We’ve got chickens and they are just lovely. Heads up looking about, their two Jurassic looking feet scratch left and right on the soil in search of bugs and then whOOSH quick as can be the head swoops down while they simultaneously shuffle back their butt with a wiggling motion to peck at the soil where their feet just were. Pete does a really good impression.
We built them the Coop De Ville.
And they flew straight over the fence. We saw them in a line wobbling and clucking their way up the neighbours backyard. Pete looked at me in abject horror.
'”FUCK” he said, his eyes were like saucers. “fuckity, fuck”
errrr. After what felt like hours of flappity gurgling panic from us both Pete grabbed a handful of chicken feed and started screeching
‘CHOOK, CHOOK!@ chook chook chook, here chicken!’ and throwing the feed at the back fence to alert them of it’s presence. It didn’t work. I leapt the back fence and Pete followed close behind, Rambo had nothing on us. We mission over two wire fences and through brambles to get to our chicks and one by one we carried them back. Once all three were safely locked in the coop Pete called our resident ‘chicken guru’.
‘Gidday Fletch’ he said.
‘uM SO I built my coop, my fence is a metre high and the damn birds just flew straight over it. What the hell do I do now?!?!?!’ (there was no time for niceties)
Fletch, being the calm seasoned chook owner that he is explained that we’d need to clip their wings, just one mind you which would supposedly be enough to screw with their aerodynamics so they’d only flap in circles rather than up and over stuff. It didn’t hurt them he assured us, it was only feathers. The prospect was daunting. Actually, it was terrifying.
We left them in the coop overnight and the next morning Pete trudged down to the bottom of the garden armed with my sewing shears. Only two sentences had been spoken up at the house earlier.
‘I don’t think I can help’ I’d said.
‘I know’ said Pete
He was on his own. Bad girlfriend. Oh dear.
He entered the coop and I locked the door behind him. An hour passed. Then another. I went to look.
Out came Pete beaming.
‘GOD, they are just SO interesting to watch!’ he exclaimed and promptly went into a rant complete with head cocking motions and foot scratching. Two hours of observation worthy of an Attenborough doco and no wings had been clipped. bummer.
To cut a long story short, Fletch and Cass happened to be coming for lunch the next day anyway and the two boys had the wings clipped in under a minute. WHOO hoo.
We all sat back on the lawn toasting success with a glass of homebrew until, flap flap flap, our newly clipped chicken flew up onto the top of the gate. Far out. Prolific cursing and a trip to Mitre 10 later and Coop de Ville now looks like this.
Their fence is now two metres high. Our chooks are safe.
As I readied myself for bed that night, comforted that our chooks could free range without fear of the wandering black Labrador next door, Pete sang out from the bedroom,
‘AMMMMMM, something with HOOFS has been running round under our BED!!!’
What?! I finished brushing my teeth with a the sense of reason that comes from living with Pete (recall the honey comb / hornets nest event?) and wandered casually into the bedroom.
Pete’s immobilised in the middle of the bed, duvet under his chin.
‘I’m serious’. He states. ‘I can tell’ I say and duck my head under the bed. Sure enough there are double sets of indentations in the carpet in random tracks from where the last tenants furniture lay. I smile.
‘Yup, definitely hoofs. Remember the other day when I said I was meeting mum for coffee?’ I ask pulling my head up level with the mattress. He nods, dead serious.
‘Well, actually is was a ruse and I bought a Shetland pony, I’ve been keeping him under the bed’.
‘You’re a shit’ Pete says and rolls over. ‘neigh’ I reply and turn out the light.
