Not My Chickens

My non–existent chickens are on the kitchen doorstep, banging their non–existent beaks on the glass doors, wanting their non–existent breakfast. Because I Don’t Have Chickens, like I said. They are a figment of somebody’s imagination.

That would be the same somebody who took pity on a pretty little bantam hen from next door which, earlier this year, had lost two tiny chicks to next door’s cat and still had 9 more to look after, and was spotted in my upper garden surrounded by a moving cheeping cloud, and was sensibly taking up residence in my bushes. And developed a liking for Chocolate’s left–over catfood when the doors were open, which was all day long, and somehow or other it ended up with the kitchen being sort of imprinted on them.  As my neighbour told me later – everything up to 12 weeks old. Fixed in concrete. Oh. 

And during the winter I’d taped over the kitchen doors cos it was blizzarding and you could see daylight through the gap. And some of the tape was still left on when I took this –

A dependable source of interesting sustinence, they thought. A safe doormat to sit on afterwards and cuddle up together in the sunshine. A cat who had been trained not to attack. (I am so, so proud of him. He sits two feet away from the tiny chicks and doesn’t move a muscle, whether I’m there or not.) He knows what would happen if he did. One spring day he’d been under the rose bush and so were chickens. There was an almighty squawk, a hen shot out one side and Chocolate shot out the other.

He understands, now, the difference between ‘out there wild and flying about = fair game’, and ‘being deliberately fed = off limits’, that they’re house–friends and protegés just like him. (Landlord has just gone a funny purpley puce.)  

Anyway, one of them’s higher than the cat. And the cat is big, but this bird has a very large wicked beak. The bird in question is a cockerel.  Called Geronimo. 
Why ? Well just so I can give myself a laugh standing on the doorstep shouting GERONIMMOOOOHH……  And he comes running, clucking and chattering and telling me what a lovely morning he’s having, and thank you for this corn and isn’t life brilliant? And is this all for me ? and the suet sprinkles ? He runs in circles round my feet with one wing extended down. This means I’m his property and he’s protecting me.

And Geronimo because he has that sort of invincible pride about him. The Great Warrior.

Geronimo was dumped.

That is, some kindly–thinking people walking the countryside (benefit of the doubt, here) saw my neighbour’s flock and thought Here are nice People Who Have Hens. They will know What To Do. We will bring Our Hens here and they can Join In and Be Looked After.

What they didn’t see was that the flock had other ideas. Who the hell are you?  Piss off. This is our food, our tree, our car to sit under, our everything. Doesn’t matter what you look at, it’s not yours. You can’t have any. Etc etc. Was getting quite violent. Actually there was another identical cockerel dumped at the same time, but he soon fell into the jaws of somebody’s dog–being–walked–but–running–out–of–control, and that was that. So the one remaining Big Boy (far too big for the little ladies next door, health–and–safety–speaking) found refuge in my garden, to the relief of neighbour. He found his own tree, a nice thick cosy conifer near the boat. He slept up there every night. And still does. Well he would if somebody would admit he exists, that is. (Landlord has just had a stroke.) 

Well it says somewhere in the lease that livestock should not be allowed in the garden. Try stopping them. They fly. They stand on top of the gate shouting Look at Meeeee. I can go anywhere I bloody well want. And anyway the landlord's dogs are absent. Big dogs, hundreds of miles absent. And now I have a cat who's scared of hens.

And then Geronimo fell in love with the little bantam.  I texted neighbour:

<<Geronimo has captured the heart of the Fair Griselda (aka Honeybun, depending what mood I’m in).  He leaves her alone, which might be why she enjoys his patronage! Any trouble for her, I’ll call you for some sort of segregation ideas.>>

It was true. He didn’t pester her. The next–door cockerels did, all the time. But he and she were inseparable. Young love. I did guess they were probably married when one of next door’s jumped on to Griselda and in a split second Geronimo swiped him off. Off he went, our hero, chasing the intruder, running round the boat, out of one gate and in at the other, Keystone Cops I kid you not, and Honeybun was just standing there, blinking and breathless with wonder, her little chicks gaping in admiration at New Daddy.  He escorts her everywhere, fussing and checking everything’s in order. He makes sure she gets to the food, and the chicks – well he hasn’t stood on one since that first day when he flattened it with his big feet and I forgot to breathe, and the chick sort of stood up and wobbled a bit and was absolutely fine.  

She was a brilliant mother – picking out the tiniest morsels from the bowl and carefully placing the bits in front of the chicks. Chopping up bigger bits with her beak for them. 

Why is she the Fair Griselda? No idea whatsoever. These things just happen. She’s like something from Hans Andersen.

Her chicks have grown into proper young hens, and yes they still think the kitchen is their spiritual home, but they don’t get in any more. She had started pecking at them every mealtime, telling them to sod off, basically, that they were big boys and girls now. Find your own food. And I got tired of cleaning up little parcels, and disinfecting the floor.  (Landlord is now getting triple bypass.)

And now, so late in the year, she suddenly has two more teeny chicks, and I foresee – well you know what I foresee, and with winter coming …   shall I make some sort of shelter, a straw–filled little roost with proper bars to snooze on? Just like the first lot used to do under the kitchen chairs?  But they’ll be bigger by then, big enough to get into a tree. They are the exact right size just now, where wing power is bigger than weight, so they fly really well! Brilliant to watch. And weird. Chicks flying about four feet. Effortless, a bit like bouncing sparrows.  I mean sparrows bouncing, not me bouncing them.

When Geronimo goes to roost at night, he walks up and down past the conifer hedge, sizing it up, then suddenly takes a flying leap into a hole about four feet up. Then you can watch the outside branches wobbling, as he slowly makes his way further out of fox–reach.

He loves company. He loves to talk. But he doesn't do this now. He's too busy to stop in and chat.

That tail's pathetic. Think it was spring moult time.

And he doesn't get to do this any more either.

People who know about all this will see he had his spurs removed by somebody's vet. That means somebody cared, once.

If they were digging up the plants, it would be different. If they were scratching up the lawn, it would be awful and I’d feel terrible. But they don’t.  The only places they scratch are the gravel or bark covered bits, and I call that weeding, really. And slug clearance. The gardener will vouch for me. They eat good corn from the mill–over–the–hill in Yorkshire, and they behave themselves. I even find the occasional egg under the kitchen window.

Landlord is now in intensive care, recovering slowly.

And besides, I’d love to buy this house, if and when. Then none of this would matter, would it?

Landlord feeling a whole lot better, all of a sudden.