RIP Mrs D-P

I'm sad to report that our oldest hen, Mrs Dooms-Patterson, dropped off her perch last night. Literally. I found her on the floor of the hen house this morning.

Mrs D-P, the black and grey hen (centre)

She seemed fine yesterday, pecking at the windfall apples, pulling out grass and lumbering after insects. She was slow in her old age, hindered by drooping front and backsides, but she was still top dog...eh, hen...around here. Mike and I calculated that she was about 9 years old, which is Methuselah in chicken terms. She hasn't laid an egg since forever, but that didn't matter.

I'm glad she was here long enough to enjoy this year's exceptional summer weather. After I take the horses out and harvest a few hedgerow fruits, I'll bury Mrs D-P next to Charles our old cockerel, down by the river. They can keep each other company. And I can visit them on shoot days.

I'll miss her but I'm not sad. Mrs Dooms-Patterson had a long, free-range life and a peaceful passing. Maybe I'll bury a few elderberries with her - she was partial to them and I would hate for her to miss out on this year's bounty.

The Continuing Adventures of Myfanwy the Chicken

I have been reporting a lot of bad news on the chicken front, so I thought I would catch you all up on the good news stories.

Do you remember Myfanwy the egg-eating hen? As Charles's last remaining heir (I let a friend have her two sisters and a fox got them both...sorry, a bit more bad news I forgot to tell you about) I was very fond of her. As a egg-eater, I was very annoyed with her. My attempts to reform her failed. I found her a home but it fell through. This turned out to be a bonus as the home was with her two (recently departed) sisters and their vulpine visitor.

We finally made the hard choice to put her in the pheasant pen in the woods. I was sat with her on my lap in the front seat of Mike's truck. As we left our driveway I had a great idea. The Manor house flock was down to only a few cockerels after repeated fox attacks (I think we have taken care of the culprits now). No hens. No eggs. What did we have to lose by making Myfanwy a "gift" to Lord and Lady S? At worst she would wander down the drive and back home to us, and we'd have to go back to plan A. At best, the Manor house cockerels would have company, and maybe even the odd egg.

It has been a complete success. Myfanwy immediately took up with a little Cochin cockerel. The housekeeper tells me they are inseparable. As a bossy hen, she's leading him rather than the other way around, but they both seem content with the arrangement.

Doesn't she look happy, more purposeful? Do you remember the hen with the rolling pin from the Foghorn Leghorn cartoons? That's Myfanwy. She just needs the straw hat with the flower to complete the picture.

I just walked down to the house to deliver some fresh eggs, and Myfanwy was having her picture taken by tourists-

Myfanwy now lives in this garden -

It's a step up from our front yard. No wonder she decided to stay. All the men to herself, a fancy garden and the adoration of tourists all summer. She's must feel like a celebrity (or is that a celebirdy?)

And to top it off, she's stopped eating eggs. Can you believe it? The housekeeper says she picks up an egg most days.

The ducklings I hatched for Lady S are happily reunited with their parents. The family group spends most of their day waddling around the churchyard attached to the manor, adding ambiance to the place. The ducklings are splashed black and white, a mix of their parents -

I have a small hatch due out on Sunday, so maybe there will be more good news - the start of a small flock of Buff Orpingtons. I have sourced a handful of Barbu D'Uccle eggs and I will set them next week.

The last bit of good news is a 'blowing my own trumpet' announcement: I administered the last dose of injectable wormer to the sheep last week All.By.Myself. No accidents, no jabbing my own hand. I penned them, caught them, rolled them and jabbed them. And they're still alive. Later my husband surprised me with a gift he had made for me -

My very own shepherd's crook. We still have quite a few working blacksmiths in England and Mike found an old pattern and had the smith make it for me. It's used to hook the back leg of a sheep and hold it. The girls are going to have to endure me practising yet another technique on them.

