Shame on me! A week since my last blog? Well, be assured that no news is usually good news. Goldie is still brooding (starting Week 2 tomorrow), Marguerite’s still laying, and Mabel is still squawking.
Many of you devoted blog followers — all four of you — will be wondering why I haven’t logged a blog about the volume control of my flock lately. Well, here are my thoughts on the loudness of my chickens. First, they will be loud. That’s a fact. It’s always around egg-laying time (and often related to the concern of who is taking valuable time away from who else in the preferred nesting box). It’s rarely the chicken who has just laid her egg, contrary to many of the backyard chicken forums who call it the “Happy Egg Song.” (I’d like to get my hands on some of those brilliant folks in a dark alley. Only if you’re on a 50-acre farm without evil neighbors is this okay to call a “happy” song. And trust me, the sentiment that drives such squawking is not usually happy.) Second, the loudness never lasts long — normally, under three minutes. (So assuming my neighbor is on the john reading his Reader’s Digest with his window air conditioner on high, I’m safe.) And third, there really is nothing I can do about it. Throw extra food at the beasts as a distraction, threaten them with the water gun, “sshhht” them until my sun-chapped lips are dry… Bottom line is, they will be loud. I’ve come to accept this as unarguably as an alcoholic accepts they have a problem. (I’m not sure where that analogy came from. Strangely, a glass of wine sounds good right now, though.)
Regarding Goldie’s brooding. She is on Week Two of the broodiness. She has almost completely stopped laying eggs, so Mabel and Marguerite are taking up the slack, with Mabel delivering a record six eggs in the last week. (Counting the one I accidentally stepped on after setting it carefully on the stone stepping path; sorry, Mabel.) I’m still taking Goldie out of her nesting box three or four times a day — against her protests, which usually consist of loud clicking and clucking and an impressive display of feather-poufing — and place her on the soft sandy ground of the run with spaghetti noodles and mozzarella cheese and bowls of her delicious (I’m sure) chicken crumbles and scratch. She continues to lay on her fluffy little breast, plucking little twigs of hay from the ground and resting them closer to her body in an attempt to “nest” in this new location. Pretty soon, the smell of the food snaps her out of her reverie and she will stand up, give her bod a good shake, and commence eating along with the others. This lasts for about ten minutes before she decides the nesting box in the coop is calling, and off she goes, back to warm a clutch of nonexistent eggs. Sigh.
Random thought: Just finished a book where one of the characters was named “Maybelle.” Mayhaps I should redefine the spelling of Mabel’s name as such, hm? Votes are welcome here.
More updates on the flock’s activities as they bumble out of my head… In the meantime, Happy Easter!