Hello friends,
As I sit here putting this together, Winter is reminding us she’s still well and truly in charge. The wind is howling around the house, rattling the windows and making the Eucalyptus dance wildly. The rain has been on and off, not nearly as much as we’d like for the coming Summer, but enough to keep everything muddy underfoot. Out on the homestead the animals are all tucked in, happy enough with extra feed and dry straw, while I keep the fire going indoors.
It’s been a busy couple of weeks, as always, there’s never really a pause when you’re working with the seasons. Between stormy skies and shorter days, it feels like Winter stretches on forever, but soon enough we’ll be talking about blossoms and sunshine again.
For now, I’m grateful for hot tea, thick socks, and moments like this to share a little update with you. This fortnight I present you with a funny little piece about our Hen, Parvelle. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Stay safe,
Susan
It’s generally considered bad practice to introduce a single hen to
an established flock. Birds are creatures of habit, and the pecking
order is less a metaphor and more a blood sport. But, as with many
decisions made on a farm, this one wasn’t made with intention. It
was made by a fox.
It was not a good week.
One night, the wild dogs came for the sheep. It was fast, vicious, and left more questions than answers. While I was still dealing with that mess and trying to make sense of the damage, a couple of foxes visited my free ranging chickens the very next day, as if summoned by the scent of tragedy, and helped themselves. They took almost all of them, including the rooster…
The only survivor: a petite, lavender-coloured Araucana hen with the expression of someone who has absolutely had enough.
Her name is Parvelle.
Now, she’s
not what you’d call imposing. She’s roughly the size of a
grapefruit and was born with a club foot. A
dainty thing, all feathers and attitude.
For a bit of context; those who follow our exploits may remember a year or two ago, we had a power outage on the day all my incubator eggs were due to hatch? We hatched them in saucepans on the wood stove!! Well Parvelle was the first one to hatch.
I was worried. Introducing one hen,
especially one so small - into a coop full of burly Leghorns, moody
Rhode Island Reds, and one VERY large, but rather ineffective
rooster, it seemed like sending a marshmallow into a bonfire. I gave
her a week. Tops.
Still, I slipped her into the main hen house
with the rest of the flock, under cover of darkness. And prayed for
her survival.
In the morning, a mere 8 hours later, Parvelle had staged a coup.
They say trauma can shape
character. In Parvelle’s case, it forged a tyrant. She’s survived
power outages, eagles, foxes, wild dogs, and a complete coop
collapse. I had expected mourning, maybe some skittishness. Instead,
she emerged from the chaos like a pocket-sized war general. Despite
being barely larger than a teacup, she struts with the confidence of
someone who’s already written your eulogy.
She
didn’t just settle in, she took over. With feathers still slightly
ruffled and a look that could curdle milk, she marched straight into
power like it had always been hers.
And the BIG burly white Leghorns, sassy Rhode Island Reds, and one large rooster who thought he was in charge. Well they all had their illusions of grandeur shattered, real quick!
She claimed the highest perch and commandeered the best nesting box with a single cold stare. I watched as two Leghorns moved out of her way like they owed her money. Not a peep of protest. Not a single feather raised. Just quiet submission, as if they'd always known she was coming!!
Now, the rest of the hens part like the Red Sea when she walks past and the rooster crows only when she lets him. I caught him trying to impress her the other day with a bit of awkward wing-flapping and she stared at him so long and hard he backed into a bucket...
Parvelle may be small, but she’s
the undisputed Queen of the Coop. She has survived foxes, dogs, and
grief, and emerged, not just unscathed, but emboldened. Her
reign isn’t loud, but it is absolute.
The
hen house may have lost numbers, but it gained a monarch.
And let me tell you: no one rules quite like a lavender hen with nothing left to lose.