Well, the fluffy little buggers have been fairly low key this last week.
Volunteer hen is sick of our shit, and lets us know this by grabbing treats, then stomping off well away from us while scolding us to eat.
Why? Because chicken. There need be no other reason when you are such a regal and majestic creature. Nobody here has done anything unusual to or with her. She just decided that we were not worthy of sharing space while she eats. Unless, of course, it’s numerous small treats, because she knows Mr and Mrs cardinal will be right there as soon as she t-rex stomps the yard to behind the coop.
Big boy, the rooster supreme, seems to have multiple personalities recently. All of which are position dependant. When he’s on the ground, he is humping shoes, or watching shoes so that he can keep an eye out for a sexy one. But no petting! Neither soft nor heavy petting when he is below knee level.
If he is sitting on the grill, or his spot outside the window, he will accept treats by hand, and deign to receive single pats. However, should that pat not meet his standards, he will tap dance at you. Mr stompy pants particularly objects to pats that touch his legs, and will do a kick step before the fancy footwork.
If he is on a lap outside, pats and pets are occasionally accepted, but may be received with a withering glare instead, at his highness’ whim.
However! Bring him inside, especially if the kid brings him in and snuggles him right, and he will croon or gently buk while accepting the pets and scritches that are his due. Should you stop before he is satisfied, expect an extended neck and a gobble of complaint until you resume. He melts during the petting, sometimes so much that despite being snuggled securely, he has slid out of arms almost.
And baby girl, the loveliest of french lasses has been in a royal snit at the kid. For some reason, the bird has decided that the teenager has forgotten their place in the pecking order, and must be reminded at least once an evening with firm, ungentle discipline.
The kid thinks it’s hilarious, as do we. That is partly because of the show the hen puts on. Stamping across the couch, head extended and eyeballing for the least sign a hand is moving, with wings tense and ready for the lunge when it inevitably occurs. That lunge is spectacular. Imagine if Big Bird from Sesame Street leapt across the street after crouching like a velociraptor, delivering a single peck, then scuttled backwards, glaring at the freshly pecked hand, ready to leap into the breach again should said hand cause offense. But instead of Big Bird, it’s a tiny black marans hen that’s maybe five pounds.
Well, the fluffy little buggers have been fairly low key this last week.
Volunteer hen is sick of our shit, and lets us know this by grabbing treats, then stomping off well away from us while scolding us to eat.
Why? Because chicken. There need be no other reason when you are such a regal and majestic creature. Nobody here has done anything unusual to or with her. She just decided that we were not worthy of sharing space while she eats. Unless, of course, it’s numerous small treats, because she knows Mr and Mrs cardinal will be right there as soon as she t-rex stomps the yard to behind the coop.
Big boy, the rooster supreme, seems to have multiple personalities recently. All of which are position dependant. When he’s on the ground, he is humping shoes, or watching shoes so that he can keep an eye out for a sexy one. But no petting! Neither soft nor heavy petting when he is below knee level.
If he is sitting on the grill, or his spot outside the window, he will accept treats by hand, and deign to receive single pats. However, should that pat not meet his standards, he will tap dance at you. Mr stompy pants particularly objects to pats that touch his legs, and will do a kick step before the fancy footwork.
If he is on a lap outside, pats and pets are occasionally accepted, but may be received with a withering glare instead, at his highness’ whim.
However! Bring him inside, especially if the kid brings him in and snuggles him right, and he will croon or gently buk while accepting the pets and scritches that are his due. Should you stop before he is satisfied, expect an extended neck and a gobble of complaint until you resume. He melts during the petting, sometimes so much that despite being snuggled securely, he has slid out of arms almost.
And baby girl, the loveliest of french lasses has been in a royal snit at the kid. For some reason, the bird has decided that the teenager has forgotten their place in the pecking order, and must be reminded at least once an evening with firm, ungentle discipline.
The kid thinks it’s hilarious, as do we. That is partly because of the show the hen puts on. Stamping across the couch, head extended and eyeballing for the least sign a hand is moving, with wings tense and ready for the lunge when it inevitably occurs. That lunge is spectacular. Imagine if Big Bird from Sesame Street leapt across the street after crouching like a velociraptor, delivering a single peck, then scuttled backwards, glaring at the freshly pecked hand, ready to leap into the breach again should said hand cause offense. But instead of Big Bird, it’s a tiny black marans hen that’s maybe five pounds.
It’s feathered fury at its finest.