The Cacophony At The Chaotic Chicken Condo Castle Conversion: A rather noisy tale
Quarantine Letter #21.
My biggest surprise living on the farm has been sharing daily life with chickens. The two dozen or so free-range layers, the ladies, as I call them, who produce big, orange-yolked eggs for our breakfast and for those of family, neighbours, and even passers-by who purchase them at the paddock gate, seem to move about as a pack, a collective even. They are skilled at telling time and by 5:15 or so, they know that John will come to “put up the fowls,” where they can expect to be fed once they are herded into the coop for the night.
I often join John for this daily event and enjoy feeding the rest of the clan, a mixture of bare-necked bantams and other miscellaneous fowl. When I scatter the feed the only word that describes that scene accurately is ‘frenzy’ as they all vie for the biggest pile and peck at one another to get the most. Squawking, crowing, and buck-bucking are the hits of the day. Late last week more than the usual clan of ladies was at the top of the steps to the stables. Mamma Hen, barely a year old herself, brought her few-hours-old chicks to the spot where John would see them at 5:15 before getting to the coop. He organized feed for her and the nine tiny chicks and then she led her family to safety in the heavy undergrowth under a large Ficus.
It was too late in the day to tackle upgrading the Chicken Condo Castle as these extra guests were completely unexpected; no one had noticed that Mamma had gone into hiding. “Tomorrow, man. Tomorrow we’ll get her sorted.”
The next day can only be called The Cacophony At The Chaotic Chicken Condo Castle Conversion. Imagine, if you will, a mother hen and her eleven chicks in the penthouse suite, which all need to be moved to the mezzanine level, where two fowl on the injured list currently reside and they, in turn, needed to be moved to the lower level, which doesn’t presently have a suitable door. Step one, make a door for the lower level. Done. Move two injured fowl—both of whom have sharp claws and beaks—to this level. Check. Clean up the mezzanine level without spraying debris on the two creatures on the bottom. Right. Move one irate mother hen and eleven frightened chicks to the middle. At this point—at very much the ugly duckling stage—all eleven are protesting loudly, pecking at everything, including one another, while the mum is raising bloody hell. Aroused by all the yelling, all eight roosters and a dozen or more hens have joined the chorus and the farm’s eight Guinea Fowls are charging about at full speed spreading the alarm for all to hear. Having now swept out the debris in the penthouse suite, we delivered fresh food and water to the middle level and, while all the chicks were trying to escape as we passed the bowls in, the mother ran around in circles trying to persuade everyone to gather around and under, a near impossibility as they are both too big and too many.
In the mean time, the new mother hen was in one of the empty mare’s stables with food and water and her nine day-old chicks. My task was to put all the chicks in my bright, blue bucket, avoiding the mum’s beak and claws, while John tried to grab her (gently, but a grab nonetheless) by her legs. That accomplished, with a full accompaniment of cheeps and squawks, we made our way to the now converted Chaotic Chicken Condo Castle to establish residency for the new mum and her nine.
Imagine placing your hand in a throbbing bucket of cheeping chicks to gather as many as you can and then airlift them quickly into their new home (without dropping a single one) while the mum—hanging upside down in John’s hands—is raising a racket. The aforementioned Guinea Fowls haven’t stopped to catch a breath and the remainder of the chorus continues calling out at full volume, with the twelve occupants of the middle level squawking sympathetically with the new mum who is, literally, face to face with all of them.
Given the cacophony on the farm, the dogs up at the house have eagerly joined in alternately howling and barking. They want desperately to come down to see what is going on. As even the horses are now neighing I have caught a severe case of the giggles. The noise! The feather-laden air! The hilarity!
All twenty chicks, two mamma hens, and the injured pair now settled in their respective places, John, who takes his animal-care duties seriously, says that he is glad we got that job done “without too much confusion.”
By comparison, this morning’s excursion to the Garrison was “easy so.” The mission? To take the two-year-old, my favourite little boy, on his first horse-box ride and a night or two in a Garrison stable. He needs to get accustomed to that terrain before he can be exercised on the track to eventually get ready to race there (late this year). He has seen other horses be loaded into the horse box so perhaps he will be fine, perhaps not.
At first, success. He’s naturally curious and there’s hay in there so what does he have to lose. But, no! What’s that grazing my tush? Aaack! He swiftly backs out and we have to lure him in by bringing another horse along with us. Now three, HowULikeDisNoble, is the big boy (on the right below), getting a free ride to the Garrison, something to eat when he gets there and then a ride home riding in his favourite spot, the starboard side stall. He’s an old hand at these things.
Before we left the two-year-old at the Garrison, John and Hartley, the senior groom, took turns semi-leading him around the lower paddock, sniffing his way around, pulling this way and that, a little hesitant at first but soon at ease. I felt like I did the first time my son, Dan, went away to sleepover camp. Would he be okay?
Stay safe, friends!