One of the top priorities when moving house was making sure we had a couple of chickens. I’ve kept chickens for a good few years now, and they make excellent pets. They have simple needs: water, food and somewhere dry to roost – and you get fresh eggs to boot.
So at the bottom of the garden live Liza and Judy: one black, and one white chicken. They’re happily ensconced in their Eglu (posh chicken house to you), and although a bit skitty to the human touch, they’ve been delivering the goods on a daily basis.
Until this week. Wandering down to collect said eggs, I discovered that Judy was spending longer than was really necessary in the nest box. Hour upon hour went by, and still she sat..
It would appear that Judy had indeed gone broody.
A broody chicken thinks that the eggs she’s sitting on are going to hatch, so will sit on them continuously, only coming out for a sporadic bite to eat. Obviously, with no cockerel, our eggs are not fertilised, so will never, in a million years, turn in to fluffy little chicks.
Apparently this can go on for three weeks, and apart from Judy maybe not getting enough nutrition while she’s lounging around in there, it means that Liza has to practically climb on top of her to lay her egg. Not ideal, so I decided to try to break the pattern. The internet says to gently lift the chicken off the nest box and close the door so she can’t get back in.
Opening the back door to do the deed, I got a distinctly frosty reception as I leaned in to lift her off. She puffed herself up, fixed me with a steely glare, and growled to warn me off. I had no desire to get my hands pecked raw, so executing Plan B, I donned my thick gloves, and shooed her off the nest.
This went on for a good few days, and the system was working marvellously. Up until the other night. Dusk had fallen and I suddenly remembered I hadn’t let the girls back in to the coop to roost. Out in the garden I discovered them crouched by the door, obviously settled down for the night. I couldn’t leave them to the elements in case the weather turned or a predator decided to make a play, so they had to be moved. Slight problem. The run is only 3’ high, and the only way I could get to the girls was through the main entrance at the bottom. So, there I am, crawling commando-style on my belly, up the run. In my pjamas. Through chicken poo and yesterday’s grass cuttings. Glamorous, not.
Eventually I managed to get them to bed, and backed out from whence I came, looking slightly more bedraggled and smelling a tad nastier than I had half an hour ago.
But the girls were safe. Judy’s not broken the broodiness yet, but I turf her off the nest each morning in the hope that her motherly instinct will disappear any time soon.