Whooo

Once more, Death stalks the Hollow Garden. Whooo.

The Death of Chickens, to be precise. And he doesn't exactly need to stalk... in fact he's around here so much I've had to get him a key cut.

To begin with, there was the Box'o'Cockerels™, so called because the four of them came home with me in one very small, very quiet cardboard box one day. The Allotment Doctor had been sold some birds by a local gentleman on the promise that they were all at point of lay. For those of you who aren't members of the Clucknoscenti, that means they're about to start laying. And guess what? They weren't. In fact you would have had a long wait for any eggs from that lot, because they were young roosters in disguise. You know; shaving twice a day, stuffing tissues down their fronts, using tight pants and masking tape, all that jazz. You get the picture. I have a mental image of Doctor Cluck handing over a fistful of banknotes to a smirking farmer, while the chickens stub out their cigars and frantically apply lipstick in the background.

I fed the beasties up until the cock-a-doodling started, and for a while longer until they were actually trying to kill each other (and they do) before snatching their pyjamas and soupifying them. Only Eric remained, largely because he was tiny and inoffensive and looked like a novelty slipper. Then one day the hormones arrived and suddenly he was a viscous little bastard - and since I didn't want him to breed from there was only one outcome.

Next came the first batch of Lincolnshire Buffs. Ten eggs yielded four surviving chicks, and by an unlikely but inevitable quirk of statistics they were all boys. Bugger. We ate three (not bad - worth doing for the meat) and kept one as Rooster-in-Residence.

Mistake.

Now I'm not anti-rooster, don't think that I am. And as roosters go he wasn't a bad sort really - the odd peck when I tried to grab one of his girls, but that's to be expected - but he had one really unfortunate characteristic which was his SHEER VOLUME.

Some friends who were visiting came down to see the new addition, who was looking suitably splendid and fluffed up, and submitted to being picked up so they could feel his impressive weight. But then he Did His Thing, which caused a shocked silence from the humans present.

'...ckin 'ell,' said Spider in awe. 'What the 'ell was that?'*

Now Spider has kept chickens for years, and always has a rooster or two. He's used to the noise that they make. But this - this was something else. He'd crow between ten and twenty times in a row, eyes dreamily fixed on the middle distance as if in a trance, listening for the echo coming back from the hills before letting loose his next. Here was a bird that enjoyed the sound of his own voice. And what a voice!

He had to go. Question is, was this just him, or is it typical of the breed? I ask this question because the second batch of Lincolnshire Buffs is currently being raised for me by one of the Allotment Doctor's broodies - and if all the boys are that loud, then the breed really isn't for me. Sad, but true; Himself would send off a volley of crows when he was hungry, or wanted out, or was thinking about Crumpet, or could hear another rooster, or could sense a predator, or was vaguely worried about something. And one of the things that made him feel threatened was me. Whenever I was working in the garden he'd start off and he wouldn't shut up until I went - and eventually I realised I wasn't enjoying being outside any more. He was in the pot within the hour.

But tonight I brought home Asbo Chicken, another reject from the Allotment Doctor's flock, this time because she's shown seriously antisocial tendencies by beating up the others and almost killed one of them. She's a beautiful Light Sussex, a breed normally thought of as docile and not prone to broodiness. Naturally, she's agressive and goes broody at the drop of a hat. She's in a wire enclosure beside the other girls tonight, and in a day or two I'll put them together and see what happens - I'm hoping the change of scene will snap her out of it, but if anyone has any suggestions on dealing with bullies I'd love to hear them.

However, as soon as I finished stuffing her into the little coop I'd got ready for her tonight I realised I was one bird short in the main run, and discovered one of the Cuckoo Marans dead in the nettles. Unmarked and previously well, so probably a heart attack. Or is it something more sinister?

Has Asbo Chicken's baleful influence started working already, or do I need to ask the Death of Chickens to give his key back?

*Yes, we really do talk like that in England.