Day 365. The last entry!

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

Hallelujah! Yes, Steve is with child again! I’m going to be a grandmother again. And so, despite life’s ups and downs, despite deaths, life flourishes and the cycle continues. I think this calls for another poem...

A poem about the cycle of life by Ruby
Life is easier than it seems
Filled with love and joy and dreams.
Chicks start life with great hope
Through life and love they lope.
Start families of their own
Watch chicks until they’re grown.
And with the setting of the sun
Think life was a game well run.
Chicks start the cycle afresh
End and beginning once more mesh.


THE END.


Endnote from F L Campbell

Although Ruby’s Diary is a work of fiction many of the incidents are based on what I have observed in my own flocks over the years. Ruby has quite accurately described 12 months in the flock’s life and I only helped by fleshing out the diary with other stories from flocks past.

Watching chickens; their individual personalities, their inter-flock politics, their interactions with the world around them was a constant source of fascination for me and writing about it helped cement the bond I had with these wonderous animals.

Sadly, during the final editing of this book, a terrible tragedy occurred in Ruby’s flock. A young Husky dog jumped into The Chicken Area. The gate was closed  – but what is a 4 foot fence to a dog that has just escaped its 6 foot fenced dog run? The dog had a morning of fun quietly ‘bothering’ all the chickens and ducks. It looked so damn pleased with its efforts when I caught it some time later. The upshot of the dog attack was that all the tame ducks were dead, Ella was dead, and Ruby...? Where was my wonderful, talented, beautiful Ruby? I went to the pond and saw Jack half submerged in the water – very dead, Ruby was near by. I believe Jack had tried to save her. I rushed Ruby to the vet but she was very badly wounded. Holding her down on the examination table as the vet gave her a lethal injection was one of the saddest things I’ve done.

I thought then that I wouldn’t be able to finish editing and publishing Ruby’s Diary as the sadness would be too great. But I quickly came to realise that I had to finish – as a tribute to all the great chicken personalities written about here.

I also realised that my remaining flock of five traumatised hens (Steve, Brian, Camilla, Buttercup and Sylvie) was directionless, stagnant and stressed without a rooster. I decided for their sake and mine that I needed to inject new blood into the future of the flock. I found three more hens – Laverne, Shirley and Bossy – and a new rooster, Mr. Wonderful – and he truly was. He brought such joy and cohesiveness to the flock once more and these additional chickens, plus the remains of Ruby’s flock, made sure the cycle of life continued.

Camilla and her new family to Mr Wonderful

Day 364.

Bush eggs: three. Nest box eggs: one – mine, mine, MINE! Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

Ha! There’s life in this old hen yet! An Egg. All Mine! No mistaking it! I have made sure to tell everyone – including Grey Gun who thought I was pretty talented AND an indispensable friend. Steve, there’s blood in this bird yet so don’t even think about taking my place!

Actually, talking of Steve, she’s not in the chicken house tonight. Despite her starting to put subtle pressure on me for my number three spot I still hope she’s okay and that nothing bad has happened to her.

Day 363.

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

I can’t believe it. Jack didn’t tick me off his list this morning.

Am I really no good to anyone any more? Not even for fun? Or habit, even?

Day 362.

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

It has been a really hard day. Any time anyone is around Brian makes sure to give me a peck. I’ve never really been anything but number two before and a rooster doesn’t peck a number two hen to enforce the order – he just ‘is’ and we obey. I make sure to stay out of everyone’s way but even that is not really working at the moment because Brian follows me around to keep me in order.

I feel very old and used up.

Day 361. Early Spring again.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full (as if I care).

I can’t believe it. Brian whipped me. I am now number three. Steve is already eyeing me up.
Where will it end?

Day 360.

Bush eggs: three. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Upstarts: Brian!

NO! NO! NEVER! NO! Brian has asked me if I want to step down from the number two spot or fight over it? I asked her what grounds she had for trying to usurp me and she mentioned my “fifty percent less than two eggs this moon cycle egg tally”. I hadn’t really been counting but I’m sure I laid more than one egg this moon!

To think I used to be her friend. Anyway the stroppy cow couldn’t whip me if she tried.

Day 359.

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

I shouldn’t have spoken ill of the dearly deperched. Valerie came to the second-worst end I’ve ever seen (Licorice being the worst). One minute she was standing there saying how she was off to lay one of her “extra special, super-duper BLUE eggs” and the next minute she had no throat. It wasn’t a ferret – not big enough – but the blur that got her was definitely either stoat or weasel shaped. Horrific. Unsettled us terribly to think we had such a quick and ruthless killer in our midst. But The Female Person and The Old One were on to it very promptly and caught the killing culprit (a stoat it turned out to be) within three days. Such a relief, and we’ve never seen another stoat or weasel since (touch shell).

A poem about Valerie by Ruby
Valerie was standing there
Minding her own self.
When along came death
And robbed her of health.

We saw the cause of death
It was a murderous stoat.
Quick as lightening
It ripped out her throat.

Valerie kept on talking
But no sound came out.
Then she keeled over
Like a drunken lay-about.

So no more kitschy blue eggs
From sweet Valerie.
And now we’re all very nervous
Could the next death be me?


Mmmm. I just keep getting better.

Day 358.

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

Four eggs again today. The girls are really doing well for this time of the year; it must be a touch of competitiveness. Not me though, I don’t feel the competitive urge. I used to when I was younger, though Valerie, the Araucana hen, often stole my thunder by laying one of those gimmicky blue eggs of hers. She wasn’t a very inspiring chicken, not much on top and no oil painting (unlike some I could mention), but every flipping time she pushed out one of those blue eggs she thought she was the pinnacle of poultry perfection. Personally I thought they looked rather unhealthy compared with my taupe ones.

Day 357.

Bush eggs: four. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Hen house: happy!

Camilla and Buttercup have come back, and as Jack had hoped they are now firm friends. It apparently started out badly when they were both terrified of spending the night in the bush but still couldn’t decide whose nest to spend it in. It was getting towards dusk when they finally figured out they should build a NEW nest TOGETHER. They said they really clicked after that. Camilla chose the site, Buttercup chose the materials, they got it built quickly, then snuggled down together and talked away the fear of the night.

This morning after telling us the story they both proudly took us to see the nest – complete with two little eggs.

Jack is so wise. I think Major would be super proud of him.

Day 356.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: pretty much empty. Hens tucked up snugly in the hen house tonight: all but two.

Jack called a Chicken Coop Council this afternoon and brought the whole flock together to discuss Camilla and Buttercup’s plight. He pointed out that they had been fighting rough for three days straight and were both badly exhausted, and that the flock as a whole was affected. He recommended that they BOTH share seventh spot and are BOTH last in line, which means they would share and minimise the punishment of being the lowest.

Jack told Camilla and Buttercup to go and discuss it, overnight, AWAY from the hen house.

What a sensible idea.

Day 355.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: one – Camilla’s, can’t claim it as my own unfortunately. Feed hopper: very, very low.

I was in the nest box, staying away from the fighting, when Camilla came in here for a bit of respite too. She was so preoccupied that she didn’t even know I was in the box next to her. It broke my heart listening to her sniffing, grunting, crying and pushing out an egg whilst being emotional – her first eggs should be special, not squeezed out hurriedly between battles.

Day 354.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: getting low. Bloody wounds: three.

There have been big battles between Camilla and Buttercup all day. We tried to keep out of it but they are so closely matched they could actually do damage to each other. They’re fighting like little roosters too, not just pecking and shoving but face-to-face jumping and clawing. I hate it, I can’t watch.

Day 353.

Bush eggs: three. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: quarter full.