I've just registered my flock with the AHO (Animal Health) as required by our government. Once I receive my flock number I will be an official sheep keeper. I'm about to register with the Polled Dorset Sheep Breeder's Association and I have to pick a prefix, as a name for my flock. I've chosen Yankee. The Yankee Flock of Polled Dorset. I think it suits us both.

Charles 2004-2009

The sad news is that Charles the cockerel died today. He looked on the brink of improvement and I was syringing meds and fluids into him 3x a day. He started to go rapidly downhill yesterday and was struggling to breathe today (pulmonary oedema I think) so I had to make the heartbreaking decision to intervene. I'd like to write that it was touching or poetic but it's not; I got a log from the woodpile and did what needed to be done. And I held onto him til he stopped breathing, cuddling him (the emotional part) and to check it was an effective fatal blow (the pragmatic part).

We buried him at the bottom of Beeches pen right by the river and put a little stone cairn to make the spot. The dogs and I can visit him when we're walking or working birds back to the pen. He won't be lonely and he's got a nice view.

In hindsight, I wish I hadn't made a chicken for dinner (no relation) and decided I only felt like eating the potatoes tonight.

Now the dogs have finished their dinner, I must give them their evening run before it's too late. There's barely time to mourn the loss of one, then you're back to being concerned with the welfare and survival of all the others.

Chickens In - Chickens Out

42 chicks arrived today. Most are "meat" chickens; hybrids developed for use by commercial producers. In artificial conditions they can be pushed to make a big chicken quickly; here they are allowed to range, eat sensibly & live as active a life as a meat chicken can, being the couch potato of the poultry world. All these chickens will be harvested by Christmas and put in our freezer to see us through until this time next year. I can get 3 meals out of each chicken, including the stock for soup. I know - they're really cute now....

There are a few hybrid layer chicks too. They will boost our egg production when they're all grown up. The "egg" layers will live a totally free-range existence and eventually take up with one of the cockerels (or not - ladies choice). They will be unlikely to hatch their own broods: they have been bred not to go broody and therefore are a better bet for year round egg production. One day if all goes well they will simply die of old age.

It's these chickens, the ones who lay for you year in and year out, who form not only the bulk but the personality of the garden flock. Everyone gets a name. And a mother. I fostered the 12 "egg" chicks under 2 broody hens: Barbara the Silkie hen & Grandma Brown, the old matriarch. Both happily accepted their small charges. As these chicks will have to learn to wander and scratch and come home at night to roost, it's good for them to have guidance as they grow up in the finer points of being a chicken. And the moms are happy too. Everyone needs a purpose - even chickens.

But, as Mike often says to me - "Where's there's livestock, there's deadstock". And although I spare a thought for the meat chickens come harvest, their death is expected and needful. It's when I lose an old friend that I feel melancholy.

Charles the gentleman cockerel is old and tired now. He's not been able to fight off this recent insult, most likely a tumor or infection that's reached his brain. He's eating & drinking, but unsteady on his feet. I will help him to go to roost tonight with his wives & daughters, but I won't be surprised if he's died in the night. If he shows any signs of suffering I will "put him out of his misery" though I don't relish the idea.

He's King of the Garden even now in his weakened state. His progeny are numerous. He's walked miles patrolling his borders, seen off cats and upstart puppies, and recently gave me a spur to the hand which resulted in an infection & month's course of antibiotics. This because I had hold of one of his ladies, treating her for scaly leg and she called out in distress. Charles to the rescue.

I was there for his hatching. He was hatched by his adopted mums, a pair of silver appleyard ducks. Although they tried to get him to swim as a youngster, nature overrode nurture and he simply waited patiently at the edge of their makeshift pond. He grew up and took up with my 4 old ex-battery hens who taught him many painful (for him) lessons about being a poultry patriarch. His daughters are the result: Emmeline, Mafynwy, Mrs Black. Now they have children of their own.

So I guess a part of Charles will always be here. But I will still miss him.