Suddenly The Chook Seems Eminently Manageable

It stood 11.5-feet tall and tipped the scales at perhaps 500 pounds, with the body of a raptor, the head of a chicken and the crest of a cassowary; it sported big sharp claws and, probably, feathers.

 I surely wouldn't want this turning up at the kitchen door each morning. Thank goodness I missed it by a mere 66 millions years:

http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/2014/03/20/500-pound-chicken-from-hell-dinosaur-once-roamed-north-america/
 

The Lone Chicken

For any poultry aficionados who happen to drop by to check up on The Chook, well, she's baaaack.

Last reported here as missing (turns out blogs are useful for the keeping track of errant fowl), seven weeks later, on Saturday to be precise, with not a single visit in between, she turned up very early at the kitchen door for a feed. I tossed her a handful and headed off to town, thinking I probably wouldn't see her again for a few days, that she was doing one of her slow re-entries, but there she was, still pottering about when I got home late that afternoon. When I opened the kitchen door, she promptly headed on in and made herself at home. She's been hanging with the cats ever since.

I'm not sure what seven weeks is in chicken time, but she's certainly a quick adapter. And presumptuous. But such behaviour is pretty much par for the course with this particular critter.

As Free as the Wind Blows

I thought we'd moved to a whole new level in our relationship what with the egg laying and everything, but no, after a couple of months of over the top friendliness and eleven eggs, just one shy of a magical dozen, the Chook has once more packed her bags and gone walkabout. About 6 days ago she started showing the usual time-to-move-on behaviour, and then on Sunday evening, she wasn't in her usual roost. I haven't seen her since. I'm such a fool. I should be used to it by now, I know, I shouldn't get my hopes up, but I thought she'd changed, I thought things were different this time, I really did... J

Ah well, the Chook is a restless spirit who prizes her freedom above all things. She cannot be bribed with scintillating, feline company, bought with first class food, or encouraged to settle for a mundane life of regular domesticity. She'll be back, or not, depending on her own whims.

In other vital news, it's HOT. Damned hot. Not-good-for-writing hot. Here in Victoria, the forecast is for 5 consecutive days of over 40 degrees heat. We're three days into it. In town early today, I saw that a few establishments were closed until Friday for staff safety reasons. Also, I suspect, they're not getting much trade. There are no tables outside anywhere - who wants to met friends and chat in a furnace? - and not many patrons inside either. It was the same in Melbourne yesterday. I was reluctantly out and about at 14.00, and usually bustling café districts were veritable ghost towns. People, if they absolutely have to go out, rush from one air conditioned enclosure to another.

While the first two days were hot and dry, since yesterday evening, at least up my way, every now and then, thunderstorms come through, bash the trees about a bit, make a cracking racket and throw the most thrilling and varied lightning displays, then dump a deluge of hot, fat raindrops that cool nothing but add buckets to the humidity levels. It's like we're having our very own monsoon season. Who knows? Maybe that's the way it's all heading.

So, two more days to go until we get a cool change. Onwards.

Plum Job

So, I'm back after multiple failures. Firstly, I was clobbered by my Christmas cold. It seemed to be getting better at one point, then returned with a vengeance. Alas, not much writing got done during my holidays, but I did prod a couple of dormant stories back into life. I napped a lot, watched movies, ate ice cream, and sat a lot in the backyard on the swing with Gus (the other cats were too busy doing their own thing) just enjoying the weather and wrestling with a few story ideas. This blahness only started to turn a couple of days ago, so I stayed home from the Arvo Job today just to make sure I didn't push myself into a relapse.  Secondly, I had internet problems. No connection for daaaaaays and daaaaaays. It was awful, but I survived :)  Now, thanks to my older little brother's emergency dash across the countryside, things have been fixed and upgraded and I'm speedier than I've even been before.

In the category of country produce news, I beat the birds to the plums in the front yard this year. I made sure to be quick after last year's catastrophic non-jam making happening. This is just half of my so far plucked haul - the rest is on the floor - and there's just as much fruit still on the tree that isn't quite ripe yet. Hopefully I'll manage to nab the rest too, but even with what I've got, there'll be plenty of plum jam for the year. Now I just need to get a truck load of sugar. And clean jars. And cut up the fruit and...

