Into the second week of my sojourn among the chickens. I’ve grown fond of the beasts, even if their behaviour is less than impeccable.
They know my voice and my big, daft face now, though the thing they recognise most excitably is the brown bag containing dried worms. To my mind, this is a disgraceful choice of culinary treat, but chickens know what’s best for chickens, I guess.
The biggest challenge I have is making up a pail of scraps for them in the morning. When there’s a family here, the beasts get a lot of tatties and all sorts. But it’s just me here noo, and I tend to clear my plate.
So I’ve had to buy bird suet stuff specially for ersatz scraps. I also give them these bags of salad that I buy virtuously but never eat. And they’ll take a slice of bread. But I think they miss tatties, which I don’t eat much as I don’t want to get any fatter.
That said, they got chips from my Friday fish supper. My instructions are just to try stuff out on them. If they don’t like it, they won’t eat it.
So I’ve learned they’re not keen on tomatoes or celery. They will, I think, take a gooseberry, which fruit I pick every morning for my porridge.
There’s an orchard here, and I spent an idyllic afternoon in it, sitting in the sunshine with a bottle of plonk, listening to the soothing sounds of chirruping birdies and breezes in the treezes.
Earlier, I’d had an enjoyable shot on a swing, but got discombobulated on a trampoline. Not as easy as it looks. Nearly spilled some of my wine.
It’s lucky this place is so private, though there’s a right-of-way near the chickens, and passers-by have witnessed me bent doon, flapping my arms flightlessly and saying, “Come noo, peerie beasties. What’s du doin’? Does du want wormies, eh? Hmm. Wormies!”
Come on. We all talk tripe to beasties. It’s what they’re there for. That said, I guess talking tripe in Shetlandic might be a cause for concern on the part of the authorities. Particularly as I’m from Leith.
The two bigger hens bully one of the bantams, even though I’ve warned them to stop it. I don’t know how they sleep at night.
Well, actually, I do know. They stagger homeward into their wee hooses (the two big chicken-looking chickens in one and the two wee bantams in the other; I think the strength is usually six, though) and coorie doon for the night in sawdust that I muck out once a week.
The bantams are brainier than the bigger beasts. Outrageously, my friends call one of the chickens “Rab” because he’s particularly dense and forgetful.
Whenever you want to entice them with dried worms out of the main area of the coop so that you might perform executive duties there, three of them go straight to the specially made hole in the fence, but Rab just stands looking all agitated because he can’t remember or work out how to get in.
This is despite the fact that this happens a couple of times a day, and that his compadres have led by example.
Still, as long as like me here, he’s happy.
