The chicken whisperer ~ updated

Since early December, one or other of the hens has had issues. Ginger has dreams of going over the fence, and is a lazy layer at best. Specky, the best layer, had a long and traumatic moult, which almost saw Mr B send her to the other side. Thankfully, he didn't and my perseverance has paid off. She is a lovely hen, back to her laying best. Now Blackie is not doing well. She isn't in a full moult, nor is she at death's door. She is responsive, eating and drinking, but she looks very straggly. And hasn't laid in weeks. She reminds me of Sprout, in 'The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly' by Sun-mi Hwang. And her life didn't end well.

Fast pecking of raspberries.
Blink, and it's gone

Don't think I'm crazy, but I talk to the hens. I am The Chicken Whisperer. Croo-croo, chook, chook, chookie. The Boxer dogs stand at the fence and watch, waiting for the slightest sign that the hens are a danger to me, whereupon they would most likely pounce. Up until now, their concerns have been unfounded.

But along with the moth-eaten appearance of Blackie, there seems to be rather a lot of wing flapping and shrieking in the hen house. Quite frankly, they don't like it that I have withdrawn all treats except corn and high-quality cabbage leaves. I'm convinced that good food, fresh water and a clean environment will bring them back to their full glory.

Well, they'd better, because Mr B has secretly renamed them Roast, Fried and Kiev.

Update: Sadly, Blackie died last week. Natural causes, although she had been unwell. It seems that hens like her, bred to lay a lot of eggs, often develop nasty tumours and other pathologies, which just cannot be treated. She seemed to rally for a few days, then went rapidly downhill on Friday. She was a super-friendly hen to the end, and is missed for her cheerful attitude. The other hens are doing well x.