 In even further country produce news, in case you were wondering, the Chook today presented her eleventh egg. One more, and she'll hit a respectable dozen. So there you have it - I'm practically self-sufficient when it comes to plum jam and eggs.

Egg the Second

I thought it was a one-off event. Something of a miracle, really. I wasn't expecting a repeat performance. But today, 22 sleeps after the initial surprise, as I was going about my business, I spied this ovoid beauty from, presumably, the Chook nestling in one of the cats' cuddly sleeping thingies. It's beginning to feel a lot like Easter rather than ye olde Yule tyme.

Otherwise, I've been busy relaxing, looking for new writing markets (I found a few anthos that peaked my interest) and tidying up the work board over my desk, jotting down ideas, reading, and, of course, lovingly preparing the annual Danish Xmas food for Wednesday. It's best not to rush these things.

Eggstraordinary Surprise

I've just come in from a morning of being in the backyard and out and about and enjoying the fabulous weather to do some writing, and I found this gift from the chook on the spare couch-bed in my study, still warm. Not wearing my glasses, I thought it was something less savoury at first. Colour me surprised when I realised what it was  - I didn't think she had in in her. And it's a biggie from such a small chicken.

She's been coming and going for over two years now, and just when I think I've got her figured...

After my last post about her back in August 21, sure enough, she went completely vagabondy on me and I barely saw her for over 2 months. She became, yet again,  FIFO Chook, off having adventures, and returning every now and then to check we were still here, fill up on food, and grumble about the state of the world. I didn't worry about her this time, just muttered harsh words about her ingratitude and opportunistic nature. Then three weeks ago, she turned up and I knew immediately she was back for another round of domesticity. It's a real Jekyll and Hyde thing. That night, she popped back onto her usual roost just outside the kitchen, and has spent her days since sneaking into the house whenever possible, either hanging here in the writing room with me or sunning herself in the lounge room with the cats.

And now an egg. I'll no longer be able to accuse her of freeloading if this continues. I'll have to name her Productive Chook. I just wish she'd use the nesting boxes I've set up for her in different places. But no, that would be too common, too normal. Ah well, we'll see. This might be a one off performance.

I'd better watch where I step/sit for the next while until I've got this new state of affairs figured out.

Now, to my writing keyboard. No, November writing report first.

And They Call It Space Puppy Love

To stave off unfair accusations that this might be a cat-and-chook-and-pony-favouring blog, and to add a little fun and cuteness to your Friday night, pop across to Tor. Com to watch a heart-warming clip from the upcoming, must-see, at least if you're a fan, Riddick 3 movie.

Why? Because there's a big, nasty, ugly as sin, slobbering, potentially puppy-eating alien, and the most adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid puppy - make that adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid SPACE puppy - that's about to become an alien snack, but Vin Diesel shows his soft side and...

Don't worry, go watch, it's safe - there's not a single cat to be seen. Or chook. Or pony. Promise.

 

  



The Chook Who Won't Be Pinned Down

I was actually thinking of posting about how it might be time to rename the Vagabond Chook and call her something like the Clockwork Chook instead when, sure enough, she's suddenly gone all weird and flighty on me. After seven months of staying on the mat, sticking to the backyard, and being extremely calm and regular and orderly in her habits, things are topsy-turvy again.

She no longer turns up loudly demanding her breakfast in the morning as soon as she hears me moving in the kitchen, but is instead doing mysterious whatevers up on the roof (looking at fields afar?) and loudly cackling about them. She's also off patrolling the neighbourhood during the daytime hours again, and when she deigns to stay home, she's very persistent about getting into the house and investigating stuff. Today I walked into my writing room and found her up on my desk intently studying the noticeboard which keeps track of rejected stories that need to be reworked /go out again. Perhaps she's a reincarnated writer trapped in a chicken's body? If so, given her stroppy character, I wonder which one...

Anyway, when I shooed her away, she crankily refused to leave the room, and when I stopped chasing her, she promptly fluttered up onto the spare bed and settled down there, much to Gus's disgust. It was very wet day outside, so I finally let her be just so I could get some work done. Plus, it was pretty cute (and for those who worry / wonder about such matters, she's wonderfully house trained. Not that I trained her. As a chook of independent mind, she trains herself.)

