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?