Tag Archives: Pets

Eerily quiet today

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I’d never realised that my house could be that quiet. Eerily quiet.

This morning I’m officially a woman without her chickens. Two remaining chickens were killed, possibly last night.

I saw feathers scattering around in their chicken run this morning. One dead chicken was under a bush. One was gone. The fox must have taken her for her babies. The fox would come back again for this one, so we decided to leave the dead chicken in the garden for the fox’s collection.

Once I realised I’ve now lost all our chickens — 5 in total, since last summer, I felt a sense of loss. Suddenly the complete silence commanded the house. Continue reading →

Love me love my dog ? Part 2

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One day, coming back from swimming, I opened the door to be confronted by a distinct smell. I asked my husband a stern question, “Has CC (name of neighbours’ dog) been in the house?” “Yes! But how do you know that?” Husband apparently didn’t quite understand my question.

I told my husband that the smell of the dog’s presence was overpowering. If my husband had had a woman in the house, I would also have been able to detect the scent of a woman too. Scent is subtle. I can smell it. I don’t like bacon, for example, as its smell is too overpowering. A dog’s smell in a house is overwhelmingly strong if you’re not used to it.

Then we had a row. Continue reading →

Love me love my dog?

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Sorry I haven’t been writing for a while.

I visited my friends the other day. Their dog barked at me, non-stop. I was smiling, speaking to the dog softly, praising him. His master also asked him to be good. “Darling, it’s ok, good boy!” They tried to calm the dog down.

The dog jumped on me, barking even louder. My friend said, “Janet, CC (dog’s name) is actually waiting for you to give him a stroke. Give him a stroke and he’ll be fine.” Continue reading →

Walking in the wood – Part 2

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I went for a long walk in a country park with some friends yesterday. It was drizzling and we still covered ourselves with thick winter coats. After a refreshing walk, I told my friends how grateful I was to be with them, as it was the most comfortable walk I have had for a long time.

What do I mean by being ‘comfortable’? During our walk, we walked more or less at the same pace, but sometimes the group would split into two, and some walked ahead and we would catch up later, or the other way round. We would stop for a short break, having a chat. It was simply a leisurely walk, with good conversation. We didn’t set a goal as to how many miles we would have to cover in two hours. Later, we even stopped for a hot drink and comfort food and had another long break.

There was no pressure of achieving any goal, apart from spending some time together out in the open. We didn’t stick as a group of five all the time during the walk. We all had total freedom, yet we enjoyed each other’s company. There was no competition of speed or knowledge into little unknown flowers. That was how I felt, being relaxed and comfortable, and I hope my friends have felt the same pleasure towards the trip too.

Image by ovizo0n via Flickr

Image by ovizo0n via Flickr

Comment 1: “You walk far too slow”

Walking with friends has slowly become more and more difficult for me, as there’re many conflicting walking styles. Sometimes our expectations failed to meet each other’s, and without sufficient mutual understanding, the walks couldn’t be enjoyable. Once, my friends commented that we (my son and I) walked too slowly during a country walk with them. We were simply TOO SLOW. They emphasised this a few times and I asked them please stop criticising me. I couldn’t help how I walked. My son and I would sometimes stop and chat, and sometimes he needed to adjust his shoelaces (more than once), and he would complain the journey was too long. I was also worried being lost and kept asking where we actually were. It’s become clear to me that we had became a burden and nuisance in the wild and we certainly had reduced their joy of walking. Continue reading →

“Hens down! More hens down!”

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My husband picked me up from the train station last night. The moment he saw me, he said, “I’ve got some more bad news.”

These days, whenever my reticent husband opens his mouth, it all starts with the same line, “I’ve got some more bad news.”

“Two hens of our neighbours’ were killed last night. Killed by a fox.”

“What? Two hens?” I was shocked. I’d just returned from an exciting trip to London, involving high tea, a magnificent palace and a touch of middle-class sophistication of enjoying opera singing in Covent Garden, but now I must quickly transport myself back to the reality of my everyday hens-mice-weasels-fox-murder type of Good Life. Strangely, I felt a weird sense of ‘victory’ when I heard my neighbours’ two hens were down. We were only one hen down; they were two hens down. Surely we’re the winner. Surely my hens were more intelligent and resilient than theirs? When disturbed a few nights ago, my two hens ran for their life, flew up high and hid in other people’s garden. If needs be, they even proudly crossed the road.

Last summer, I spent a few weeks with my 80-year-old mother in Singapore. Two weeks into my staying, my mother began muttering to my siblings about my strange behaviours. According to my sisters, my mother was slightly worried about my sanity as in Singapore, what I only talked about was my chickens in England.

I'm the only one graduate in the family.

I’m the only graduate in the family. Me – aged 6.