So, whilst the rain hammered down on the roof overhead and the Querulous Chook contentedly snuggled amongst my annoyed cats, I edited 3 stories, subbed two of them, and worked on a piece that an editor rejected but said that she would, based on my past work, look at again if I slowed down and fleshed the story out, which was a nice of her to say in so many ways and I felt quite chuffed when I read the email. Someone out there in the big wide world knows my work! And my usual standards. Imagine that. I have to admit that in so enthusiastically stripping down this particular piece to what I thought was an easier-to-sell length, or rather shortness, I probably went too far, so I appreciate the chance to plump it up again.

Doddering Old Dogs and Shiny New Tricks

Because it's always good to shake things up every now and then so one's brain doesn't calcify and one's hot-bloodedness doesn't cool and congeal, I've initiated a writing experiment for this month of March. Nothing spectacular, just an attempt to up my word count by using two smidgens of the advice promulgated by author Rachel Aaron in her famous piece from last year so enticingly titled How I Went from Writing 2,000 Words a Day to 10,000 Words a Day that I'm sure many of you already know and have possibly taken on board way before me. If I can simply add a few more hundred words to each writing session, I'll be happy with that. Actually, I wouldn't mind achieving her starting point of 2000 words a day :)

So this month, before I hit the keyboard, I'll spend 5 minutes before each session jotting down what I'm going to write in the hopes that I'll then rip through scenes that I've already sorted out in my head. It's worth a go. To keep the experiment imminently measurable, this morning I picked an upcoming antho theme, fished out a title from an old notebook that I've been dying to use for years, had a quick think, did my note jotting, and then off I went. I did not reach any spectacular heights wordcountwise in the 2.5 hours I worked, but I was satisfied with the creditable result. The best thing was that I pushed forward with the actual story, getting stuck into the unfolding of the tale more than I have for a long while instead of getting sidetracked by endlessly fiddling with already written sentences.

Also, in part two of the experiment, I'll take a moment before each session to make sure I'm enthusiastic about the project, not just going through the motions. And if I'm not, if I'm a bit blah, then I'll damn well make myself excited about it!

In other news, I ventured into town and bought a huge bag of  chicken food with the words luxury, organic, yummy, free-range and many other tasty adjectives printed all over it for the Chook. She'd better hang around long enough to finish it!

The Chook Who Keeps Me Guessing





GUS AND THE SUNNING CHOOK

It's well past 18.30 and evening will soon be upon us, but the Occasional Chook shows no signs of leaving. This does not seem to one of her usual Virginia Chook swing bys for a bit of peace and quiet away from the flock. She was already waiting outside the kitchen when I opened up the house at 9 this morning, and has been with us ever since, very coolly acting just like she did in the old days before her ungrateful defection to the chicken coop two houses up.



JENNY AND THE STARING CHOOK

She's spent the day being overly chummy with the cats and wanting to snuggle up to them as they tried to catch some rays in peace and quiet (both these pictures were snapped today. Yes, I know I need to tidy up those leaves), hanging out with me while I was working in the backyard, popping in for a chat while I was ironing, pottering around like she owned the place, taking dirt baths and endlessly sunning herself on the patio. She's very calm, very settled, and very much not moving on.

Oh well, who can say what the Chook is planning now? I just checked - yep, she's still here, right outside the kitchen door nibbling on my potted lemon thyme. When I asked her if it wasn't time she headed back to her homies in the coop, she gave me friendly cluck and snagged another leaf. Hmm...

***UPDATE. Sure enough, she is once more ensconced upon her old perch in the bush by the shed outside my kitchen. What has happened? A serious fallout with her erstwhile homies? Complaints about the food? Ah well, let's see how long it lasts. This footloose and deviously fancy free chicken may just using me as a stopgap while she ruthlessly scopes out another coop.

Virginia Chook

The Occasional Chook turned up rather late today at around 16.30. I was having an indoor nap, but immediately went out to say hallo. We had a joyous reunion, as I haven't seen her since last Wednesday.

