No chicken.

As well as peace, calm and quiet, living in the country offers moments of hilarity. Such was the case when our dear neighbours went away this week, leaving Richard In Charge Of Chickens. Or, more accurately, In Charge Of Putting Chickens To Bed. (And getting them up again in the morning.)

Sounded easy. Go round just before dusk, encourage the hens into their houses, shut the door and Avoid The Cockerel.

The cockerel, apparently, had a penchant for attack legs.

My husband is a farm boy. Chickens and roosters hold no fear for him. No problem.

So, the first day, as he put his fluorescent yellow cycling jacket on (garment of choice for every outdoor activity), I said: "You need to take the broom with you. Remember, Nicky warned you that you needed a broom or a rake to fend off the cockerel?"
"Oh, I won't need that," was the insouciant reply.

There was a little more conversation after that, as I reminded him that Nicky had warned about the cockerel Several Times, but he still went off unarmed. Oh well.

He was away a surprisingly long time. This is how it went:

Two hens were already in their house, so he shut it up and started to encourage the others to go in to the other house. Oh no. No way were they going in there, so he had to open up the first house again whereupon the other hens scuttled out of it.

It took quite some time to get them all inside. So absorbing was this task, that Richard forgot about the rooster, until a sudden stabbing pain in his shin caused him to leap a couple of feet in the air. The rooster had rushed out from behind the chicken house and grasped his leg with its vicious, razor-sharp, spur claws.

Here, let us remind ourselves that Richard is tall and incredibly lean, resembling a human daddy-long-legs. As he leapt about, shaking the rooster off, the bird instantly trying to attack once more, he managed to take off his jacket, using it as a defensive barrier between him and the bird. The jacket's virulent yellow, fortunately, seemed to deter it and he managed to avoid both further attack AND to get the cockerel safely inside with the rest of the chickens.

The whole performance - Richard capering around the hen houses in the middle of our neighbour's field - was duly watched and admired by our friends whose house overlooks. They refrained from videoing the proceedings - sadly. But the telling of the story becomes more hilarious every time ....

Not quite Death By Chicken.

What do we do about the chicken?

Mama Kuku is now well established at home.
No longer 'it' she is now 'she'.
Someone suggested we call her Helen.
(I'm not sure why.)
She potters around under the bird feeder, coming up to talk to us when we go outside, asking for food.
She's almost scary at times, chasing after us, clucking demandingly.

But I didn't ask for a chicken.
I didn't want a chicken.
I don't want to chase her away, but she's here - to stay, it seems.
What now?

FC

It seems that Feral Chicken is not actually feral, but escaped from some loving family home.
The trouble is, we don't know where.
It hangs around under the bird seeder ALL DAY, scratching away at the lawn. The weather has turned chillier, so the chicken is looking considerably 'fatter' as it fluffs up its feathers against the cold.
Now Richard has started feeding it bird seed.
It clucks appreciately when it sees him.
It'll be wanting to come into the house next.

Tales of Chickens and Feral Spiders

Actually, this should be feral chickens. One arrived in the garden a few days ago. I arrived home one evening, paused at the mail box, and was startled by a scrabbling above my head accompanied by a smattering of twigs falling into my hair. A chicken was roosting in the cypress tree next to the box.

Since when had our postman turned into a chicken, I wondered? I examined it closely. Smart brown and white dappled feathers, with a tawny brown collar, a red beak… all the usual Chicken appendages. It glared at me, annoyed that I had broken its peace with my presence. Shrugging, I left it to it. It was cold in the tree, and I had a warm house to go into.

It was still there the next morning. Beneath the tree. Scratching around on the gravel, turning over dross in search of insect and grub gold.

It was still there at lunch time. Same actions. Same menu.

And dinner.

As dusk fell, it hopped back into the tree again. I contemplated asking it for a contribution towards its board and lodging.

Days later, it still occupies my garden. It evidently has chicken intelligence: the hunting ground has moved to the patch of grass below the bird feeder. This is normally Robin’s haunt: he flashes his red feathers at all who intrude, but in this instance he is nowhere to be seen. The FC must be more than a hundred times his size, so sense reigns in his birdbrain. There is probably more nous in there than in the Chicken, which must be galling for him. A clear case of brawn triumphing over brain.

Where has this Chicken come from? Where should it go? There is no knowing, but at this rate, the lawn will be scratched to pieces in another couple of weeks and the Grass Police will be on my case.

Or the Chicken’s.