(No I’m not referring to me. Let’s do that again another time.)
A chook house is a busy enterprise. The hens lay eggs; they get picked on, followed around and jumped on by roosters. They nest together as hens in arms do, chatting to each other. There are benefits: sitting in the sun, breakfast and dinner served every day, wonderful views and the dog stays outside. No rain to befall the chooks to muck up their perms. They are determined not to let you get their price once they’re brooding. My egg! My egg! Get your hands off you filthy human!
Do the hens know they are expected to lay eggs otherwise Nico is going to send them to chooky heaven? I don’t know. We had to kill 4 roosters last year and it was not a fun exercise. I was appointed neck wringer. They went all gaga after my attempts and Nico still had to chop their heads off. I had to hold their feet to keep their dignities and not let their body run off. Very sad and bloody affair. And then my brother in law asks me how we enjoy the romantic lifestyle on the farm…
The loves of the chooks are not to be envied. Their lives are. Generally the prospects are their own brothers. Not a good look. When Johnny the rooster comes to visit they run around in a state. Poor things do not know he’s their dad and he does stay outside of their run. We tend to strip the hens for their eggs except Suzie and Maya who are not related. This way we do not create chookies who are slightly deranged. So it’s a bit sad really this controlled love life. Rules and regulations. Enough to do you in. The frolicking is permitted on a strictly birth controlled system. I feel sorry for the hens. Complicated to explain things to them. Wouldn’t be surprised to see them marching up and down one day holding banners and demanding abortion rights.
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