These days, since she abandoned us after eighteen months of house sharing to sign up with the chickens two doors up (I'm still not bitter about it, honestly), we normally catch up with each other 3-4 times a week, usually Wednesdays and Sundays and then randomly whenever. I know she swings by most days - there's plenty of evidence of the poopy kind on the patio that I have to sweep up and wash away - but our busy schedules often clash. I have the Arvo Job and other commitments, she has whatever onerous duties she must perform as part of her new flock. Often, I hear demanding clucks outside the kitchen and barely have time to toss a handful of sunflower seeds out the window before I have to run for the train, and sometimes we can miss each other for long stretches of time and I wonder whether she'll keep popping by. So far, despite the uncertainty of treats and opportunities to run around the kitchen, she still turns up.

Initially, after she'd finally decided to move out, whenever she came back she was obviously agitated and most eager to be away again ASAP once she scrounged her favourite treats and had a quick dirt bath. I was almost going to rechristen her the Ungrateful Chook. I suspect she was worried she might lose her spot in her new flock if she went AWOL for too long. Chicken flocks are notoriously tough on newcomers, and demand much submissiveness and compliance from accepted members. A lot like humans, eh? Oh, all right, I'll back off - a lot like some humans. However, as time passed, and she obviously settled into her new digs and felt more confident about her place in the chook hierarchy there, she became visibly more relaxed about sneaking off to spend time here, and started to hang around for longer and longer. Now food is savoured, cats are followed about, the garden is patrolled and checked, and many many dirt baths are taken *sigh*. Last Wednesday, as I napped in the backyard on the Xmas Swing, she even settled down close by for a companionable snooze. It was very cute.

Personally, as a chicken of great individuality, I think she needs our place the way Virginia Woolf regarded a room of one's own as an absolute necessity for the stretching of one's creative spirit in the pursuit of writing. I myself regard my beloved Writing Room as the place where I most feel like my true self. But, quickly, back to the Occasional Chook before I ramble on about me. Here, away from the conformity of the flock, the Occasional Chook can indulge in her fondness for felines, checking out human abodes, running around on tops of houses and being bossy. She can basically strut about, let down her feathers and just be her own wild thing for a while before her need for the companionship of her own kind overwhelms her again and she heads back to once more submit to the totalitarianism of the flock. She needs them to be happy, can't live without them in fact, but she obviously really needs her own space away from the flock too.



Well, that's my rather read-the-obvious-writerly-subtext theory about the Occasional Chook's behaviour :)

The Soothing Sounds of Sunday Plus Some Honking.

It's been a bit of a noisy Sunday so far, but not bad noisy (like the infamous doof, doof battles of yore). The local Rotary truck show is on this weekend, so the township is full of painted rigs and dressed-up utes, and after my much treasured Sunday morning sleep in, while I was having my lazy Sunday morning read with the cats piled on my lap, the annual Sunday morning truck convey went past. Horns were enthusiastically honked and blasted, and many great vehicles rumbled by and shook the earth. But it was soon enough over, and the show does raise a lot of money for good causes.

Later, next door launched into a lunch time barbecue with friends, kids and dogs, and there was much rambunctious scrambling for sausages and shouts about their deliciousness, calls for mummy or daddy to fix this or that, exuberant splashing about in the inflatable pool and the hosing down of dogs accompanied by squeals of joy and barks of approval - the normal, family business, background sounds you'd expect on a hot Australian Sunday, boisterous, but not at all bothersome. I've been writing well through most of it, only occasionally pulled from my concentration by the naughty chuckle of a child about to do something that is definitely a no-no or kiddie squabbles about who gets the wield the watery power of the mighty garden hose.

In between the trucks and the barbie, the Chook (henceforth referred to as the Occasional Chook, unless she moves back in, of course) came to visit, and volubly made her presence known as per usual. She's still here many hours later, prevented from returning to her new digs by the barbecue. Although constantly grumbling, she's making the best of it and is presently sunning herself on the patio with the cats. Things are settling down next door now, so she'll probably scoot off soon, once the dog numbers go down.