It is DONE but who dunnit FIRST? Yes, Camilla and Buttercup have BOTH laid their first eggs this morning so there’s going to be real problems working out who is number seven and who is number eight (bottom) in the pecking order. It makes a big difference to how you feel about yourself if you have someone to boss around, even if it’s only one someone.

This should be interesting.

Day 352.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Deep thought for today: just the one.

I’d just like to clear up something. People think chickens like to ‘peck and scratch’. If we pecked and then scratched we’d forever be hungry. We scratch THEN peck. Think about it – we scratch to uncover the food, and then we peck to EAT the food. It doesn’t work the other way round.

It’s a little thing, I know, but we all have our pet hates. The Female Person has a thing about labels on towels and clothes. I’ve watched her cut them all off, then she has no idea how to wash the towels and clothes as the labels have all the washing instructions on. So silly.

Day 351.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: cold again... sigh.

Buttercup said she had nightmares about the whirly bird last night but I said it couldn’t have been too bad because we’ve seen The Female Person’s brother often since the big bird incident and he seems completely fine.

Day 350.

The day the helicopter came. Photography by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: warm at last... lovely.

I was telling Buttercup and Camilla the story of the whirly bird today to keep their minds off their impending first eggs.

It was a day like today: still, calm and sunny. Major, Bertha, Steve and I were out on the old drive by the house when this mind bogglingly HUGE bird dropped out of the sky and landed not two hundred chicken-feet from where we were standing. It made this awful sound by flapping its wings around in a circle and it kicked up a terrible wind that bowled me over backwards on to my fluffy behind! But if that wasn’t strange enough, the side of the bird opened up and The Female Person’s BROTHER stepped out. He had a brief talk to The Female Person (who didn’t seem at all concerned about her brother stepping out of the stomach of a huge bird), then he GOT BACK IN and the bird flew away!

The pullets were astounded. Feathers – I’m still astounded!

Day 349.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: cold again, brrrrr!

Ha! Even Ella’s getting a bit sick of Jack’s ‘attention’ now, says she can’t be at his peck and call ALL the time. Steve, Brian and I assured her that his attentiveness won’t last forever and she should enjoy it while she can.

Steve was walking around with a leaf stuck to that overly fluffy backside of hers today. We should have said something but instead we just laughed every time she went past. “What? What?” she would say. “Just thinking about something funny,” we would reply. She was a remarkably good sport about it when she discovered what it was.

Day 348.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Weather: cold again, brrr.

I made sure to mention the EGG I laid and how I love laying EGGS and how I’ve got plenty more EGGS in me yet to the other hens, especially Brian. I know she’s planning something but I’m not ready to let go of my place in the pecking order just yet.

Jack’s spending more time with Ella than anyone (except Ella) is happy with. We reminded Jack that she is number five, not number two in the pecking order. It’s not that we older hens want Jack’s ‘attention’ but it’s a dominance thing, you know. He said something about finding Ella’s “large fluffy bum rather compelling” – takes all sorts.

Day 347.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: one – mine, I’m pretty sure. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Weather: cold again.

It was freezing cold AND raining today. All the others went out for a scratch but I couldn’t be bothered. I actually went and sat down in the nest – just for a warm little rest, you understand. Well, the next thing I know I wake up hours later and there is an EGG beside me. No one around, just this egg and me. It sure looked like mine so I’ve claimed it.

Day 346.

Bush eggs: none – frozen egg vents, I’m sure. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Weather: cold.

COLD COMBS, it was freezing today! We must have looked like a picture of misery, all huddled together on the front lawn, one leg tucked up into our feathery undersides, necks pulled right in, all heads to the prevailing icy breeze. It didn’t work though; no treats were forthcoming from the people house. Sometimes The Female Person takes pity on us and whips us up a big bowl of warm porridge and raisins, but not today. Sigh, we must be losing our touch.

Day 345.

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

The wild ducks say they saw Batty BETTY today! What a surprise to find out she is still alive and well! And it appears she is living at the SPCA (Secret Poultry and Chicken Association) as a long-term resident. There she takes care of orphaned ducklings and is one of four special-agent chickens involved with animal welfare!

So Betty is alive and she has a career! I’m amazed and delighted, of course. I didn’t know she was capable of such achievements. I wonder if this revelation will change Ella’s mind from raising chicks to having a career?

A poem about Betty by Ruby
Batty Betty, secret agent
We thought she would become a homeless vagrant
She looks after babies and keeps them safe
Now she’s no longer a hopeless waif!


Small and perfectly formed – just like myself!

Day 344.

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

I noticed Sylvie giving Camilla and Buttercup a good peck this morning. It’s only right and proper, I know, but I still feel bad for Camilla.

Jack has ‘introduced’ himself to Sylvie, but he confessed to me quietly that he wasn’t all that taken by her. You know, I didn’t realise he was that choosy in the lower ranks.

Day 343.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Filthy looks from Camilla to Sylvie: too many to count.

The laugh I had yesterday (at her expense) must have done her SOME good as Sylvie has proudly announced the arrival of her first egg.

So as it stands the pecking order is: Jack, me, Brian, Steve, Ella, Sylvie, then Camilla and little Buttercup coming in last equal. Buttercup had been slightly ahead when it was the three of them still to lay, as she is one smart chicken. But now, with this egg, Sylvie is definitely up.
Camilla is beyond livid.

Day 342.

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

Oh, hilarious! Sylvie was feeling a bit down today (what with her first egg due and all the changes to her hormones) and she asked me where the nearest KFC was. I asked what the wattles did she want to go THERE for and it turns out that she had overheard an Irish chicken talking about Kentucky “Freud” Chicken and thought it must be some kind of chicken counseling franchise. Oh, the poor love. I hated to tell her the truth but it was worth it for the stunned look on her face! She will have to seek wise counsel elsewhere than KFC.

It is The Female Person’s special day today. I tried to lay her an egg but couldn’t quite manage. I hope she doesn’t notice.

Day 341.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Weather: weird, weird day.

A funny day today; we couldn’t really settle to anything or any one place, just roamed around pretty much the whole day: front lawn, driveway, back lawn, chicken house, pond area, driveway, front lawn and so on. Even the ducks seemed on edge. Maybe it’s an earthshake coming. The people believe animals can sense an earthshake before it happens and become really still and quiet – it’s not true of course, and you should hear the noise the pheasants make during an earthshake, they get HYSTERICAL. I think today was one of those weird and unsettling atmospheric disturbances – “too many positive Ians”, I was once told. Though goodness knows who these “Ians” are and why they’re so positive when the rest of us are in a funk.

Day 340.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: a pinch of pellets for the pecking.

Another nasty piece of rooster work that lived here briefly was Minor (an Araucana – explains a lot?). Major liked him but he was the only one, even Valerie his Araucana hen, thought he was full of himself.

Major and Minor did have a fun trick though. Major was normally a very polite and respectful rooster but Minor bought out the naughty in him. They used to get up real early in the morning, sprint to the back of the people house and crow loudly under the male and female person’s bedroom window. Sometimes it was still DARK when they did it! Though maybe it wasn’t so smart in the long run because not long after a particularly early session Minor was Sent Away, given to a man in a taxi that had an alarmingly hungry gleam in his eyes.

We really have had quite a few chickens come and go over the years. The Female Person is getting better at choosing good-quality chickens that are healthy and intelligent, not just pretty. She is also very perceptive and Sends Away any disruptive members of the flock. It is always a bit tense re-establishing the pecking order after a chicken is Sent Away, but this ‘cleansing’ of the disruptive elements in a flock is worth it for overall harmony.

Day 339.

Sam - placid in the hands of the ladies. Photography by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: quarter full. Weather: beautiful day, cold but clear.

He’s a good rooster though, Jack.

