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.

Day 270.

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full. Weather: a breezy day.

I was thinking all last night about the Comedy Chicken Performing Troupe traveling the world. That’s what the male and female people do – not the Comedy Chicken bit but the traveling the world bit. I wonder if they like it. I wonder if it’s hard to find feed hoppers and suitable nests the world over. It seems a bit huge to contemplate for a humble chicken such as myself. I mean, I have everything I want just here. I think I will just have to share my jokes and poetry with my loving flock.

Day 269. Early Winter.

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

Hey, inspired by Ella’s ‘trip’ to the pond for a drink/dunk, I’ve just made up an excellent joke:

Q: What do you call a wet chicken with no brain?
A: A duck.

Feathers, I crack me up! I reckon, given time, Matthew and I could have been a good team, a Comedy Chicken Performing Troupe. We could have traveled. We could have seen the WORLD.