographed by F. L. Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: quite warm today – nice.

He may be a meanie by not letting me have another family but I do love Jack. He’s tolerant and calm but very powerful. And handsome! Whew, if I were younger (and not his mother) I’d fall for him in a big way. He’s always been an affectionate boy too, snuggling up to me on the perch at night. I reckon that’s why he was spared and his brothers were ‘Sent Away’. When the female person came in the middle of the night with the dreaded cage his brothers were all sitting (and shitting) on the feed bins, but Jack was snuggled up to me on the perch where all good chickens should be of a night. “Right, he’s the one,” says the female person and I think she meant “the one to take over from Major and look after the hens”. It doesn’t seem right for a mother to play favourites but I think she made an excellent choice. I do miss my other sons though.

Day 31.

Bush eggs: two – Steve is laying again apparently. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

Oh, I get it now; it’s one of those weird, pointless people rhyming things (as opposed to a chicken rhyming poem, which is always brilliant.) ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke, John’ – that’s it, those are the names and the rest was just... fluff. Maybe the female person would have benefitted from Unipeck poetry classes.

Steve wants names for her chicks already but I told her that won’t happen until the people know whether the chicks are going to crow or lay.

Day 30.

Sunset Sam. Photography by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

The Boys’ names are in! It’s so exciting when the people finally come up with a chick’s name; the choices are usually surprisingly good. Anyway: ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Hold, My, Horse, Till, I, Get, On’ are the names bestowed on the Boys. (A bit weird really considering there are only four Boys and what appear to be eleven names).

Talking of rooster names I always liked the one for Blacky's life partner (and brother). He was called Sunset Sam. A blaze of gaudy yellow and orange on his feathers and in his eyes and fire in his heart.  He was called Greedy to begin with but, as The Female Person was very young and not good at choosing names, her parents suggested waiting a while and trying again. The second effort was deemed perfect!

Day 29.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Amount of time spent in the dust bath: lots.

I found a great nest site today but Jack is keeping a close eye on me after our discussions. Will have to remember it though.

Steve was finally let out of the broody box and is having a great time with the chicks. She was tempted to join me in the dust bath but I convinced her that there was no room for her and her vulnerable chicks. Not strictly true but having the dust bath all to myself allowed me to indulge my loopy side and get totally on my back, legs in the air, dust flying – wonderful.

Day 28.

Bush eggs: zero. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full.

Well, Jack said no chicks but he didn’t say no sitting! I love sitting. There is something wonderful about hunkering down in a private spot (preferably with a view) and just sitting. I actually don’t mind if there are no eggs – it’s a lot more comfortable to be honest. Sometimes I make a game of it: sort out where the nest will be in the days before, then slip off early in the morning and sit and wait. First Jack doesn’t notice my absence, then he notices and calls out (I keep quiet of course), then he starts searching (in all the most unlikely places, I might add), then he gets really worried, and that’s when I casually saunter out for a drink. It’s cruel, I know, but it pays to keep the upper wing even if he thinks he’s in charge.

Day 27.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: one – caused by pique. Feed hopper: full. Stupid conversations with roosters in the last day or so: two.

Jack and I had a long talk about having a family last night but I just couldn’t convince him. He said I was too old, there were too many chicks already (he was counting Brian’s as well) and we were too closely related (mother and son, hmmmm not ideal). Too! Too! Too! It was all TOO much! I know he’s right but it doesn’t make it any less upsetting. I cried all night and my beak was horribly puffy in the morning. (Did you know that people cry tears from they eyes mostly and not just their nostrils? Weird, eh?)

Later I asked Jack if the fact that we couldn’t have a family would mean he would stop ‘ticking me off his list’ in the mornings but he said that recreational sex was still necessary for cordial relations between a non-breeding hen and rooster. Sounds like a rooster ruse to me!

Day 26. Mid Spring

Jack doing his Abbey Road impersonation. Acrylic on canvas by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Warm thoughts about chicks: many.

I love having the sound of chicks around again. Makes me long for my own. I must talk to Jack and see what he says. He’s as proud as an erect comb with his new little family.