I remember Blacky, The Ancient One, telling a story Sam. He was a real firecracker, part “small rooster syndrome”, part “redhead” she said. He was very tame around The Female Person but any male people used to send him into a frenzy of stealth and attack. One Christmas the male people and a couple of male friends tried to put champagne corks on his spurs in retaliation for all the attacks he had launched on them. But instead Sam bailed them up in the porch – three huge male people scared of one small rooster. Astounding!

He was real nasty to Blacky on occasion too. One time he chased her and beat her so unmercilessly that she flew up onto the third-story roof of the people house and had to be rescued by The Female Person and a very tall ladder.

Jack is truly mild-mannered by comparison.

Day 338.

Mork and Mindy, the start of a legacy. Photography by F L Campbell

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

A slow day, relieved only by a fit of sneezes from Sylvie (Asian Bird Flu or over-zealous dust bathing?!?).

I was in the dust bath with Sylvie (before the sneezing) and she asked me why The Female Person keeps chickens. I didn’t really know and could only turn it around to our point of view – why do we hang out with people? Personally I find them very intriguing and relaxing. And I enjoy watching their flock dynamics, their own people pecking order.

Blacky told me The Female Person’s fascination started a long time ago when she was just small. Her mother was laid low with the flu and in no fit state to resist when The Female Person brought two day old chicks home.

After pulling herself out of her sick bed The Female Person’s mother made a warm and secure home for the chicks and then admitted that she too had pet chickens when she was young, as did The Female Person’s father. So, really, she was destined to love her chickens.

I know in times of happiness and in times of grief The Female Person finds great comfort in spending time with us.

I wandered back to the flock and thought out loud that I might walk over to see Grey Gun this afternoon. Jack said he didn’t think it was such a good idea. Frankly I don’t know what he’s talking about; must be one more sign of his mid-life insecurities.

To take my mind of Jack’s mid-life maladies I turned to poetry.

A poem about Mindy by Ruby
Mother Mindy, the start of it all.
Be proud, take a bow, stand tall.
The Female Person made you her friend.
Loved you ‘til your untimely end.
But your legacy continues,
More chickens followed on!
One of them a rooster,
With the great name of John.


Hmmm, needs work maybe…

Day 337.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Troubled minds: Jack’s.

Jack was weird today. He asked if I had ever thought about moving. “Sure…” I said. “… My knees aren’t that stiff.” And he said, “No, moving house.” What the wattles is he talking about? He said sometimes he got bored of Pecka Pecka and this house, even though life here is really good. He said he felt “restless” and “wanted a change” and “never really thought he would end up in Pecka Pecka.”

I told him to pull his head in, stop talking nonsense, get over it, and love the life he’s got. I must say he seems a bit young for a mid-life crisis.

Day 336.

Ruby (lower right, middle panel) looking stressed with her four sons. Photography by F L Campbell

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

A poem about motherhood by Ruby
If all things in life were as good
As the simple pleasure of motherhood
Life would be brighter
Decisions much lighter
And hens would be better understood.


I recited the poem to Ella but she wasn’t overwhelmed by it – even after I told her I had composed it with HER in mind. Why are my audiences so unappreciative?

Day 335.

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

Disappointment looms large today.

Ella had only one question in the end and that was: “Can I choose what colour my chicks will be?” And here I was thinking I had found a fellow intellectual!

Anyway, she has chosen family over career and will start one in mid-spring. I am not convinced this is a good thing.

Day 334.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Time spent on Ella’s project: all yesterday afternoon.

I listed some of the many positives and few negatives of motherhood for Ella and told her to go away and think about it, and then I’d try to answer any questions she has. It would be great to ask a career hen about her choice and what it has meant in her life but for the love of me I don’t KNOW any hen that has chosen NOT to have chicks and has a career instead. It will be interesting to see what questions Ella comes back with. She’s a very deep and thoughtful young hen.

Day 333.

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

Ella came to discuss motherhood with me today because she wants to know whether to get an education or concentrate on having chicks; she feels you can’t really do justice to both, like some modern hens are trying to do.

I think she is right and that the Hens’ Liberation Movement has some serious drawbacks – not least the anxiety young hens feel when they realise that though they can have both a career and chicks they possibly can’t do either as well as they might if they were just doing one.

To choose is hard and it’s a real tough choice for some hens. Not really for me though – even with all my education I still really only wanted to be a mother. I will help Ella with her decision making as best I can.

Day 332.

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

Poor Camilla, she squeezed and pushed all morning (inspired by my poem) until she was blue in the face (not unlike one of those odd Chinese Silkies, noted Buttercup) but still no egg.

Steve is a bit frustrated for her too as it would have given her some power to have her daughter just below her in the pecking order, but she knows there is nothing she can do to alter the situation. I have noticed Steve has been giving her underling, Ella, VERY firm pecks to keep her in order though. It’s subtle but effective retribution.

Day 331.

Camilla. Photography by F L Campbell

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

For all that Camilla is a bland-natured little hen, she really flew off the handle (handle of what, I’ve always wondered) when Ella returned from laying her second egg and gave Camilla a peck in passing.

Camilla has no automatic right to the number five spot in the peaking order but she assumed she would come directly below her mother, who is number four. But laying an egg is one of those irrefutable signs of dominance.

I wrote a poem for Camilla about the situation:

A poem about Camilla by Ruby
Get laying wee Camilla
Life is passing you by
Without that first egg at hand
Ella’s lead will amplify
She already pecks you
And shoves you around
Lay an egg as soon as you can
And her insults will be less profound
So sit there, squeeze and push
Take as long as you need
But lay your first egg my girl
If you don’t want to be bullied


Wonderful!!

I recited the above excellent poem to her and, though she still looked extremely het up from her little tantrum, she did go off and sit on the nest for a bit.

And apparently Jack is Ella’s new best friend as well, it seems. Sigh.

Day 330. Late Winter.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Smug pullets: one.

Well, well, well, that was a complete surprise. Ella came back after a very short absence this morning to announce that she had laid her first egg and was now number FIVE in the pecking order. She had given us absolutely no warning that she was due.

We had a close look and sure enough: a good little egg in a good little nest. Camilla is crimson with jealousy (but not, unfortunately, crimson with impending ‘egg readiness’).

Ella is now Jack’s new best friend.

Day 329.

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

Oh, leafy trees! Now I’m in deep duck-doo-doo with Camilla AND Steve. Steve did the whole “How dare you say such disgusting things to my daughter” routine. I told her that since Camilla is my granddaughter I felt I had a right to educate her so the truth wouldn’t come as such a shock later.

Steve left in a complete huff exactly like Camilla did yesterday, but Brian – who, like me, is on to it in the ways of the flock – said she would have a word to them both.

Steve does have her eyes closed, by the way.

Day 328.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Prudish pullets: Camilla.

Uh-oh, now I’m in trouble. I told Camilla the facts of life (including the fact that she couldn’t have Jack’s chicks, being his daughter and also about being ‘ticked off Jack’s list’ in the mornings and recited my fabulous Cloaca poem) and she went absolutely wattles! She said that she had never heard anything so disgusting in all her life and that there was no way Jack was ever doing his rooster duties near her (near her?!) Then she went off in a huff to tell Steve. Now come on. We live in a flock and there’s a rooster in the flock. Does Camilla close her eyes every morning after breakfast when Steve and Brian and I are ‘ticked off the list’? For that matter, does Steve have her eyes closed too? (I’ll have to have a peek next time).

Day 327.

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

She’s a scatty, duck-brained bimbo sometimes, that Steve. I really thought she had a handle on things – you know, mating and motherhood and all, being a mother herself. But I overheard her telling Camilla that Jack’s only role in fathering the chicks was to keep the cats away when the chicks are real small.

I’ll have to put Camilla straight – otherwise it will come as a nasty surprise to her when Jack insists on doing his rooster duties after she starts laying.