As for me, I'll send off a few emails, and then I'll be getting back to the loveliest of all Sunday sounds (although the clip clop of horse hooves is a very close second), namely that of my keyboard finishing up a new story. It's big. It's SF. It's spacey. It has aliens. But no humans. I'm a bit excited by it :)

The Chicken Who Drops by for Cheese and a Chat

I've had to abandon my theory that the Chook is a secret crime fighter and/or international political fixer. The more mundane reason for her increasing absences turns out to be that she was slowly moving in with the chickens three houses up. In my heart of hearts, I suspected as much, for I would hear a great, fowlish hullabaloo in the distance, and about five minutes later, the Chook would turn up in the garden with ruffled feathers and an angry attitude. But she was lonely, I could tell from the way she smooched up to the cats all the time, and the call of her own kind was a strong one. As a most stubborn chicken of independent mind who usually gets what she wants, she kept at it and wore the flock down, much the same way she in the end had me jumping up to answer her knocking or clucking at the kitchen door each morning. Anyway, I think it's safe to say that after eighteen months of co-habitation, the Chook doesn't live here anymore.

She does, however, pop by to visit us once or twice a week, as she did this fine Sunday morning. I  heard her imperious call, and like any good hostess, immediately jumped to and put out the cheese and sunflower seeds. I suspect it's the cheese that brings her back - her new home might not be sufficiently catering for her deep love of dairy products. They're probably not even aware of it. It was her habit of bossily pushing in to nick Cooper's cheese cubes (and since he loves his cheese too, Coopie wasn't happy about sharing) that tipped us off in this household. That, and her practically diving into the cats' milk bowl.

A visiting routine is gradually settling into place. Once she's sufficiently fed and watered, the Chook then hangs around the kitchen for old time's sake, contentedly follows the cats about for a while, takes a quick tour of the house if she can sneak in, loudly clucks and complains about goodness knows what, checks the garden for tidbits, and after a final sip of milk and goodbye cluck, she slips away again, back to her new, and obviously more satisfactory (I'm not good enough any more *sniff*), life in the company of her feathered kin. Part of me is chuffed she wants to keep up the contact. Another part of me suspects, complicated creature that she is, that the Chook is just keeping her options open in case the new joint doesn't work out to her satisfaction. She's like that. Cute but devious.

Gypsy. Waif. Free spirit. Freeloader. Manipulator. Charmer. Warrior. Greedy guts. Whatever her guise, the Chook has always been the ultimate free-range chicken.

It's All Hush Hush

The Chook has stayed away for a lot longer than usual this time. Obviously, her mission is one of extreme importance.

I can't say anything for certain, but I do have four words for you : United States presidential election.

Say no more. And please, keep it under your hat.

Instigating a Scientific Investigation of the Fowlest Kind

It would seem the world needs saving again, for the Chook has once more vanished. I could tell she was distracted yesterday - she just swooped in for a quick brekky and that was the last we saw of her for the whole day, even though the house was open and she usually likes to sneak inside on Wednesdays. Possibly she was too busy in her secret chookcave getting her chickenmobile prepped for combat. This morning, she was a complete no show.

I might start logging her disappearances and plot the data on a fancy graph. I'll see if I can accumulate important information that can help me make sense of these cycles, or I might be able to tie in her absences with major events of the political, natural catastrophe, astronomical or criminal kinds.

It could be an interesting experiment. Who knows what outlandish correlations one might discover.

Yep, She's Definitely Back

Photo just taken: the Chook, comfortably ensconced under the dining room table (yeah, yeah, I know, I need to vacuum.)

She's certainly, and possibly wilfully, not getting the boundaries I'm trying to enforce in this multi-species household, one of which can be succinctly summed up as 'Chickens are welcome outside, but are not at all appreciated indoors, thank you very much, now vamoose.'

All the Fowl News That's Fit to Print

Front page local news that's rocking the community: only 10 days after acquiring their new chook Twinkle, the kids at a local preschool arrived to find that a thief had snuck in overnight and stolen their  much-loved egg layer.The police were called in, the crime scene was investigated (there were signs of breaking in, so it definitely wasn't just a case of a wandering chook gone MIA). The kids drew identikit pictures of the missing Silky Bantam for the cops. "Why would anyone want to take our Twinkle?" said the sad and confused littlies to local reporters, their tender young hearts hurting as they learn a harsh lesson about the human race. Later, the police returned with a replacement chicken called Flossie for the kindergarten kids to look after while the local cops continue to look for Twinkle.

