Counting Chickens

In late September 2011, we bought six Isa Brown chickens for the purpose of producing eggs to eat (and sell to our neighbours) and in the hope of having pets that happily eat weeds while creating manure to fertilize the garden.   Since the chickens arrived, we have been meaning to enclose an area of the garden to be used as a ‘chicken run’, somewhere they can scratch around in the dirt without harming our other plants or being frightened by our dog.  Unfortunately we are completely dysfunctional when it comes to DIY projects and we are entirely dependent upon help from friends and family.  In short - the chicken run hasn’t happened yet.

We have however, released the chickens several times into our garden at large and they have obediently taken themselves back to their coup at the end of the day.  Each time, we have locked our dog in the front yard so as not to frighten or endanger the chickens.  Our dog is a 12 year old Rhodesian Ridgeback and whilst she is fiercely protective of our family, she hasn’t shown much interest in the chickens.  She has been far more interested in the food scraps, some of which ended up in her bowl prior to the chickens arriving.

We required help from my father and brother to clip the chickens’ wings when they first arrived, as Tubs was too scared to enter the coup and didn’t want to touch the chickens.  He has since bonded with our new pets and taken to them in quite an unexpected manner.  I have teased Tubs on many occasions for favouring the chickens over the dog (and sometimes the children too), and the chickens have become affectionately known as ‘his girlfriends’. 

Tubs dutifully checks on ‘his girlfriends’ morning, noon and night, and insists on being the only one to give them the food scraps at the end of the day.  He lovingly hand picks weeds and excess lettuce leaves from his vegie patch for them while serenading them with tunes from his ipod speaker which he takes down with him.  We’ve only had the chickens for a few months and I have been waiting for the honeymoon period to be over as Tubs rarely has lasting interest in projects, but it hasn’t ended yet. 

As another month went by without the chicken run being constructed, I decided to trial letting the chickens out while our dog was still in the yard.  I stayed in the yard for the first hour, weeding and sorting washing and keeping a close eye on things.  The dog was interested at first, wanting to sniff the chickens and watch what they were doing.  I growled at her a few times and told her to stay away and she took herself off for a sleep on the warm pavers.  Being an old dog – she does a lot of that. 

I went inside the house, returning every so often to check on the dog and the chickens and they all seemed to be keeping to themselves.  Later on that day we packed the children into the car to take them to their grandfather’s for the night so that Tubs and I could have a much longed for night off.  As we were leaving the house I asked Tubs if we should lock the dog up while we were gone. He replied ‘No, she’ll be right’ (a fairly standard response from Tubs on any topic), so off we went.

When we returned home, we went out to the back garden to see if the chickens had put themselves to bed.  To our horror we saw our largest, first and best laying hen lying dead on the lawn.  We looked at each other in disbelief and immediately began searching for the others.  We saw several chickens scratching around in their favourite patch of the garden and did a quick count – three chickens.  Dubiously, I went into the coup to find the dog sniffing around and was saddened to discover another dead chicken in the corner, the poor thing hadn’t stood a chance.

We searched high and low but couldn’t find the third missing chicken.  I asked Tubs what he wanted to do with the dead ones, ‘bury them or bin them?’ He started to dig a hole then threw the shovel across the yard, letting several expletives fly with it.   I took a step back at that point and observed his distress - I had never seen him like this. He was visibly distraught, angry and totally inert.  I bagged the chickens and put them in the bin to get them out of sight, and went inside to telephone my dad for a chicken supply contact.

Within ten minutes I had made three calls and arranged to pick up replacement chickens of a similar breed, at point of lay, and located 65 kilometres from our home.  The time was now – I gave Tubs the option of going out for dinner (as per our plan prior to this disaster) and spending our money on food - which would be wasted given our moods, or going for a drive and spending said money on new chickens.  He was incapable of making a decision, palpably angry with me and the situation I’d created.  I ushered him to the car, drove to McDonald’s and got us both a burger before hitting the open road, cardboard boxes and mud-map in hand.

Tubs opened up on the drive, saying he hadn’t realized how much the chickens meant to him and that he’d never seen a dead animal that he’d ‘known’ before.  He said that leaving them with our dog was typical of the sort of stupid things that ‘we do’ – which alarmed me and caused me to do a quick mental stock-take of any allegedly dangerous situations in which we may have placed ourselves or our children (things that matter more than the loss of three chickens, in my opinion).  I didn’t come up with any overly concerning scenarios, and focussed again on the mission at hand.  Our discussion turned to what version of events to give the children and we agreed to tell them that we’d made a trade with a farmer who needed three Isa Browns at point of lay, so we traded three of ours for some of theirs which were not yet laying.  

The farmer had rounded up eight chickens for us to inspect and we decided to buy the lot.  We drove home in silence and placed the hens unceremoniously in the coup with our three surviving Isa Browns.  The new chickens looked scrawny and unattractive in comparison to our plump, comb crowned friends.   I went to bed while Tubs consoled himself the only way he knows – by eating and watching a movie.  He watched a documentary style movie about Ayrton Senna, the Formula One driver who died tragically aged 34 when at the peak of his career. 

I found Tubs watching the movie for the second time when I got up in the morning.  He told me he cried many times during the movie (as he was in a ‘deeply emotional state’ – his words, not mine) but was inspired by Ayrton’s commitment and determination to succeed.  Tubs was devastated by Ayrton’s untimely death but inspired by his legacy, including the trust fund (managed by Ayrton’s family and former rival Alain Prost) which has paid for the education of over 12 million underprivileged children in Brazil.   Important safety issues in Forumla One racing were raised by Ayrton’s unnecessary death, and the resulting changes have meant that no Formula One drivers have died since (while racing). 

When the movie finished, Tubs went outside to let the three original chickens out into the garden (while the dog was locked in the shed), so that the new hens could adjust to the coup in the light of day.  I went outside mid-morning to check on things, and found one of the chickens wanting to be let back into the coup.  I assumed she wanted a drink or was still traumatized by the events of the day before, and let her back in.  I thought little more of it until I went out to the garden again at the end of the day to see how Tubs was going rounding the chickens up for the night. 

He came walking toward me with his arms in the air, sheer jubilance oozing from every fibre of his being and I knew immediately that the traumatized chicken seeking refuge in the coup mid-morning was our missing chicken from the night before.  She had returned – from goodness knows where (we had looked again for her in the early morning before collecting the children from their grandfather, petrified that they would find a dead chicken while playing in the garden).

It seemed that the return of this much loved chicken, given up for dead for the past 24 hours, was tantamount to Christ rising from the tomb.  Tubs proclaimed that the two chickens that died last night had sacrificed themselves to teach us a lesson and to force us to increase our overall chicken holding.  We now have twelve chickens, who, in a matter of weeks will be producing a dozen eggs a day (for the benefit of our friends, family and neighbours).  Tubs has also decided that the deceased chickens deserve a chicken version of a state funeral, and has vowed to put a rose on the bin lid the day the truck comes to collect our rubbish next week.  He has named the dead chickens ‘Ayrton’ and ‘Senna’ and says he will never forget their sacrifice. 

It will take time for Tubs to forgive me, and the children’s egg selling enterprise will take a temporary hit, but in time I hope all will be forgiven.  I will never again underestimate the natural instincts of our dog, nor Tubs’s affection for his hens and I certainly won’t be making light of it any time soon – well at least not this week!