Acquired: Rescue / shelter group
Kent, United Kingdom
Posted Jul 24, 2015
So we rescue chickens, well we buy them from a lady who rescues chickens. These chickens are battery hens that are retired once they get to the grand old age of about 2 years where their laying drops off. Something to do with treating them badly, keeping them in minute unsanitary pens in conditions that the Geneva Convention would have something to say about if only it was about chickens. So we get the chickens. In boxes. In the back of the car. We drive carefully carefully home and liberate them. What the? What is this? ARGH! Green stuff! Simply terrifying. The poor chicks hoosh themselves into the first thing they can see that resembles the box they've spent the majority of their lives in. Huddling up in the chicken shed they roost. On the floor. They have never seen grass, they have never roosted. It is, for sure, a joy to watch them learn and to see their delight in learning how to scratch in the dirt, to flap their wings and to chase an apple that comes rolling in their direction. So... all goes well until they get mites. And the cure? Well we had to buy an extremely strong chemical and mix it in a baby's bath. We looked like a murder scene. We sounded like a murder scene. A murder scene in a nuclear fall out zone. Dressed in radiation proof suits (ok white overalls) with wellies and gloves I bravely squeezed into the hut. Screeches commence. Then slowly slowly I emerge triumphant with a chicken safely in hand. Into the bath she goes. Out she comes. Looking a bit dazed (remember strong chemicals) she reverses oddly away. As does the next, and the next and well you get the picture. An idyillic country scene, chickens roaming freely in apple orchard only with slightly out of place forensic police officers investigating the mystery of the backwards chickens.