2020-03-07 New Zealand Listener

94 LISTENER MARCH 7 2020

THE GOOD LIFE

T

here is no understanding a

chicken’s mind. They live in

a world in which the food

another chicken has is always

better and should therefore

be stolen immediately,

even when it’s exactly the

same food. Chickens are

birdbrains.

Still, our chooks,

the Four Hens of the

Apocalypse, have been

particularly bonkers since

the coop was given its end-

of-summer clean.

This is a task that takes

two days and is a trial for

them and us. On the first

day – you have to pick

a hot one, which is not

difficult at the moment –

you clean out the “deep

litter”, which is a thick

layer of wood shavings

that lines the bottom of

the coop. Then you wash

the coop and laying boxes

with a waterblaster and

leave them to dry in the

afternoon heat. The next

day, you spray around a sanitiser, let

that dry, spray an insecticide, let that

dry, before finally adding a thick new

layer of wood shavings and invit-

ing your feathered friends back in to

appreciate all that you’ve done for

them.

The birdbrains in turn, and without

fail, will treat their freshly cleaned

In the ongoing war

of man versus fowl,

the feathered fiends

have the edge.

Apocalypse fowl

GREG

DIXON

home with the sort of beady-eyed suspicion

Winston Peters reserves for anyone with a press

card. The routine begins with one of them walking

up the coop’s ramp, poking her head in, eyeing

the freshly cleaned coop, and running off as if

she’s seen the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

The four will then talk among themselves and

agree that you’ve ruined their home. Then, in the

coming days and again without fail, they will refuse

to lay their eggs in the freshly cleaned laying boxes.

In the week following a big clean, they spend

their free-ranging time – between 4pm and sunset

in summer – finding secret places in the garden to

lay eggs, before emerging to prance about the lawn

making extra-loud post-lay bragging calls to tell us

“we’ve laid one and you have no hope of finding

it”.

How to get back on their good side? I decided to

give them something they’ve been mithering about

for months and months: a dust bath in their run.

I wheeled an old tractor tyre in and filled it with

three bags of fine topsoil. The Four

Hens of the Apocalypse were into it

before I’d finished the job, which at

least meant a job well done.

But the dirt cost $40. Who, I

wondered, as they flung the world’s

most expensive soil all over the

place, is the real birdbrain here?

I

have been dreaming of winter.

This always happens as summer’s

end approaches. I tire of the

season’s sweaty embrace. I

long for the snap and sting

of a proper southerly, for

long nights and lighting

the fire.

Winter reminds me of

childhood. Growing up in

Invercargill in the 1960s

and 70s was like growing

up in Narnia – well, without

the White Witch, Aslan

and Mr Tumnus, and with

not nearly as much snow.

So, not much like Narnia,

but it did always seem to be

winter (though we did get a

Christmas).

Winters then meant

the thrill of breaking icy

puddles on the way to

school, coal fires, electric

blankets, hogget roasts on

Sundays and bed sheets

freezing on the line. It

meant staying inside all

weekend, watching the likes

of The High Chaparral, Planet of the

Apes and Kung Fu on the black and

white or making Airfix models at the

kitchen table. It meant heavy rain

and hard frosts and woolly jumpers.

Winters at Lush Places aren’t much

different, which is a cool breeze of

a thought as I stack firewood in the

G heat of late summer. l
RE

G^
D
IX
O
N

The chooks never tire of their dirt bath.

The hens treat

their freshly

cleaned home

with the sort of

suspicion Winston

Peters reserves

for anyone with

a press card.