Chooker’ing

Captains Log - 0016/ 13th June 2024 / 0430hrs

I’ve mentioned before that I have reached the pinnacle of writing acceptance by being asked to write a column in the Valley and East Coast Voice. This publication has been going since 1968 and is printed fortnightly on A4 paper. Edited and run by volunteers in the town of Fingal (population 431), it is sold for $1 in various locations in our region. I love it.

Below is my latest article for those that cannot get a copy from your local IGA (don’t go looking for it unless you live on the East Coast of Tasmania!).

I think it is fair to say that we are egg snobs. I have been guilty of buying those ridiculously priced eggs that have a label that say that the chooks live in a utopian world of amazingness and as such you must pay twice as much for their attempt to continue the linage of T Rex, stolen for us upright apes to scramble, poach, hard boil or fry for our sustenance. Food chain level one. I saw it written once on one of those memes that haunt my social feeds that the price of eggs is determined by the amount of freedom that the chickens get to live in. Of course, I am not naive enough to believe that completely, but just dumb enough to get sucked in by the marketing.

Now living in our utopia on the east coast of Tasmania (consider us the human equivalent of an organic exotic quail egg), it was only natural to turn our skills (or lack of) to chicken whispering. We were lucky that the property we purchased came with a Kubla khan chicken and vegetable enclosure. It is truly astonishing. It is the size of our house. The entire enclosure is fenced so tightly that Steve McQueen would be challenged to get out (or in). With eight-foot-high fences, steel tubing at the base and a three-tier electric fence around the perimeter it is entirely possible that ole mate Trump will be calling us to consult on his next effort for down Mexico way. Inside the enclosure is a pyramid of chook abode heaven designed by someone that knew what they were doing. Many places to hide and chill out in case of circling dive bombers of doom along with a mini city of structures for eating and drinking and generally hanging out. Chooktopia.

With the infrastructure in place already, we embarked on a chicken sourcing mission and eventually landed at St Mary’s school where the farm manager sold us six teenage fifth avenue chickens (Wyandotte). Our chicken whispering world had begun.

Up until this point our education on chickens consisted of apricot or Thai green curry and scrambled on toast. We never had a pet at our house due to our constant desire to be free and also working away from the home predominately (I can understand the language of dogs, especially in suburban environments – their bark is either “where is everyone” or “go away”, although there was this one husky that lived near us that howled all the time – it was saying “why am I here in the heat when I should be in the snow”). So, with six new additions to our existence the need to educhook was paramount. This new millennium has provided us with Elon Musk powered sky data so down the chook hole we went. There does seem to be quite a few good-looking people with advice on Youchook and whilst all very interesting, their main motivation was to have you “subscribe” or sell you something. The advice of the farm manager and some locals was way more informative and didn’t impact the algorithms of my digital world as much as the later.

Of course, the first challenge was to name the T Rex’s - Roula, Toula, Soula, Voula, Foula and Agape was adopted (if you don’t know, ask someone born in the 70’s or ‘80’s, they will know). The next bit was a confronting period. The advice from all was to put our new egg machines into chooklitary confinement. For the next two weeks Roula, Toula, Soula, Voula, Foula and Agape’s existence was the Ritz of Binalong Bay with darkness being their only friend (along with raspberries, dried worms and a mixture of chook food from bags).Every morning and afternoon twelve eyes would look at me through the door with a what I can only perceive as God like wonder as the giver of light and sustenance during those dark times (of course, it could also have been a deep ancestral dinosaur thought process that could be the trigger for a new evolutionary shift where fried human on toast was being conceived).

At the end of the two-week confinement period, the equivalent of the Berlin Wall being removed came and the door was opened to worship a new God that is the open space of amazingness that is their new world. After a stop at the local tip shop to buy an old chair, I opened the door and sat for an hour as Roula, Toula, Soula, Voula, Foula and Agape slowly emerged to be greeted by a star and an open expanse. As they slowly made their way out with words of encouragement (I even took the guitar over and played some soothing tunes for them) and some raspberries for encouragement and reward, they emerged into their new world. Until a black cockatoo flew over and spoke and they freaked out and shot back inside.

For about two weeks it was “open the door at dawn” and “close the door at dusk” with what was fast becoming a mini tribe committed solely to me as their leader and confidant. When opening the door at dawn they would wander out slowly around my feet and shoot over to the shrubs of protection and stay there most of the day until I came in and lead them back to their safe place for the night. After two weeks though there was a change. A rebellion had occurred and Roula (who we have been told is about three weeks older than the others and is identified by a red band on her leg) held her head up straight, looked me in the eye and said the votes are in and I am in charge now. For about twenty minutes I talked with them, corralled, chased and tried to bribe the chookatarians into their safe home and for the entire time they ran rings around me and evaded every move I had. I seem to recall a period of time in parenthood where the same thing happened and deducted that Roula, Toula, Soula, Voula, Foula and Agape had reached the age of sixteen in chicken years and a teenage attitude to match. With no X Box or wifi to ban I threw my hands in the air and said, “bugger ya then” and wandered off to the house to contemplate just how good that fence system is and if I would awaken to black and white feathers in the morning and well fed quoll tracks leading into the bush.

I need not have worried however as the newly found independence of our teenage chooks became entertainment from our deck as we watched them make their way to the door (wedged just open enough for them to get through) and go to bed for the night on their own accord. We find ourselves on the deck or at the window looking most evenings as they perform a ritual of retuning to home. Roula is the last in after doing a circuit of the home and I can imagine the conversation as she pops in the door being “alright ladies, all good outside – assume your sleeping positions”.

The design of the cook house is such that there is a hole halfway up the house with a rail outside for Roula, Toula, Soula, Voula, Foula and Agape to jump up too (via a strategically positioned stump) and make their way in, thus allowing for the door to remain completely closed for more safety. Whilst I have not had the heart to shut the door completely just yet, I have put a large solid wooden gate in the door that means they have to jump higher to get in and out. The other day we saw two of the chooks use the hole, so it is only a matter of time until the door gets closed and they use the hole exclusively for their entry and exit – thus making their home completely safe and wind proof. I have also recently bought a second-hand rotary hoe and turned about 250 square meters for our future food paradise in Spring and Summer and on special occasions I leave the gate open for them to explore a little bit more – however the open space is a little triggering for them and if a kookaburra coughs they shoot back into the safety of their shrub cover. For evolved dinosaurs, they are quite wimpy.

To date I consider my chook whispering a success. Roula, Toula, Soula, Voula, Foula and Agape have to be the luckiest chickens on the planet. At some point I may even get an egg. When I do, I calculate that it will be around forty times more expensive than the exotic free-range ones I used to get.

Thank you for reading my ramblings again – keep safe and see you next week (hopefully with a winner!).

PS: The prize from the other week has been won - it wasn’t hard….only one person entered and that was my mother-in-law……I guess the enticement of a night away with wine and food wasn’t enough….I think we need to engage someone who knows what they are doing when offering prizes!

The Captain.