Day 326.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: a dash left for a rainy day. Shiny cars: six. Grumpy hens: one.

Stripy feathers! The Male Person nearly ran me over getting cars out of the garage today. No matter where I stood I was ALWAYS in the way, and when I DID move it was in the WRONG direction. Then he would stop that car, get out, get another one and try to run me over AGAIN. Eventually he had all six cars out of the garage and I was a nervous wreck. But it didn’t stop there. After all the cars were out he started to squirt them all with water and every so often the water would flick in my direction. I can’t say for sure if it was on purpose since I couldn’t seem to catch his eye but I know one thing, I was completely soaked, fed up and frazzled after he had repeated this mornings fiasco in reverse and finally put all the cars away again.

Day 325.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: quarter full. Stealth chickens: me!

Ha! I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying but Ella came back and said Grey Gun seemed pretty untalkative and distant.

I KNEW it. He likes me. ME. ME. ME! Immature, I know, but there you are.

Day 324.

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

This afternoon I made the mistake of telling Ella about Grey Gun and now SHE’S off to see him tomorrow! It’s not that Grey Gun and I have an exclusive arrangement or anything, it’s just that he was MY special friend and I don’t particularly like to think of them talking together alone without ME. Maybe I should tail her when she goes.

Day 323.

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

The big people are away AGAIN, tut tut. I know they leave their Little Ones in the best possible care (The Old Ones) but it’s not the same. And they grow up so fast (The Little People, that is, not The Old Ones – they shrink).

Jack thinks Sylvie will be the first of the pullets to lay. He is more interested in their impending eggyness than is seemly for a grown rooster.

Day 322.

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

Went and saw Grey Gun today. There’s nothing in it, I just went for a chat and he DID say he missed me while he was gone. It was lovely, very intellectually stimulating. He said he finds me intriguing. It’s been a while since anyone has found me intriguing and it’s quite a turn-on... in a purely intellectual way, you understand.

Day 321.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: sunny but cold.

Another slow day but to lighten this one up a bit I went up to the people house for a pat again! I told you I might make a habit of it. The Female Person gave me a nice pat and then very gently caught me and held me while her youngest little person had a pat too. It was strange but nice and, as before, I got a wee foodie treat for my troubles.

Day 320.

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

All this talk of wringing and chopping is giving me BAD DREAMS. Tonight I am going to force myself to think happy thoughts about being broody, and a chick’s first peeps, and watching them crack open the eggshell, and having them snuggle up under your wings, and taking them out for their first look at the world, and watching them grow up to be fine handsome roosters, and wondering if they’ll get their heads WRUNG or CHOPPED OFF.

Frazzled feathers! That was going fine until the last bit. Time to let it go, Ruby.

Day 319.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Weird thoughts about death: WAY too many.

Is neck wringing better than neck chopping? Who can say? It’s not like any chicken has really survived to tell the story. I have NEVER seen and never WANT to see a neck chopping. I’ve heard stories where the head gets chopped off but through inner strength and belief in a higher power the body lives on! Not for very long, and apparently the headless body flaps around in a most undignified though amazingly deft manner. But it makes you wonder how necessary the head is on some chickens.

At Unipeck, while I was supposed to be reading about Applied Physics In Egg Laying I instead read about ‘Mike The Headless Chicken’. Apparently being a surplus rooster his head was chopped off with an axe but Mike lived on!! He became the talk of the town and joined a circus where people would pay big money to see him bumbling around. Weird and disturbing.

The ballad of Mike the Headless Chicken by Ruby
Mike the Headless Chicken
The silliest thing on earth
But being in the circus show
Gave him financial worth

Mike the headless chicken
Made money that was finger lickin’!

It started one fateful day
When Mike should’ve lost his head
Maybe the farmer was short-sighted
As Mike lost his face instead

Mike the headless chicken
Made money that was finger lickin’!

Gone was his beak, and brain
His eyes, his nose, his comb
But despite these great loses
About the U.S. Mike did roam

Mike the headless chicken
Made money that was finger lickin’!

25 cents got you a peek at Mike
Being fed and strutting around
But after 18 months he choked
And lay still upon the ground

Mike the headless chicken
Made money that was finger lickin’!

No more Miracle Mike sadly
The bank would truly be sad
But he’s inspired a Colorado festival
That’s apparently not half bad

So Mike the headless chicken
Still makes money that’s finger lickin’!


I think if I had a talent manager we would be humming that little ditty all the way to the bank!

Day 318.

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

I shouldn’t have written about Licorice the other day. I had a nightmare about his death last night and woke up in a terrible state. You see, The Female Person is discreet. Usually sick chickens (sick in mind or body) are Sent Away, but for some reason the ‘man with the axe’ came and WRUNG Licorice’s neck! RIGHT in front of us! Usually when I know something of this nature is going down I pretend there is an extremely delicious plant behind the garage. I convince the whole flock to follow me and I keep them there for as long as possible. I don’t want them witnessing what the ‘man with the axe’ does to members of our flock.

On this occasion though it happened too fast for me to muster the flock away. It was the worst sight I have ever seen (Valerie was the second-worst sight). And the horrible noise Licorice was making before his death stopped so suddenly and left an appalling silence instead. Then the ‘man with the axe’ carried him like an empty sack of feed and slung him in his trailer – no burial for Licorice, no ceremony, no rock with his name on it and no dignity at any stage. We were stunned. Betty totally lost it after that. I felt really bad for her and the whole flock was very upset. They wanted to hate the people and it took some convincing from the people before we would trust them again.

Day 317.

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

Get this: it was a slow day because nothing happened; yet before I knew it breakfast had turned into dinnertime snack and we were off to bed, the day gone! Even Camilla came up to me today and said, “You know, Ruby, life goes by so fast sometimes.” Ha! And her only a young chick – how does she think I feel?

Day 316.

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

At the moment in our flock we have four point-of-lay pullets. Or should I say we have three point-of-lay pullets and one point-of-lay poulette. Ella has gone all European on us and insists we call her Mademoiselle Ella: Point-of-Lay Poulette.

I’m not calling her that. I think I’ll go and peck some sense into her.

Right, that’s sorted... Ella is quite happy to be known as a pullet now, thank you.

Day 315.

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

Not much happening so it must be… drum roll please... POEM TIME!

A poem about winter by Ruby
It’s winter and it’s too cold for me
I’ve got pains from my beak to my right knee
It’s dark and I’ve just bumped in to a tree
I wish winter would leave me be.


Poetry brilliance. That cheered me up a bit!

Day 314.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Weather: drizzling, blah.

Yuck, mid-winter, NOT my favourite time of the year. The days are short, grey, windy and cold (like Sylvie without the cold bit, hee hee). The bugs are few and far between and no challenge when you DO find them as they are super slow. My knees ache. And I feel as if every egg is my last, and that is almost more than I can bear.

Day 313.

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

Camilla wants to wait until spring to lay her first egg – “to do it right,” she said. I told her she’d better be careful because she’s effectively in a race with Ella, Sylvie and Buttercup. Whoever lays the first egg has best chance of being higher up the pecking order. She said she didn’t realise that. What is Steve teaching her? Obviously nothing important. So I’ve sent her out with these instructions: practice nest building, eat lots of protein, and watch the other three girls like a hawk to see if they are making nests or waddling around like their fluffy butt weighs a ton.

Day 312.

Feeding Blind Licorice. Photography by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: one – ME again! Put that in your nest and sit on it Ella! Feed hopper: not empty but no larder either.

It’s a slow day so I will write more on the Sad History of Licorice and Betty.

Licorice, he was a weird one. Pure Orpington, as beautiful as they come, with glossy black feathers shot through with startling, iridescent green. He was also depressed, half blind and lame – HOPELESS. It gives more power to my argument against overbred purebreds.

