Hen Pecked!

Miss Splot (yes, I should never have agreed to Looby Loo giving the hens names this time round: she evidently views it as her duty to be sillier than me!) has started to peck Miss BlueTwo. They both moulted at the end of the summer, but Miss BlueTwo's still losing more than the odd feather with a certain amount of help from Miss Splot (as ever the small feisty Rhode Island Red cross trumps the big, placid Bluebell in the dominance stakes). Loss of plumage seems like a very bad idea in this weather. So, if (b-i-i-g if) I can catch Miss BlueTwo I shall apply anti-peck spray, which should improve matters. Been here before; sorted it nicely.

There is, however, an additional problem: I am no longer top of the galliform heap and my calves are suffering accordingly. This demotion does not apply when the black-and-white cowardly cat visits the garden. Then it's all "where are you? come and save us! help! help!" at the back door. But going into the garden at other times involves dodging some fairly vicious pecks. If it were only when I'm wearing the new long thermals (long Long Johns?), I'd not blame her as the pretty print does look toothsome. But, it's khaki cargo pants, black lacy thermals, and bare ankles too. I look stupid enough going out to defrost the water containers first thing--black corduroy flat cap, fingerless gloves, scarf, bulky floor-length dressing gown, jazzy socks, and clogs--without borrowing Looby Loo's shin pads. And it's pretty hard to work out how to apply anti-peck spray to my ankles. And it smells foul--understandably.

I'm not certain I understand--other than a growth of pure malice in Miss Splot (which is neither impossible nor unbelievable)--why this has happened. I've not changed how I deal with the girls. I'm actually, with going out to check on the big freeze in their water dispensers several times a day, spending more time with them than I normally do in the winter. I'm feeding the same stuff, with, if anything, extra treats (which, in the case of yummy vegetable scraps, they are refusing). But my exalted position as top hen/substitute cockerel is lost.

I have to say I don't miss the offers of sexual favours from the girls, even if their lack of friskiness is matched by a drop in egg production (about four a week between them at present). But getting out to refill the cat food containers from the storage bins in the lean-to is getting quite hairy. (And the less said about the politics of the recipients of cat food, the better.)