The long-awaited day has arrived. Small Boy cannot contain himself and is illustrating this fact by running around the kitchen in ever decreasing circles, punching the air and chanting, "Chick-ens! Chick-ens!" much to the alarm of the current members of our menagerie. The dog has retired to her basket and is pretending to be invisible, clearly worried that Small Boy's behaviour will otherwise be blamed on her. Psycho Cat has leapt on to the back of the armchair and is hissing a warning that she will act if Small Boy does not shut up immediately. Jet has, sensibly, gone out and left us to it.
"So we're really going to do this, are we?" Husband sighs. He checks the website for the millionth time, in the hope that it might have disappeared since the last time he looked. But no, the breeder really does exist and really does have the types of chicken Small Boy has set his heart on.
"You did say we could go and get them once we were back from holiday," I remind him. I am secretly as keen as Small Boy to replenish our empty chicken run, as the past few chicken-less months have been strangely sad.
I have, of course, conveniently forgotten the downside to owning chickens: how much I swore at Little Brown, Cheeky and Storm whenever they escaped and dug up the veg patch; how I was caught by the postman running around in circles trying to catch Cheeky and shouting high-pitched obscenities. (Absence does funny things to the heart. I even miss Psycho Cat when we're on holiday.) And then there's the dark threat of The Fox and the problem of the Pecking Order (not called that for nothing). Our first foray into chicken-ownership included the upsetting experience of losing our Black Rock, Speck, to The Fox, followed by the exciting episode of welcoming Storm the Silkie into the fold whereupon she was pecked to within an inch of her life by the two haughty hybrids, Little Brown and Cheeky. These, and other, adventures were brusquely concluded by the devastating finale of the entire coup's raid and destruction early one morning, resulting in our losing three chickens in one go.
Since then we have waged war on Not-So-Fantastic Mr Fox and Family and have constructed a Fort-Knox-style enclosure with the help of Grandpa and his electric fence. We are now as ready as we will ever be to try chicken-ownership once more.
"OK." Husband knows when he is beaten. "I'll take you to get some chickens. But we've got to get at least two sensible breeds that will perform their duty. I want some return on this investment," he says, trying to reclaim some authority.
"Oh, Da-ad!" Small Boy whines. "But I've done all this research and I want a Polish Frizzle and a Barbu d'Uccle and--"
"No way. I am not looking after a bird that looks like a 70s Michael Jackson and another that looks like a bearded lady," I say firmly. Even I can see the lunacy in Small Boy's plans to populate the chicken run with prissy Show Birds. "Dad's right. We want some eggs out of this. And we already have one neurotic animal in the house," I add, staring pointedly at Psycho Cat who is having an argument with her own tail.
We finally agree on going for two hyrid birds who will be good layers, and one utterly useless yet gorgeous Lavender Pekin.
A two-hour round trip later and we are the proud owners of a Welsummer called Hazel, an Arucana (blue eggs are promised...) called Chi-Chi and a Lavender Pekin called Titch.
The poor beggars have so far been subjected to harrassment by the dog, stalking by The Cats, chasing by Small Boy's mates and far too much cuddling than can possibly be good for them by everyone else.
I have a feeling they'll be using Grandpa's electric fence as a form of revenge before too long. And it's not The Fox who'll be first in line.
"So we're really going to do this, are we?" Husband sighs. He checks the website for the millionth time, in the hope that it might have disappeared since the last time he looked. But no, the breeder really does exist and really does have the types of chicken Small Boy has set his heart on.
"You did say we could go and get them once we were back from holiday," I remind him. I am secretly as keen as Small Boy to replenish our empty chicken run, as the past few chicken-less months have been strangely sad.
I have, of course, conveniently forgotten the downside to owning chickens: how much I swore at Little Brown, Cheeky and Storm whenever they escaped and dug up the veg patch; how I was caught by the postman running around in circles trying to catch Cheeky and shouting high-pitched obscenities. (Absence does funny things to the heart. I even miss Psycho Cat when we're on holiday.) And then there's the dark threat of The Fox and the problem of the Pecking Order (not called that for nothing). Our first foray into chicken-ownership included the upsetting experience of losing our Black Rock, Speck, to The Fox, followed by the exciting episode of welcoming Storm the Silkie into the fold whereupon she was pecked to within an inch of her life by the two haughty hybrids, Little Brown and Cheeky. These, and other, adventures were brusquely concluded by the devastating finale of the entire coup's raid and destruction early one morning, resulting in our losing three chickens in one go.
Since then we have waged war on Not-So-Fantastic Mr Fox and Family and have constructed a Fort-Knox-style enclosure with the help of Grandpa and his electric fence. We are now as ready as we will ever be to try chicken-ownership once more.
"OK." Husband knows when he is beaten. "I'll take you to get some chickens. But we've got to get at least two sensible breeds that will perform their duty. I want some return on this investment," he says, trying to reclaim some authority.
"Oh, Da-ad!" Small Boy whines. "But I've done all this research and I want a Polish Frizzle and a Barbu d'Uccle and--"
"No way. I am not looking after a bird that looks like a 70s Michael Jackson and another that looks like a bearded lady," I say firmly. Even I can see the lunacy in Small Boy's plans to populate the chicken run with prissy Show Birds. "Dad's right. We want some eggs out of this. And we already have one neurotic animal in the house," I add, staring pointedly at Psycho Cat who is having an argument with her own tail.
We finally agree on going for two hyrid birds who will be good layers, and one utterly useless yet gorgeous Lavender Pekin.
A two-hour round trip later and we are the proud owners of a Welsummer called Hazel, an Arucana (blue eggs are promised...) called Chi-Chi and a Lavender Pekin called Titch.
The poor beggars have so far been subjected to harrassment by the dog, stalking by The Cats, chasing by Small Boy's mates and far too much cuddling than can possibly be good for them by everyone else.
I have a feeling they'll be using Grandpa's electric fence as a form of revenge before too long. And it's not The Fox who'll be first in line.
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