The Old One took pity on him and as well as hand feeding him because of his blindness, moved the broody box and run to the pond area so he could live there in unmolested solitude but he was terribly lonely, very much a case of couldn’t live with us, couldn’t live without us. Then the people moved Betty, who wasn’t coping living with us, in for company. But it was like watching a bad taste comedy seeing if they would get it together. The more Licorice tried to court her in his stumbling, half-blind way, the more nervous Betty became. And the more scatty she became the more desperate Licorice was to impress her. After a while it got so bad that the people moved Betty out of the pond area, back to us. At that point Licorice got REALLY depressed. I overheard The Female Person say that she could “cope with half blind and lame, but not depressed chickens – we need the ’man with the axe’ to visit”. Terrible.

It’s strange that both Betty and Licorice couldn’t cope living with us. I don’t believe we are a particularly hard flock to live with but chickens do have to be able to function within the flock for it to be a happy time for everybody. Basically oddballs and deviants need not apply.

A poem about Licorice by Ruby
Half blind half lame half wit all shame
Black feathers black heart black life
Purebred pure uselessness
Now dead and not missed


Hmmm. It’s good – in fact very good, but I don’t know why.

Day 311.

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

I like Ella, I truly do, but ever since she arrived she has been after my place in the pecking order, the number TWO spot! What is she thinking? She’s not even laying yet. And besides, in the natural order when I am TRULY and POSITIVELY not laying any more and have to surrender my position it will be to Brian not Ella – not without a fight from Brian AND Steve anyway. So why is she picking on me? I feel truly hen-pecked.

I will work through my frustration in the best way I know:

A poem about Ella by Ruby
Ella. Ella. Ella.
Don’t poke me with your umbrella
You can’t be number two
So why don’t you just shoo
In the natural order of things
It is I that clips your wings
You don’t tell me where it’s at
You’re being a little brat
Get off your high horse
Or I’m going to have to use force
Now stop being a bitch
Cos from you it’s a bit rich


There! That helped!

Day 310.

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

I think The Female Person is trying to kill us all! In the treat bowl this morning was half an avocado and some chocolate cake. POISON!

Why would she be trying to harm us? The younger ones were keen to try their luck with the chocolate cake but no one went near the avocado, fortunately.

Maybe she’s not DELIBERATELY trying to poison us but is just incompetent and doesn’t know about these things. Perhaps she has mislaid her copy of Handy Hints for Hens? It clearly states in chapter 37 that chocolate and avocado are among the few things that are truly very bad and poisonous for chickens.

Went and saw Grey Gun again today and had a very pleasant chat. He is a flirt though!

Day 309.

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

It’s all Happy Families again.

I wasn’t talking to Jack all last night until another earthshake very early this morning woke us up and gave us the spooks. I went and cuddled up to him (I had been at the far end of the perch) and told him I was sorry for gossiping. He said he was sorry for snapping at me and VERY sorry about what he had done to Betty. He said that it hurts him still but made him a better rooster in the long run. I agreed and we all went back to sleep happy. Hurray for earthshakes for once.

Day 308.

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

Jack called me a “Gossipy Goose”! He said he had overheard me talking to Ella yesterday about what he did to Betty. He said he wasn’t exactly proud of his behaviour and didn’t want it advertised by the Flock Gossip!

How dare he call me that! I was merely sharing confidences and knowledge to gain friendship and understanding – isn’t that what all chickens do? Isn’t that what makes the world go round? Friendship, I mean, not gossip.

Day 307.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: windy and tiring.

I was asking Ella if she had met any roosters who were completely cool and calm normally but one day just lost the plot and beat someone up. She didn’t know what I was talking about so I HAD to tell her about Jack and Betty – just to clarify, really. She was amazed that Jack could do such a thing as he seemed so cool and calm and I said “Exactly” and she said “Amazing” and then she said she had known one other rooster who was normally really quiet and submissive and pecked on, but occasionally he would go on a rampage and beat up anyone who came near and I said “Amazing” and she said “Exactly”, so Jack obviously isn’t the only one.

Day 306.

Licorice and Betty. Acrylic on canvas by F L Campbell.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: one – it was me! I did it! Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

I was in the nest box having a bit of trouble pushing out this latest egg and Betty – of all the batty chickens – came into my mind. A White Leghorn she was and she made the ducks look smart and thoughtful. She wasn’t coping living with us because she was an only chicken at the place she originally came from, so The Female Person moved her into the pond area with a rooster named Licorice to keep him company. She didn’t cope with that arrangement either so she came back to live with us. But it was never really living that Betty did, more just existing on the edge of society. Whenever you spoke to her she would jump with shock and look terrified. After a while we stopped talking to her, her terror and our discomfort wasn’t worth it.

Jack always liked to tick Betty off his list though, but it was such a battle every single time. One day Jack, who is a kind calm soul normally, just lost the plot and beat her up. It was shocking. I couldn’t speak to Jack for days; it was so out of character for him. Anyway Betty was a mess, bleeding and limping and even more nervous than ever. And then she was Sent Away.

See – I have no idea why I was thinking about her whilst laying my egg. I guess at my age you get reflective on life’s events, trying to work out the reasons behind some of them to see if you can pass on any wisdom to the next generation.

Day 305.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Dreams involving Grey Gun: many, varied, and not for family reading.

I went and saw Grey Gun today (I tried not to but I couldn’t really help myself, my resistance was down after so many restless nights). He said he had missed me! He said that he had gone to a cold, windy, noisy paddock right next to a busy death strip, but that he’d had good horsey neighbours, which made it bearable. He said a different female person looked after him and rode him and he enjoyed it, but he didn’t understand why he had been Sent Away.

I explained all I could about our female person and the big chunky white thing on her arm, which meant she couldn’t use it, and said maybe it would have been too hard to look after Grey Gun with it on, and now that it’s off he’s back.

He thought that was a good explanation and feels a lot better about himself. He is looking forward to seeing me again!

Another poem about Grey Gun by Ruby
Grey Gun with all your talents and horsey good looks
Why is it me you love?
Can you not see that ‘us’ causes problems?
We do not fit like a glove.
Is it these challenges that make it so good?
Is that why you need me so?
But what if society says break it all up
Then will you let me go?


Whoa! Where did that come from? We are not back together? Grey Gun hasn’t said he loves me! Honestly, my brain goes off on some very independent journeys sometimes.

Day 304.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Dreams involving Grey Gun: won’t share.

The wild ducks (slightly less stupid than the tame ducks) said that over the hills in a place called Glad Stone some people are building huge stone hens. It sounds amazing. Apparently they all stand in a circle, these stone hens, and they’re really big, about a hundred times the size of a big Orpington rooster. The people use them as some kind of star reader and they are based on historical and ancient Stone Hens in England. Fascinating… I think?

Chickens have always had a connection with the stars and have often used the Southern Crossbreed to navigate home in the dark. The rise of the Seven Sitters is also used to signify the end of the breeding year. Personally I prefer the moon and its cycles, but it does make me a bit loopy when it’s full, especially on a hot summer’s night. I never feel like going to bed and want to wander around by moonlight. Unfortunately it brings
out nasty night creatures too, and a loopy chicken is no competition for a loopy stoat. But the moon is wonderful and if you look really hard and screw up your third eyelid you can just see the Hen In The Moon and her Three Eggs (one of which is broken, sadly).

I wonder what Grey Gun is doing?

Day 303.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Dreams involving Grey Gun: couldn’t say.

Buttercup and I shared a moment this morning as we were all scratching around. We came upon a big nest of slaters which everyone else devoured but I didn’t of course, and I noticed that Buttercup wasn’t getting in there with gluttonous enthusiasm either, “I absolutely loathe slaters,” she says. “Can’t understand the attraction.” Hoorah – another voice of anti-slater sanity!

