Boudica, Chapter Four, “Chickens!!”

The chickens free range as nature intended. There’s a professionally built fenced area around the backyard, designed to keep a very springy Springer Spaniel in. But even with clipped flight feathers, the girls still find ways to wander further. 
They explore the one acre block we live on, and then explore some more. No-one around here has fences, so the girls are living the dream!

Text Msg: “One of your chickens is in Carol’s front yard.” 
I head up to Carol’s and carry Boudica back home.

Neighbour on my backdoor step. She had wandered down from her house behind me, past the unfenced fenceline and up to the kitchen door: 
“Are those your five chickens? They’ve been digging in my vegetable patch! Can you keep them off my land?” 
“I’m so sorry, they do love to wander. Seeing as you don’t have fencing, maybe you could fence your vegetable patch?”
I’ve seen the vegetable patch. It’s only about two by two metres, it’d be quite easy to fence. And frankly, if my chickens don’t dig it up, then the possums, rats, wallabies and birds certainly will.

I remember when my next door neighbours had chickens, years ago. I would delight in seeing them wander past my home office. Or scratch away in the garden bed in front of my window. When did we all become so concerned about our bush gardens? To be honest no-one around here is getting ready for the Open Gardens Scheme. It seems a little unhillslike to me.

Text Msg: “Hi, I just saw your chickens heading up next doors road. I was driving to work so couldn’t stop.” 
“Thanks, I’m not home either. They do love to wander. Hopefully they keep out of trouble and get home safely.” 
“Update, all chickens present and accounted for.” 
“Lucky chickens :)“

I frequently do the rounds of the nearby houses, leaving little bags of eggs or other gifts at their door as a means of apology. I wonder if they enjoy the eggs with their bright yellow yolks and their full eggy flavour? Or does it make them choke and gag?

“Chickens!” he barks, at the same time stuffing a sausage-sizzle sausage into his gob. 
“Yeah?” We were at the local sports club, not really intending to talk about chickens, but whatever. 
“One of your chickens was attacked by a dog up near our place.” 
“Really? They all seem OK. Are you sure they were ours?” 
“Yep,” shoves in the last of the sausage, “Five of them. Don’t expect five to come back.” Our friendly neighbour turns and walks off chewing.

Eyes roll as husband man and I share exasperated looks. 
“Was that a threat?” 
“Sounded like a threat.” 
“Where’s the ‘hello, how are you’?” 
“I dunno. What’s wrong with people?” 
“They don’t understand that chickens are people too.”

Soon after we do in fact lose one of the girls, Jules, to a dog attack. The irony is she was on our block at the time, and the dog shouldn’t have been there. Foxes get a lot of bad press but it’s actually the fourth domestic dog attack on my land. Talk about blaming the victim! Poor Jules. RIP.

So now there are only four fluffy butts facing me, as they bob their heads into the feeder outside the kitchen window. Then they turn away looking for other tasty treats. Boudica is always first to leave, usually over the pizza oven with a swift chooky walk down to the secret garden to lay her egg. 
Zoe goes through the fence. Followed by Sandy. Hazel makes several attempts, yet again, to get through the gate. No still doesn’t fit through. Sigh, she’s not the brightest of the bunch. Then jump flies over the top of the fence. These three are heading off up the hill, to scratch, dust bathe, sun themselves, shelter from the rain, and eat insects and worms as nature intended. 
“Happy trails chickens, and safe return,” I bid them.