The Story Continues.......
I did not intend to have a rooster. You don't need them for the girls to lay and roosters are famously noisy.
So at first I only had the girls. They were youngsters and just coming into lay when they first arrived. They were terribly cute, terribly friendly and we all got along famously.
However, after only a few weeks, as I approached them, some of the girls were crouching for me - they were treating me as though I were a rooster. That is, they were "asking" me to "tread them," I didn't like this much. It just didn't seem fair on the girls. and so I decided it was time for them to "have a man in their lives". So, Bertie Rooster became part of the team.
Again, I acquired him as a rescue. He was a youngster himself - a teenager I suppose in chicken terms. He had grown up with a couple of his brothers and had not previously had access to hens.
Having read the horror stories of what can happen when a new chicken is introduced to an established flock, I introduced Bertie under carefully controlled conditions. I placed him inside one of the mini-pens that came with the original coop so that he and the girls could see each other without actually being able to reach each other.
Instead of the open warfare I had been expecting, some of the girls seemed quite charmed by the new arrival. Of the eight girls, five ignored him, two seemed interested and one, Blackie, prostrated herself before him on the spot - she knew exactly what she required of him.
I gave it half an hour of careful observation before I decided that nothing dreadful would happen if I released Bertie, then opened the pen and waited. He pottered out, looking a bit gauche and nervous. Blackie once again spread herself before him and he completely ignored her.....When it became clear that he was quite clueless, Blackie picked herself up again with almost a cat's air of "I didn't really mean it anyway", giving herself a good shake over and starting to have a good preen (first rule of cats - when in doubt - wash!!).
It seemed, on the whole, a good start, even if Blackie didn't agree.
Two days later Bertie had discovered his libido but not his social graces. He had worked out what to do with the girls, but not how to charm the girls into seeing things his way. A chase around the garden would be followed by him catching up with the hen of his choice, grabbing her by the comb and more or less hurling her to the ground before he had his way. By any human measure it would have been called rape.... The girls clearly didn't like it much and I was beginning to think I had made a mistake.
However, over time, Bertie's manners improved. He acquired poise and confidence. He learned to call his girls over when he found a tasty tit bit. He strutted for them, inviting them to admire his magnificent plumes - and they did. After a few weeks, the girls became his devoted followers. His word was law and they followed his lead where-ever he went.
I have no real idea what, if any, breed Bertie is, except that he is terribly, terribly handsome - and knows it. His beautiful golden plumage glints in the sunshine. His lovely tail floats gracefully in the breeze and he holds himself with the dignity he knows goes with his position as head of the flock. The dignity is only a little reduced when he hears one of the girls call him from the far end of the garden and he sets of at a run to deliver her request......
Now according to the books I had read - being a beginner with chickens - many of the modern breeds of chicken have had the broodiness bred out of them. These same books assure me that the hens will happily lay their eggs in the nesting box. What a load of tripe...
Firstly, chickens lay their eggs anywhere except in the nesting boxes conveniently provided for them. It became part f my daily routine to work my way though the garden, poking under bushes, parting nettles and peering through brambles to find where the ungrateful little beasts had left their eggs.
Secondly, it is my experience that hens go broody at the drop of a hat. I didn't recognise the signs at first, but I quickly learned that a few stray fluffy feathers meant that one or other of the girls had decided to denude herself, again, in pursuit of motherhood.
The first of the girls who actually got away with it; I thought at first that I had lost her to a fox. I missed her one morning and after a search of the garden, could find no sign of her. It was pretty upsetting. I felt I had failed in my duties to the chickens. They were my charges and it is for me to keep them safe.
Three days later, I was walking up the garden, alongside the hedge, when I caught a flash of bronze in my peripheral vision. There she was - Mum was tucked into the undergrowth, and as I took a closer look, she was clearly sat on eggs - I could see two just poking out from under her, but I couldn't tell the total number of eggs.
At this point I went into a bit of a flap. I was completely unprepared for my "pregnant" chicken - no broody box, no nesting area, nothing. I couldn't leave her under the hedge - she was a sitting target i the fox turned up - as surely he would over her three weeks of sitting.
An emergency search produced an old kitchen cupboard, destined for the bonfire, which, after some alteration was reincarnated as a private nesting box. I gave it a small private run, again using one of those original runs I had rejected for being too small. Having assembled all this into a quiet corner of The Fort, I felt it was time for Mum to move house. Deciding that speed was the best way to tackle the move, I scooped her up into the cat basket I had ready and moved to pop the eggs into anotheer basket.
Eighteen eggs! She was sat on eighteen eggs! I couldn't believe it. How had she managed to hide them all that time. How could I not have seen them?
Five minutes later, Mum and eggs were esconced in their new nesting box. I felt quite smug as, after some initial protest and a lot of feather rustling, mum settled down in heer new home and resumed her brooding. I began to plan how to handle eighteen charming little cheepers in a couple of weeks.
Alas, it was not to be.
Rats arrived. First they were going after the feed. Then they were going after Mum's eggs. No matter how I tried to trap them, they failed to take bait or enter the traps I laid for them.
I first realised I had a serious problem when I noticed the smell coming from Mum's nest - rotting meat. although I was reluctant to disturb her, I lifted her off the eggs to find underneath a number of half eaten, stinking semi-developed chicks.
In the end, despite all my efforts to deal with the rats, Mum only managed to hatch one chick. He turned out healthily enough and at least she was able to have something for her efforts. But I had learned to hate rats. Although I really don't like using it, in the end I laid poison and that polished them off after about a fortnight.
Over the next couple of months, two more of the girls went broody. in each case I tried to help - moving them into safe nesting quarters. Since they were away from the grass and the earth I tried to help by occasionally misting the eggs to aid the humidity. In two cases the girls managed to hatch one egg and the third time none hatched.
Then in August we were clearing out recycling bin by the kitchen. There's a kind of mini footbridge into the kitchen with a gap underneath of about eight or ten inches. John said suddenly "There's a chicken under here".
And sure enough, there was Mum again, clearly brooding, although this time I couldn't see the eggs. Well out of reach there was no disturbing her and I had no idea how long she had been brooding - 21 days is the classic brood time for chickens, so i rather assumed that in a couple of weeks there might be a happy event. But given the recent history for hatching, I wasn't too hopeful
The following morning I opened the kitchen door to see Mum followed by one, two, three.......nine......!! balls of clockwork fluff. All apparently perfectly healthy and devotedly following Mum.
Success :-)