Still haven’t seen Grey Gun.

Day 302.

Buttercup of the big eyes. Photography by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Dreams involving Grey Gun: not telling.

Buttercup is a strange but compelling hen. She is of such mixed parentage that she has the feather markings of a mallard duck and the big-liquid brown eyes of a cow, all in the body of a smallish hen. It sounds like The Female Person at the place where Buttercup was born firmly believed in hybrid vigour and cross-mated all her chickens, which resulted in some pretty fantastical (but extremely healthy) chooks. Buttercup reckons the only breed she ever really had problems with at the long paddock were the roosters with Araucana blood, who were, almost without exception, the most arrogant and nasty lot she’d come in contact with.

Buttercup said that she herself was such an unusual looking chicken that even she had no idea who her parents might have been (she was raised in a hot room with a bunch of other chicks and no mama), but that they were definitely chickens and not ducks or cows.

I resisted the urge to go and see Grey Gun by writing this poem:

A poem about Buttercup by Ruby
Buttercup Buttercup
Eyes of a cow
Markings of a duck.


Quite clearly I was distracted…

Day 301.

Frauke: "Now where's my head?" Acrylic on canvas by F L Campbell

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

Feathers, I was down yesterday. I had bad dreams last night too and really had to fight the demons to get out of my feathery funk this morning.

I learned a good trick from that weird German chicken, Frauke. She said if she ever got into a real funk and was having trouble shaking it she would race around and around like a mad chicken (not particularly hard for her to achieve), then when she was really exhausted she would find the tallest hill around and run/fly down it as fast as she could. This would get her heart pumping so vigorously that it was hard for her to be depressed afterwards.

As an added bonus for me, when I came madly flap/flying down the hill I saw that Grey Gun was back and grazing calmly and gorgeously at the bottom of it. I feel much better now.

Day 300.

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

Let me restate my love and loyalty for Jack. I would hate for him to be Sent Away, he’s a good son and father, and a great rooster to us hens. And I’ve lost too many friends and family as it is to lose him as well.

Winter is often a time when I recall past faces. Some I liked or loved better than others of course, but all were important in some way.

It’s been a bad year this year: only halfway through and already two dead and four Sent Away. Too many memories... too much grief... can’t write any more...

Day 299. Mid Winter.

Major. Photography by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Delightful daydreams about sexy new roosters: six.

Jack has totally settled down about the Boys and their new role as stud roosters; he isn’t so jealous now. But it got me thinking it might be time for some new, unrelated rooster blood around HERE. I really miss Major; he was by far the best thing ever to come out of the boot of The Female Person’s car. I obviously can’t have it both ways though: either my son stays and I have no soul mate or my son goes and a new rooster takes his place. If I could choose the replacement rooster it might be a tougher decision, but I don’t get to choose and the new rooster might be duck-dumb and nasty as well. So we stick with Jack. A hen can dream though, can’t she?

Day 298.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: one-thirty-twoth full.

The sun is shining; let’s move on from portraits, good or bad.

On examination there is really no one ‘better’ comb style over another I reckon, though I’m no world authority as I said yesterday. Ella did say that sometimes the rose combs can fill up with dirt and smell a bit cheesy. Frankly, I think I’ll stick with plain old single combs.

And I’m over the portrait now. I don’t have to have it hanging in the chicken house as a constant reminder of the duplicity of artists, so I can just forget about it and move on with my life. As I said, my gift to society will be my prodigious poultry poetry and prose, not my ability to sit still for a pointless painting.

Day 297.

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

I’m still fuming about that portrait. I mean, what was The Female Person thinking? She’s even wearing a dress in the portrait and I have NEVER seen her in a dress. Then there is the hand signal she is giving me. It’s kind of creepy – it almost looks like she’s trying to hypnotise me “You are getting sleepy... all your eyelids are starting to droop... except your third one which is lazily closing across your eyeball…” The only thing that’s starting to droop in that picture is my self-esteem.

Ella tried to take my mind off the portrait so we have had a long and fascinating but ultimately pretty vapid conversation about chicken comb styles. There were so MANY different chickens where she came from that she’s practically seen them all. I’ve only ever seen normal single combs but she has seen huge singles, singles that flop over to one side, rose combs, splits, no combs, unicorns, bull’s horns, berets, peas, walnuts, buttercups and strawberries. She’s even seen one with a hole right through it, some sort of birth defect that was actually quite fetching, and the rooster that owned it could make it whistle in the wind by holding it a certain way – now that’s talent!

Day 296.

Madame Fee Fee And The One True Hen (and detail). Oil on board by Paul Forrest

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: an eighth full.

No, not a good day. I have been shown the second portrait (which I had almost forgotten about) and I really don’t know what to say. I thought with a name like “The One True Hen” it would be an intense painterly examination of... well, ME, in all my glory. But NO. That was a partial title, the full one being “Madam Fee Fee and The One True Hen”. I barely feature!

There I am clamped under “Madam Fee Fee’s” (The Female Person’s) arm, tail droopy, legs akimbo and I’m staring into space in quite frankly a disturbingly mindless way.

The others are having a good laugh at my expense of course, especially Steve, but none of them have been in ANY portraits, let alone one and a half.

Day 295.

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

I talked to Jack about Steve and Brian sleeping in the nest but he said he had problems of his own with Ella sleeping on the straw directly below him. I asked him what was so wrong about that and told him he should be flattered by her subservience. He said he was flattered but he too suffered poo problems. When I looked totally blank (not something that happens often) he said that he was extremely embarrassed when he had to take a dump, forgot she was there, and heard a wee squawk when he smacked her on the head with a wiffy one. I’m sorry but I find that incredibly funny.

Did you know that people can make remarkable ripping sounds from their backsides – which cause them, the ripper and any audience, such hilarity? So much so that we, as a flock, discussed it and decided to give it a go. But apparently, despite our cloacae being truly remarkable, we cannot replicate this mirth making butt music – sad.

Day 294.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Emotional weather: a crappy day literally and figuratively.

Look, I don’t know why it happened, but after the Boys went The Female Person remade the nests into two roomy nests rather than three squashy nests – which is excellent, I’m more than happy with that. It’s just that now that they ARE so nice and roomy Steve and Brian have taken to sleeping in them like those good-for-nothing Boys used to. This in itself isn’t so bad but they poo in there and then I have to lay eggs in there and it’s even less right than when the Boys used to do it. The Boys were young. Steve and Brian SHOULD KNOW BETTER.

Day 293.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: one – caused by surprise. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: a sunny day.

What a glorious day. I feel better than I have for weeks; I even laid a perfectly lovely – and shelled – egg in the nest as a surprise (to me and all!)

Maybe I’m not so much getting older as becoming more appreciative of the simple things in life – like eggs with shells, for example, or warm days with nothing to do but scratch.

The good thing for us chickens of senior rank is that The Female Person doesn’t seem to mind if we DON’T lay. I’ve heard of terrible places where unless you lay a certain (large!) number of eggs per year they murder you. It doesn’t bear thinking about. I mean we do our best but our egg production is what it is. Mine is/was pretty substantial but some of the ‘designer hens’ had a pathetic output as I mentioned. But I guess The Female Person thought they still brought something important to the flock – me, I couldn’t see it!

Day 292.

Sylvie's bad day. Photography by F L Campbell

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

Inspiration strikes! I composed a quick (but super) poem about yesterday’s incident with the feed hopper:

A poem about Sylvie’s bad day by Ruby
Poor old Sylvie
Nearly lost her head
It was a very bad day
She should have stayed in bed
Tried to get the kernel
Wanted to be fed
Foot came off the pedal
Now she’s playing dead.


Yes she truly is a slow learner that Sylvie.

I’m still thinking about the traveling troupe, or a career in published poultry poetry at the very least.

