Garden · 17. May 2018

Chickens: The Divine Feminine

What's been happening down the red dirt road...

I tripped over right outside the chicken coop, and I swear, all of the chickens looked up and cackled at me. In unison.

I'm glad I entertain them as well as everything else. You think there would be some compassion between us as we are all on that feminine wavelength, but no, let's laugh at her, jump the coop every now and then, let her chase us around, and let's turn our noses up at her gluten-free bread. We don't need any of that stuff.

Having chickens in the garden for me is a welcome balance. I live in a masculine household where the only female energy besides myself is the ageing Pomeranian "Poppy" and the five little chicken ladies.

Raised as well as any other babies, we hatched out Black Orpingtons Yoko, Zelda and Robot Chicken, then a year later white hybrids Buttercup and Blondie.

They were cheeky chickens from the outset, trying to jump out of their box and once succeeded, found playing with my three-year-old on the kitchen tiles, providing many fluffy hugs and kisses before they moved outside.

And not into any old shack I might add. They moved into a swish hipster UK made, Nasa designed, ergonomic, heat controlled structure that could be tractored around the garden. Nothing but the finest! La dee dah!

Fed our lush vegetable cuttings, organic poultry feed and good country sponges, I think perhaps I have spoilt them.

The girly bond that we share is unique though. They talk to me, using different sounds to tell me their food is empty, or the water has run out. They get especially loud when they want to be moved onto new grass. Bossy boots they are.

Many a time I've had to go out to break up fights between the black one and the white one. Pecking order disputes no doubt. Never a dull moment.

Be like Zelda.

They work hard most days to provide us with eggs (everyone needs an RDO*) but it's hard not to lose patience over the winter months. I hold up a big blue tinged egg that Zelda lays, she's easily our best layer, and gather the girls around. I show them the big egg, point at it and tell them to be more like Zelda. They cluck at me defensively. It's their winter holidays after all, and they get back to tucking in to the leftover roast beef and gravy.

I even try to bribe them, telling them I'll buy them that fancy chicken swing they've always wanted.

Prying them off their eggs when broody and hot is met with my sympathetic "I know"and "poor lady", giving comforting pats out only for them to go off to their girly pals to complain about me in clucking fashion. Right in front of me. The cheek.

The cry of "escaped chicken" can surely be heard all over town at least once a week, with feathers flying and a big game of Chase ensuing, including all visitors in the house at that time. No one gets off the hook.

But sometimes when it all gets a bit too "male" in my house and I just want to leave it behind, I sit next to the chickens with a nice cup of tea and quietly enjoy the pecking and the clucking. Complimenting them on their delicious and constant supply of eggs, there is serenity.