A Silkie chicken experiment goes wrong
It was a cloudy day as I walked through the farmers' market. There was a man selling chickens. Chinese Silkies. They were beautiful, with puffy snowwhite Russian hats, obsidian eyes and drumsticks dressed in fluffy pantaloons. Great as pets and yes, they lay eggs too, he told me. Pretty and useful.
The clouds parted, and I was standing in a shaft of sunlight. The market around me went quiet. My mouth opened. “I'll... take... two.” I drove home. Stopped the car. Opened the boot and scooped up the two Chinese Silkies. Plop. Plop. Ho Sin and Chin Lee.
We live on a lifestyle block. This means I have an obligation to live a life with style. I have an obligation to plant something, grow something, raise something. Chickens would be the answer to my prayers. My mind began to whir like a Cuisinart. It's Monday morning. The eggs have been laid on the soft grass and I, in floral summer frock, barefoot, gather the glorious fresh orbs.
"Children what would you like for breakfast,: omelette, quiche or frittata? Maybe meringues for the lunch boxes?" Imagine, what fun for the children. Sweet, pretty, gregarious chickens to have and to hold. Ho Sin and Chin Lee run down the driveway to greet us, like snowballs on legs. The children hand feed them treats such as cookie crumbs and the occasional fresh fly. Oh yes, Ho Sin and Chin Lee are free ranging, living the good life on a natural diet of bugs and worms and weeds. They are free from bars and cages. Smelling the fresh air, running wild, living harmoniously as nature intended. As Chin Lee matured, we found a few eggs. They were an embarrassment, looking like a child's first attempt at blowing bubblegum. I recoiled at the sight of them, small opaque sacks of jelly. I repeat, small.
My whisk remained poised, waiting for the egg to drop, and... Chin Lee went missing. What seemed like weeks later, she was discovered, deep in the underbrush, eyes beady with determination, hoarding a nest of 13 eggs.
We collected them, but half-baked eggs do not make good frittata. My children are boys. They are more hunters than gatherers. Feeding the chickens was fun at the beginning, but the game soon took a nasty turn.
Out the kitchen window I saw Ho Sin flapping past in a panic. In pursuit was Jag with a butterfly net, followed by Finn with an axe. In the beginning it was manageable but word got out. The neighbours talked, people visited, bringing with them the one lone chicken needing a home. Would we take it? I was firm. No. But there's no sense letting one chicken live a lonely existence, right?
In the end, I lost track of the procreation. A gang of roosters formed. The brotherhood. Hip hop, rap, freestyle, shakin' those tail feathers. “What you lookin at?” they'd say to me. “Who are you and where did you come from?” I'd demand.
“He's a brother from a different mother. She's a sister from a different mister.”
They took my flower garden by storm, trampling, scratching, devouring the greenery. We flew through the bags of kibbled corn.
They claimed the house, marking their territory with splats on the deck. They looked at me through the ranch slider windows, pecking at the glass. I was a prisoner in my own home.
In the end I bribed the kindergarten teacher to take them away with a FREE carry case and my frequent buyer coffee card with four stamps. But it’s all ok. It was an experience. And I’m wiser now, and I’ve got a better idea. I like knitting. And it would be good to have a consistent source of wool.
What about alpacas? We’d love to hear about your property and its animals, your projects, your life’s moments. Email editor@nzlifestyleblock.co.nz, and if you wish to include images, please send high resolution jpegs.