My mum has 9 children and I’m the only one who’s been to university. My eldest brother and sister only received primary education and were forced to work so that their younger siblings wouldn’t have to eat each other. I’m the only child with an academic job. I’m the only one who is married to a white man. However, my mum was a bit baffled as I didn’t seem to have many glorious stories from England to tell. In England, when we travel, we live in a tent on a muddy field. When we did once stay in a hotel, we stayed in a humble Premier Inn facing a busy main road. In contrast, in Singapore, once in a while, my eldest brother would take my mum abroad with his family and they would stay in a 5 star hotel overlooking the glistening ocean. They had visited Australia and Japan and I haven’t. They eat in posh restaurants every month with dishes like chilli crab, bird’s nest, abalone, peking duck and fish head curry. In England, I eat spaghetti bolognese which might have contained horse meat fed with the equine painkiller phenylbutazone, or bute.

Therefore, I think I ought to take a break from stories about my chickens for a while, though some of my sadistic readers do seem to enjoy the saga. My mum would be disappointed about her only highly educated daughter rambling about chickens all week. She would like to imagine her daughter has got other proper jobs to do in life.

Let me share with you a few more photos before I sign off today.

Our hens are kept in this posh house called Eglu at night. (Bought from Omlet)
They were very civilised.
They liked eating worms.
Each morning, we used to get 2-3 eggs a day.
They went back to their home sensibly at night.
Our hens have turned our small back garden into a muddy field.
They loved exploring the garden.
Our hens eat from these cute bowls.
They drink from these bowls.
We used to have grass in the garden.
‘Free range’ chickens during the day.
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Why does the chicken cross the road?

Why did the chicken cross the road?

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I got home at 5pm this evening after watching the music drama film Les Misérables. While I was still traumatised by the singing of Russell Crowe, I saw this dramatic scene outside my house:

IMG_6045

Our missing hens were back! One was still on top of the fence, but another was in front of the house. At least they’re now back. Now, we need strategies to coerce them into the garden.

hen

Come on…come home now.

This hen was away last night and ended up in another resident’s back garden, on another road. The old lady who lives there is extremely nice. Last night I knocked on her house to alert her of an intruder, while she was watching a TV program on penguins. (I told you she is very nice.) The hen had jumped from neighbour G’s immaculate garden to the back of her house, on top of the pillar. This afternoon, this kind lady came over to inform us that the hen had come down and rested in her garden. Luckily, after an exhausting night, the hen was calmer and she was easily picked up by my husband.

But, once the hen got inside the garden, she flew again, landing herself in our front garden. There was something she didn’t like about our garden. Perhaps she was traumatised by the death of her friend.

It took another 20 minutes from the concerted effort of husband-and-wife team to first corner her, then cover her with a huge laundry basket and cuddle her firmly back to the garden. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were secretly filmed by some neighbours while we were trying to catch the hen. People must have enjoyed this live entertainment from the Neighbour from Hell.

Since the killing of a hen and the escape of two hens, I’ve gathered a few interesting facts:

1) Hens like hiding their eggs. While searching our garden for any possible attackers, we found about 20 old eggs under a bush. Why did they do that?

2) We got to speak to every neighbour in the close. We become chatty neighbours. It was surreal.

3) We entered 3 English gardens in the process of hen catching. These are all immaculate gardens. Grass is lush; patio is neat; bush is trimmed. One garden even has a fountain and another has a huge vegetable patch. My sense of inferiority is an understatement.

4) The experience of hen catching can be as awkward as listening to Russell Crowe singing in Les Misérables.

This evening, we’ve cleared the garden and secured the chicken coop. The girls should be safe in there.

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Neighbour from hell

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Last week, the air in my neighbourhood was stirred. Leaders of three political parties all paid a whirlwind visit in Eastleigh, to fight for the February by-election. I’ve a theory that the arrival of these politicians (Prime Minister David Cameron, Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg and Ed Milliband, leader of the Labour party) have somehow disturbed the harmony in the region, which consequently provoked an imbalance of the yin and yang in the atmosphere.

That might explain why my house is not at peace. My chickens sensed an omen was upon us.

I told you two days ago that one of my hens was killed. My husband now revealed that there indeed was an injury on the hen around her neck. Based on the distribution of the feathers in the garden — two groups of feathers, suggesting that the chicken was first killed in one location, then was dragged along the bush — my husband the mathematician reasoned that the hen might have been killed by a weasel.

Early this morning, we were woken up by a phone call. My neighbour left an urgent voice mail, “Your chickens are running around the close.” This is not a typical voice mail one would get on a Sunday morning.

They like to come into the house sometimes.
Normally the hens are entertaining.
2 new hens with an old one: very healthy and absolutely gorgeous!
These were the old 3 hens; 2 dark ones were killed.
Sometimes we do get HUGE eggs.
Once we got double yorks in an egg.

To show his manliness, in a half-asleep state, my husband went to catch the chickens. Chickens are smarter than politicians. They are more agile than a blade runner. My husband only managed to catch one chicken back after half an hour, with the help of a neighbour. The other hen decided to hide in neighbour G’s garden. Neighbour G was out, so we couldn’t do anything about this missing chicken.