So the hunt is on. I'd hate to be the chicken rustling crim nabbed for nicking this kindergarten pet. I, and everyone for miles around, I imagine,  ask you, what kind of a lowdown scum steals a small, fluffy hen from four year olds? The perp who finally gets nabbed for this fowl crime will face much animosity. I see shadowy figures with pitchforks and flaming torches gathering in the dark around the local lockup, and envision much booing, hissing and tomato-throwing as the dastardly chook thief heads for trial. However, as one recently converted to regarding chickens with affection, part of me worries that our cringing burglar, on the run and frightened by the publicity, might feel compelled to get rid of the incriminating evidence...

Poor Twinkle. One minute as safe and loved as a chicken can ever hope to be, the next nabbed in the dark of night and whisked away to some hillbilly hideout. Life can be tough for a helpless little hen. Indeed, it can be for all of us. We are Spartacus. We are Twinkle.

Here on the home front, the Chook is back after possibly saving the world, but is flightier that ever. She just pops in, demands food, then pops out again. I get no cute antics or clucking background noises in exchange for my sunflower seed investment, and am beginning to feel somewhat exploited. It could just be that she's roving further afield in this beautiful Spring weather - and who isn't tempted to go just one flower-strewn field further when the sun shines so brightly - but if she keeps it up, I might look at renegotiating our co-existence contract.

And in a final bit of chickenfeed news, my sister Cindy has joined the fellowship of fowl-loving folk by acquiring three terribly cute Isa Brown pullets. She calls them Noodle, Nugget and Narky (the one with attitude). Just twelve weeks old, they're still learning what treats they prefer, the intricacies of perching, the art of scratching and scrabbling, and how to flatten when dark shadows pass ominously overhead.

Alas, thinking of the 3N's good fortune at landing a gig at my sister's, and imagining their happy and contented lives, just makes me once more wonder about the fate of poor Twinkle. The life of one little hen might be a small thing compared with the terrible troubles of the world at large, but such everyday tragedies nonetheless have their own validity.

The Littlest and Featheriest Hobo

No sign of the Chook today, and the cats and I all missed her bossy presence. Usually on my Wednesdays off, because I'm mostly resting up at home, she spends much time sneaking into the house and sticking her sticky beak into every nook and cranny as she loudly voices her opinions on all matters. Last week she made it all the way into my writing room while I was working, and spent a goodly amount of time investigating my amazing floor-supported, filing system. Perhaps it was just me feeling a tad guilty about the mess (I will tidy it up soon, I promise) but her clucks definitely had an air of disapproval about them.

However, though I'm uneasy at her absence, and I worry about her being out there all alone in the world amongst predators of all types rather than safely roosting in her own tree by the hot water shed,  I'm not too worried yet. Not only is the Chook as tough as nails, she's also a free spirit, a vagabond who comes and goes as she pleases. She regularly wanders off on these walkabouts. The first time she vanished, I was quite sad, certain that she'd been gobbled up by a feral fox or the like. She also nicked off while I was in hospital and then convalescing at my sister's, though whether this was because she missed me or the cats, it's hard to say. Anyway, gone, gone, gone, was the verdict of my house minder, but the moment I opened the back door on my return and called out  a tentative hallo, Chookie,  there was a screech of welcome from somewhere in the distance (how sensitive is chicken hearing? I should find out.) and a fluttering of feathers, and there she was again, joyfully running around amongst the cats. She would have hugged them if she'd had arms, I'm sure of it. There have been a few other times when she's been gone for over a week as well, and I've been about to post a RIP in her memory only to have her turn up at the kitchen door loudly demanding food.

But I wonder, what does a chicken do when she goes walkabout? Head off down the highway like a hobo with a stick and bundle over her wings? Go visit relatives of the hopefully free range type? Hang out with friends in a local coop? Whatever she gets up to (maybe she's a spy of some sort, off on regular missions. That fits too.) this particular feathered little nuisance is free to do as she pleases, as long as she safely returns to us at some point. 

Lemon Tree Very Pretty

Gus loves the new addition to our Xmas swing nook.







The Chook, pottering about in the background, is less impressed.

Top of the World

The girls have been issued with a warning. Instead of doing their job and keeping me company as I slaved away at my keyboard and wrote and subbed, they hung out with the Chook and pottered about up on the roof for most of today. If it happens again, they can look for other employment.

Oh, why is good, reliable writerly help sooooo hard to find?