Day 291.

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

Oh dear, oh dear, Sylvie’s still having problems with the feeder. She’s got the hang of opening it but didn’t realise she needed to keep her weight on the pedal to stop the lid coming down again. So there she is having a good feed of pellets and spies a kernel of corn (a bonus in any chicken’s language) and sort of scoots off the pedal and around the side to better reach it. Down comes the lid on Sylvie’s head, loads of terrified (but muffled) squawking until Steve jumps on the pedal and opens the lid again.

The poor thing was almost in tears with the shock and embarrassment but perhaps she won’t make that mistake again.

Poor us too, we were definitely in tears of suppressed laughter. I know it’s unkind to laugh at someone else’s expense but it was so FUNNY.

Day 290.

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

Actually, if memory serves me right Ginger was the only one of the three hybrid layers that successfully had a couple of chicks. Taffy was too stubborn and wanted to do it her way, and Marigold was too interested in other things (like car boots as I have mentioned), but Ginger got it right. Right up until both chicks died within days of being born, that is, and that was her only attempt at a family. Those hybrid layers just don’t have what it takes to be a mother.

Day 289.

On the left: Taffy and her very obvious nest. On the right: Taffy looking huffy in her sanctioned nest. Photography by F L Campbell

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

No eggs from the other hens lately, I see. Makes me feel a bit better about my own lack of ovoid production. That Taffy (one of the hybrid layers I was discussing earlier) was a great one for laying, and a great one for secret nests too. The problem was she was so good at laying that eggs would spill out of her secret nest, down the hill, and practically form an arrow to where the secret nest was. This didn’t happen the once either. Nope, every time; too many eggs and cover blown. Dead keen to be a mother as well, but whenever The Female Person shifted her to a safe nest and limited her number of eggs (from about eighteen, to say, a very reasonable six) she would go all huffy and walk straight off the new nest and have nothing more to do with it. Died with her morals intact but childless.

Day 288.

50 shades of Sylvie. Photography by F L Campbell

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

The new hen Sylvie is a dear old soul, but really, thick as two ducks she is. Complained of being hungry and when I said, “Well, go and have a feed of pellets,” she said she tried but the feed hopper wouldn’t open. When I asked her to show me she went and stood in front of the feed hopper expectantly. She had no idea that you have to actually STAND on the pedal to lift its lid. Maybe she thought The Female Person was hiding in the shadows with a button in her hand to press and open up the hopper, much like the garage door. Maybe she thought is was some kind of magic? Who really knows WHAT (or if) she was thinking?

I got her sorted by showing her how to use the pedal but each time she does and the lid lifts she exclaims “Whoa!” in surprise. Sheesh.

A poem about Sylvie by Ruby
Sylvie, silver grey
Your mood is not too gay.
What’s wrong Sylvie?
Can’t get the food?
Magic feeder not in the mood?
It’s alright, put your foot here
And for Dog’s sake get your brain in gear!!


A magnificent mini moment of versification.

Day 287.

A day at the beach. Photography by F L Campbell

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

I was remembering Jack’s brothers Whoahup, Rusty and Salsa again last night. Mischief in feathers, those three – made the Boys look like angels if the truth be known. What they used to do when our backs were turned would bleach your feathers – maybe The Female Person has a point about roosters and me. I remembered one day the Boys (Whoahup, Rusty, Salsa and Jack, that is) disappeared for the whole day but came back at sundown saying they had been to the BEACH. We can hear the sea from here but it is a very long way away AND it is across the death strip. Which reminds me of a joke I once heard:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the death strip?
A: To prove to the possum that it could be done.

Ha! Brilliant. Anyway the Boys went to the beach and told us fabulous stories about lots of people (some with absolutely NO clothing on! Makes me shudder to think of it), cars, horses and dogs on the beach. They also found loads of sand fleas hopping around which made for great tasty sport. They liked the beach they said but found that sand got EVERYWHERE and they had itchy cloacae for days afterwards.

Day 286.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: one – caused by old age? Feed hopper: full. Old hen noises made by myself upon standing after laying: too many.

I hope no one has noticed but I have laid only three eggs in the past moon cycle. I know it’s probably just winter slowly settling on my bones but I feel so old all of a sudden. I guess if I were to fall off the perch tomorrow I could say I’ve had a good life – seven summers, one unforgettable life partner (Major, such a short and bitter-sweet romance), countless eggs and fourteen wonderful chicks.

I would have liked more chicks, of course, but The Female Person was disconcerted by the high percentage of roosters amongst my broods (twelve in total – all of them fabulous). As if I had any control over it!

Day 285.

Jack: it's poem time! Photography by F L Campbell

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

Actually Jack was so bored yesterday that HE came up with a poem and I MUST say I quite like it...

Give forth your voice by Jack
Oh, majestic masculine wings of mahogany and gold,
Spread in the early morning sun,
Give forth your voice, low, loud and bold,
And then strut straight out of the run.


It’s a bit self-absorbed, I know, but he has to start somewhere.

I retorted with this poem on the same subject:

A poem about crowing by Ruby
Cock-a-doodle-do.
I love to hear crowing

Cock-a-doodle-doo.
Just like cows lowing

Cock-a-doodle-doo!
A sign of nature growing

Cock-a-doodle-DOO!
Animal lust they are sowing

Cock-a-doodle-DOOOO!!!
The warm call of cocks crowing

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOO!!!!
Oh for fuck's sake stop crowing!

!!!
It’s 6am in the morning!

Cock-a-do?
And I should be SNORING!

Harumph.
Zzzz.


It’s so good. I crack me up!

Day 284.

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

Duck on a Dog, I’m bored. Yesterday I was plain bored but today, because it is raining good and proper, I’m wet bored.

Maybe it’s time for more poetry? “Or not,” says Jack. Rude.

Day 283.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Weather: drizzle (makes the feathers frizzle).

Hmm. It was a bit boring today. The new girls have settled in, Jack’s got over his jealous funk, and Steve, Brian and Camilla are just the same as normal.

Its days like this that I fantasize about the career in film I could have had. Ah, imagine; Ruby, Chicken in Red, or maybe Psycho Chicken if I wanted to make a thriller, or how about a western: The Good, The Bad and The Poultry? Not to mention Cluckwork Orange, American Banty, My Left Wing, The Maltese Chicken... I could go on, but I won’t.

Day 282.

Monica. Acrylic on canvas by F L Campbell

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

I was thinking about what Ella said about her topknot being of Polish origin. Monica, who lived with us for a short and fraught time a while back, was purebred Polish and about as stupid as a chicken can get. To add to her halfwit woes she had this huge topknot that draped over her eyes so effectively that she couldn’t see. She used to navigate back to the chicken house by doing ever-bigger circles until she bumped into the fence of the chicken run, then she would follow the fence line until she found the door. If any large thing hovered over her she would assume it was a rooster and squat in coquettish submission, which made her extremely easy to catch. This is why it was no problem for The Female Person to catch her and give her lots of pats (which wasn’t so bad) and then to catch her and Send her Away. I have to say I don’t miss her much. I did hear gossip about her coming to a sticky end when she felt the presence of something hovering over her, squatted in her unseemly way, and had her head ripped off by a cat that had been lurking in a tree. Honestly, what a fashion victim. At least Camilla can still see perfectly well with her topknot (and she doesn’t squat like a tart.)

A poem about Monica by Ruby
Monica of the big hairdo
Your eyesight is totally screwed
And it might be the end of you.
Oops too late
You’re cat bait!


Cruel and yet hilarious…

Day 281.

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

I felt so good towards The Female Person after what she did for the Boys that I sidled up to her for a quick PAT! As I expected she was very gentle and it actually felt quite good. I might even make it an irregular habit.

Day 280.