At 5pm, neighbour G ran over to tell us our chicken was in his garden. We quickly formed a team of 5 athletes to rescue the chicken. We charmed, lured, sweet-talked, whistled, kneeled, stooped, crawled, sprinted. None worked. The chicken knew it was a hide-and-seek game. She was a guerilla who knew her territory; we the army were in total disarray.

Half an hour later, 5 athletes were all bruised, hair dishevelled. Neighbour G’s crowned immaculate garden lost its sparkle. We had trampled on his spring flowers as the chase got intense, and a few branches were pulled off. Later, to make her statement, the chicken flew to the top of the pillar,  singing, You can’t catch me, na na na na.’

I know, we’re now officially the Neighbour from Hell.

Back home, the chicken caught back this morning refused to return to her coop. She sat on top of the pillar, a bit frightened.

Now, we have one chicken on top of the pillar of our garden; another chicken is on top of the pillar in my neighbour’s garden.

What would happen tomorrow morning?

What have disturbed my chickens in the past week? Weasels? Bad Feng Shui?

Related articles
We's just lost one of the hens.

Madness

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I live in a mad house. When I returned from work this afternoon, my husband opened the door and announced solemnly, “I’m sorry I’ve got some bad news. Another chicken had died.”

Ben went to the garden this morning and found one new hen had died. Her feathers were scattered around the garden, but there was no signs of injury. Could she have been attacked again?

We’ve lost 3 hens so far. One was possibly killed by our adopted cat; the second one was killed by my neighbour’s dog.

Pets are important in our family. Last week, before going out shopping, I asked my husband if he needed me to buy anything.

“It’d be helpful if you could get some locusts,” he said matter-of-factly while playing on his computer game.

“But, darling, I’m only going to the Co-op just down the road.”

Father and son keep a skink named Georgy and she eats locusts and mice. To keep the skink alive, we keep some locusts in the lounge in a small container on top of the large vivarium measuring 120cm x 60cm x 60cm. Sometimes, the locusts would escape and crawl near me and try to type my post for me. To keep the skink happy, we keep some dead mice in the freezer. When frozen, dead mice looked like squids or prawns. I’ve been cautious tying not to defrost dead mice for my sweet-and-sour prawn.

My husband hinted that the vivarium seems a bit too small for Georgy. When a new, larger vivarium arrives soon, I think it’s only sensible that I move out to give father, son, skink, locusts and dead mice more space.

Father and son both think a skink (named Georgy) is appropriate to be kept in the lounge. (Have I told you the skink smells a little?)
The skink is rather long. Husband said, “Not quite a metre long.”
A bit of quality time.
Normally Ben squashed half a banana for Georgy.
I’m living with this, this and this.
I’m also living with locusts.
We’s just lost one of the hens.

Postcard from Singapore: one DEAD chicken

Tragedies of the chickens (benwilliamsworld.wordpress.com)

Postcard from Singapore: one DEAD chicken

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While in Singapore, I received an abrupt email from my husband. One of our chickens was DEAD.

“Got some bad news I’m afraid. A chicken has died. I’ll give more details if you want.”

HOW? Killed by a fox? Died of the heatwave? WHY? We only lost one chicken late last year. WHICH chicken — the black one called Fireball or the ginger one called Talon?

You see, our chickens have names. Ben gave them names. Because the chickens have got names, they’ll never become Sweet and Sour chicken, Kung Po chicken, BBQ chicken or Sunday roast chicken on our table.

The dead chicken was the Black one, Fireball. While I was urgently pressing for more details, Hugh revealed more: “our neighbour’s dog got into our garden and grabbed her. No injuries – the dog was just playing – but I think the shock killed her.”  Hugh added our neighbour was very sorry and will pay for a new chicken. Continue reading →

Weekly Photo Challenge: Unfocused: Rat, I caught you!

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WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge: Unfocused

I’m sure I’m allowed to post more than one Unfocused images.

Unfocused: Rat, I caught you on camera!

Have a closer look, yes, it is a RAT, in my back garden. What’re you doing there?

In my last post, I wrote about Billy the cat, and a mysterious murder in our garden.

Before we adopted Billy the cat last October, we had had a problem with rats. Not a small problem.

I carefully watched their whereabouts over weeks, recorded their activities, studied the rats’ psychology, and I trapped them. I lured them with some chicken food.

One morning, I caught the picture above.

The Evidence! Rats were taking advantages of our 3 hens. Rats were stealing our hens’ food everyday.

I called in a Rat Terminator.

I phoned the local council, and the council sent a Pest Control man round. I paid £30 for his 2 visits.

Rat Terminator

The Terminator came and investigated the house thoroughly. He checked all holes and cracks in the garden, and inspected our garage and loft.

He opened the manhole cover, and jumped into the manhole to inspect the drains.  Continue reading →