S MAGAZINE ★ 28 JULY 2019 75
Mindy Hammond
Every week in S Magazine
mathematical feat, besides which, the
chickens and Eyebrow were fine temporarily.
The turkeys were egg-static to move... no,
really, they both laid an egg. Unfortunately, they
were the only ones in production. The hens
didn’t get the memo; they ate corn and layers
pellets but not a single spherical object
appeared. Were they duff hens?
I wasn’t sure, but at least one of them had
cannibalistic tendencies. It pecked the hind
end of one of the white hens so severely, her
poor bum was featherless. It looked as though
she had sat down on a pile of raspberries.
Was it was the sight of chicken burlesque
moves or the horror of the Hannibal Lecteress
in their midst? I couldn’t say, but, at bedtime,
Duchess the turkey was on her back with her
legs in the air. Had she fainted or was it a
dance move? Sadly, it was neither. Duchess
obviously resented moving and performed the
perfect sulk... suicide. Queenie
was standing alongside her,
chirping softly at me with a
confused expression, as if to
say, “I dunno... wasn’t me.”
Noo! Still in mourning, last
night I caught the speckledy
hen red-handed, pecking her
friend. I marched her over to
keep Queenie company. Surely
she wouldn’t attack something
four times her size?
They were locked in the
bedroom area for 10
minutes before I took a
peek. Poor Queenie was
crouched in the corner
panting with fear.
Their pen was
pest-proof, so I left
Queenie peacefully
in bed and put
Hennible Speckle in the
outdoor run with a
branch for a perch. If
she behaves, she may
get parole, but until
then, a corner of Chicken
Woods has been renamed
Chicken Chokey.speckledy lady. They could stay in the big shed
until my order for vermin-proof enclosures was
delivered. I ordered three; one for the turkeys,
one for Eyebrow and another for our new hens
(not to be named, just in case).
The new hens seemed to like their shed;
they had a nesting box each and perches. The
turkeys watched with interest as their new
neighbours settled in, while Eyebrow marched
back and forth, guarding the new arrivals.
A week later, a huge lorry offloaded three
pallets into the yard; the new runs came as
flatpacks, without instructions. Excellent.
Although each run was 6ft high, they weren’t all
the same length, so you can imagine the fun
we had doing sums on bits of paper.
Meanwhile, holidays were looming, work was
getting busy and after finally completing the
most urgent run, for the turkeys, the workers
unanimously proclaimed tools down. We
couldn’t afford the time to perform anotherSUSAN HELLArD C/o ArENADon’t count your chickens before they’ve settled into a new hutch, says our
columnist. There may be a cannibal in their midst... Illustration by Susan Hellard
C
hicken Woods really needed a
name change – maybe to turkey-
and-a-duck copse or durkey dingle.
There was no avoiding it, the place
was like a ghost town with vacant
houses and only the occasional gobbling noise
from Duchess or Queenie to break the silence.
The old runs were rotting and I was sure the
turkeys were getting nervous. They had watched
all the other female fowl leave, never to return,
and if you’re of a turkey persuasion, perhaps
you acknowledge life is short and a car journey
isn’t going to end in a trip to the seaside...
I declared I was done with hens after the
last obliteration in Chicken Woods. However,
alongside the sad turkey situation, the
Hammond humans were also causing scenes
in the kitchen. After several cries of woe at
discovering the lacklustre supermarket eggs had
all passed their use-by date and bemoaning
the end of our personal egg production facility,
I finally succumbed... I would buy more hens,
but only if they were safe.
I spring-cleaned our converted
garden shed for new hens and set
about one of the old runs with
hammer and nails. The run was a
decent size for four or five, and
the shed could accommodate
30 hens; no way would
I let this batch be completely
free-range – it just wasn’t safe.
I visited a local chicken
breeder and it was amazing.
I was so impressed with her
supersafe, super-clean
enclosures. The rooves and
sides were made of galvanised
steel rather than chicken wire,
and the floors were covered in
shavings, which gave the hens
a great scratching surface.
They had sand baths,
climbing frames, even a
swing. When the lady chicken
expert assured me a fox had
never broken through, well,
I was sold, and so were five
hens. Three white ones,
one caramel and a grey ●S