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

Only one chicken was less than elated by Ella’s news last night. It’s not that Jack wishes bad of the Boys but he doesn’t think they deserved quite the lucky break they got. “Young and disrespectful” was muttered somewhere in the conversation, as well as “immature” and even “not smart enough for the job.” If you ask my opinion it’s jealousy pure and simple. Jack has seven hens and we basically get to stick around forever; the Boys, on the other wing, have about sixty ever-changing, exciting, new, sexy hens between them. It’s like a constantly updated smorgasbord of hot hen toddy. Yep, Jack, it’s jealousy plain and simple.

A poem about stud duties by Ruby
Pellets for breakfast yay!
Pellets for breakfast yay.
Pellets for breakfast yawn…
Or…
A cute wee hen for breakfast yay!
Another wee one for brunch.
Tall, white twins follow on from that
And a redhead after lunch.
A never-ending smorgasbord
Of hot hen toddy
Meanwhile poor Jack has me
And my overly known body


Yes poor Jack, when put in the context of food I can see why he’s a bit put out.

Day 279.

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: three – gifts from Steve, Brian and me for the Boys’ safe passage. Feed hopper: just enough for a mouse’s tea party – for one.

Oh happy, HAPPY days! Ella was talking more last night about their old home and it seems that before the hens were taken away OUR Female Person arrived with “four very handsome matching white roosters”. Our BOYS! They will now live a charmed life of long days and lots of hens and will stay together for life, unless called upon to do stud duties at another place apparently.

Brian was so happy she couldn’t sit still. So it seems that The Female Person swapped our Boys for the new hens – we should be offended but it sounds like the Boys have truly landed in luck’s nest.

Day 278.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: just enough for a mouse’s tea party.

After the tension died down yesterday we were able to ask the new hens all about their old home in a non-confrontational way. It sounds like they miss it more than they are letting on but they are beginning to fit in well here. Ella and I have our moments, but she’s quite smart and interesting once she lets down her guard and stops eyeing my place in the pecking order.

Anyway, it seems they lived in a big fenced-off paddock with lots of chickens of every size, shape and colour. Often new chickens came to the place looking like death warmed up, but with love and special attention from their female person they would perk up and start enjoying life in the long paddock. There were lovely scratchings in this paddock, plus food aplenty, shelter, dust baths, good company. All the hens had to do was not complain about their eggs being taken since apparently The Female Person who kept them had the same weird habit as our female person does of collecting hens’ eggs.

Day 277.

Ella. Photography by F L Campbell

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

Buttercup sneezed today and I must say it took a LOT of convincing from her before we’d believe it was just dust from the feed hopper in her nostrils. We haven’t known the new girls long enough to get all the facts about where they came from. For all we know they could have escaped an Asian Bird Flu epidemic and brought it over here.

Ella said that she couldn’t catch Asian Bird Flu because she was part Orpington, which is an English breed. I said, “What about the topknot? It looks very Chinese Silkie to me.” And she said it was all Polish. We just have to hope she’s right since we are all supposedly European or American in origin.

Day 276.

A Huhu grub. Photography by Jennifer Morton web

Bush eggs: none. Nest box eggs: one – caused by fright. Feed hopper: half full. Weather: a warm day but I feel cold.

I’ve heard the most disturbing news about a thing called Asian Bird Flu. Apparently when you first catch it your eyes get watery, then your nostrils run and you start sneezing, and then you Up and DIE! Just like that! There’s no cure, but the worst thing is that if you get it the people kill your whole flock – no questions asked. I can’t even begin to imagine that happening. Imagine, just briefly before I block it out of my head, being responsible for the destruction of all your family just because you have a runny beak.

I got this horrifying news from the ducks (who got it from that old ‘reliable’ source, the wild ducks), but for once I believe it because they said it could happen to ducks too.

On a more positive note I came up with an inspired poem about huhu grubs:

A poem about huhu grubs by Ruby
Huhu!
You’re so fat and yummy
to chew chew.
You see me coming,
I hear you boo hoo.
But you gotta share
my point of view too
Cos’ you’re filled with
delicious zoo goo
And I’m gonna happily eat
you YOU!


Incandescent use of split timing. I’m good!

Day 275.

Us? No! It was like this when we got here! Photography by F L Campbell

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

Yuck, yuck, YUCK! We were all crashing through the boxthorn in the dark looking for scrummy huhu grubs (Jack’s daft idea) when Jack (leading the daft expedition) stomped on an old abandoned nest and broke three VERY rotten eggs. The smell curled my beak! And we couldn’t back up or turn around in the prickle bush so we all had to step through the rotten gloop to get out. We are now seven very smelly hens and one very smelly and EMBARRASSED rooster. We didn’t even find any grubs.

Roosters often lead hens astray. I remember Blacky telling me about a game of Walnut Soccer her and Sam played. It was his idea but they both got a sever telling off from The Female Person for making a mess in the porch. Sam thought it was hilarious that it was Blacky that got the punitive kick up the fluffy backside to get them out and he got off Scott free (who is this Scott?)

Roosters, who would have them? I recited my poem about sex for Jack thinking he would be totally in to it but he thought is was pretty AVERAGE! Given this mornings effort I would say Jack is the one that is average!

Day 274.

Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full.

It’s the start of winter now and I’m so pleased I’ve got my moult over and done with. Everybody is looking splendid in their new winter wear. I don’t know how Steve and Brian do it but they hardly seem to shed a feather for their summer-to-winter moult, while I look like a hedgehog – and a balding one at that.

Still, I get my own back in spring when I have an easy moult and THEY look like used rags. Speaking of moults, The Female Person never photographed me for my second portrait in the end. I wonder why?

OK, I’ve been thinking about sex (quite fun really!) but writing poetry about it is harder than I imagined – this is the best that I could come up with:


A poem about sex by Ruby
Make love to me, but do it to me quick,
I’ve got to get outside; there are dandelions to pick.
It’s quite hard on my back you know,
Even though I squat real low.
And there are things happening down below
Which make my heart race and brain go slow.
So make love to me, tick me off your list.
Then go and bother someone else. Oh no, I insist!


Awesome. I can’t wait to share it with Jack!

Day 273.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: half full. Contemplative thoughts: many.

I was talking to Jack about the possibility of a career in film but he easily dissuaded me by reminding me that my place is here as mother, grandmother and advisor to the flock.

I must say that a large part of me was relieved that I was appreciated and acknowledged, though a very small part of me is sad at the thought of paths never taken. Jack even apologized sincerely for not being supportive of my recent performance. He said it was hard for him to concentrate as he has such a basic, one-track mind. He’s not wrong! Maybe I should write poems about sex??

Day 272.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: one – caused by contemplation. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

So if I’m not going to be a Comedy Chicken with a Performing Troupe then what could I be? I’ve wasted most of my productive years raising chicks rather than seeking a career. I’ve also been told that it’s hard to break into the job market as an older chicken because there aren’t even enough jobs for the younger ones who forgo having chicks.

I have a good tertiary grounding from my time at Unipeck but there are such limited choices in the chicken job market. Basically your choices are advertising, film, literature and culinary (whatever that is).

Day 271.

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

Lovely day for an outdoor performance but so much for my loving flock…

I organised a comedy performance and poetry reading for Jack and the girls today, sat them all in a natural amphitheater under the pines and then started my performance with my slater poems. By the end of the second one Brian and Steve had ducked off to lay eggs, Jack was dozing and Ella was checking her egg hole for LICE! I wouldn’t have been so offended if I’d been reading some great long chicken epic (like Rooster Of The Rings or War And Eggs for instance) but my slater poems take only a wee small while to read. All three of them!

After that debacle I quickly went to the jokes portion of my performance, which also bombed. I need a better audience. They say genius is rarely recognised by those closest to the source.