Moon over Martinborough

Chook house overlooking the olive grove

Read Part 1 and Part 2 first.

In the three weeks leading up to our Thanksgiving party, I checked Ethel every day to make sure she was still sitting on those six precious, mail-ordered eggs.

When she stepped on one egg and broke it, we were suddenly down to five.

And then, around two weeks into the 21-day incubation period, our dominant hen Henrietta did something which complicated everything.

Henrietta’s mindset has always been one of gluttony and perpetual jealousy. If one of the other hens finds food, Henrietta suddenly wants it, and she’ll muscle in to get it. If another hen is drinking water, Henrietta becomes instantly thirsty and must drink NOW.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me at all when, after Ethel had been broody for so long, Henrietta finally became broody too.

But I didn’t want to take any of the fertile eggs off Ethel. She deserved them, and after 5 weeks of being broody, I didn’t want to risk her not hatching any eggs. So Henrietta got none.

Thanksgiving arrives

When the big Thanksgiving party (and the last day of the incubation period) finally arrived, I rushed out first thing in the morning to check on Ethel. There she was, still sitting on her nest – no doubt protecting her new baby chicks.

I reached over and picked her up, dodging her pecks left and right. But when I looked down I saw something terribly disappointing.

Five unhatched eggs.

It may be a sign that I’m no longer fit for social functions, but in the middle of hosting a party with 60 guests, I snuck out twice to the hen house to check on those eggs. Each time I grew more disappointed. Even after the last person had packed up and left, those five eggs still remained unhatched.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Rick said as we climbed into bed that night.

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Next day

The following morning I went out to feed the chickens and of course check on Ethel’s eggs. They still hadn’t hatched. It was day 22 of incubation, already a day longer than it should take for eggs to hatch.

Thistle in the paddock

It looked like we had five tiny failures on our hands.

But later that afternoon I noticed Ethel had come out of the chook house. She’d  settled outside in a corner of the chicken run. What was she doing out there? Why wasn’t she watching her eggs? Had she finally given up?

I stepped inside the chook house to check her nest. There were three unhatched eggs, already cold and abandoned, never to hatch.

But two eggs were broken and empty!

Then I went into the chicken run and walked slowly over to Ethel. She growled and squawked as I leaned down. I slowly put my hand underneath her, lifting her up just a tiny bit. Beneath all her fluffed white feathers, I saw the most amazing thing ever.

Four tiny, toothpick-thin chicken legs. And they were moving around.

I immediately ran up to the house. Rick and TJ were inside chatting. TJ is the American ex-Mormon from a couple months ago. He’d returned to help us out on the property for a second time (and to have some good old Thanksgiving Day turkey).

“Two eggs have hatched!” I announced.

It’s a fantastic thing to see grown men scrambling to their feet in order to run outside and look at newborn baby chicks.

Ethel and Henry, proud 'parents'

When Rick, TJ and I got back to the chicken run, the two tiny Barnevelder babes were pecking the ground near Ethel. Our geriatric rooster, Henry, was looking down at the chicks proudly, puffing his chest out and clucking something that sounded vaguely like, “I did that. I did that.” (Poor, deluded old man.)

We watched in awe as Ethel carefully picked up chick feed and dropped bits in front of the chicks, teaching them to eat. It was the picture of a happy family.

The little chicks looked incredibly vulnerable, and I was happy the chicken run was rat and ferret proof. The only uninvited guests that ever get in there are the sparrows.

It wasn’t until later that day that I realized there was a very real and serious danger coming not from outside the chicken run, but from inside.

Henrietta awakes

On one of my obsessive trips out to the chook house to check on the chicks I saw that Henrietta had gotten out of the nesting box, acting all crazy and aggressive in the usual puffed up, broody hen way.

It seemed okay until I saw that she was actually going after the chicks.

Every time they came near her, she would growl and run after them, pecking ferociously and nipping at them over and over. Ethel was trying to intervene, but she was no match for Henrietta’s wild state of hormonal psychosis.

The Barnevelder chicks, one week old

I thought of the tales I’d heard of aggressive hens and mean roosters killing baby chicks, and that was it. I had to do something fast. If Henrietta’s aggression against the chicks was even remotely related to her broodiness, then her broodiness had to end. And it had to end now.

Thinking of Aussie Bronwyn’s legendary speed and agility, I paused. Then I pounced. Before I knew it, I was holding Henrietta securely in my hands.

Clutching the bird to my chest, I calmed her, shut the chook house door, and began the long walk across the paddock, up to the house. Henrietta became quiet, almost peaceful. She had no idea what was about to happen.

She watched as I walked up to the back porch and picked up the green plastic bucket.

And she watched as I went over to the hose, turned on the tap, and began filling the bucket. The water was cold, and I felt terrible. My heart was pounding.

I still have no idea how I managed to fill a bucket with water with one hand while holding a chicken in the other the entire time. But this was a crisis, and nothing was going to hurt those baby chicks. Nothing.

My head was clear. I knew what I was going to do, and I knew it had to be done. I lowered her down toward the bucket, and I dunked her backside in.

She took off like a rocket. Straight up into the air. When she landed, she ran as fast as she could for the safety of some shrubs.

The amazing thing is that it did the trick. From that moment on she was a broody hen no more.

Return to the fold

When I finally allowed Henrietta back into the chicken run, I watched her closely. Ethel was also on high alert, watching out for her babies.

Mother and child

Eventually the chicks wandered near Henrietta, and I held my breath. Henrietta looked down at them. Then she simply turned the other way.

For weeks now there’s been peace in the chicken house. The little chicks are safe and thriving. Ethel is a very good mom to them.

Now we just need to wait and see if they’re boys or girls.

Unfortunately, it’ll be several weeks before we know…

____________________

Related posts

Read other stories about:

• chickens
• olives and olive oil
• neighbors

Or read the next post: The gingerbread men

This entry was posted on Saturday, December 26th, 2009 at 6:10 pm and is filed under Chickens, New Zealand. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.