Wendyl Nissen: Contrary cluckers

The scene of devastation laid out on my front steps would normally spell a disaster involving a dead bird and a happy, fat cat.

Of the 10 front steps you climb to get to the front of my house, nine were covered in feathers.

They were ginger. They could only have belonged to one of my hens.

"Hen emergency!" I shouted loud and clear to warn everyone of the impending doom. Shame I was on my own and there was no one present to be galvanised into action.

I threw down my shopping and immediately began a search for three dead hens. "Chook, chook, chook, chook, chookie!" I wailed, in the hope that one might come limping around the corner, a sole survivor of the carnage.

They all came. Cluck-clucking as they do when they see me, hoping to receive a sultana or two, or perhaps an ear of corn, their two favourite treats. Happy as Larry.

"They're alive!" I shouted. Again to no one.

I picked up Yoko, the leader of the pack, and immediately put her back down again. "Yuck, you're naked."

My hands had just felt the same sensation as when you pick up a chicken ready to put it in the roasting pan. Loose, knobbly, feather-free skin. You don't really need to touch that in a live chicken, especially when it's your pet. Over the next few days Yoko began to look like she was suffering serious malnutrition, as bald patches appeared all over her body.

I raced out to Henderson where they have shops just for birds and spent $50 on worming liquid, a tonic and mite powder, breaking my self-imposed ban on any chemicals going near my chickens. They were obviously near death. Something had to be done.

They showed no improvement and continued to appear every day, more bedraggled and limp than the day before.

Which is when I finally realised they were moulting. I worked this out after spending two days scouring the property for eggs. My hens have always been good layers, producing three eggs a day for 18 months. Now there were none in their usual nests around the place, not even under the discarded Christmas tree along the fence, their favourite hiding place.

Non-laying chickens that lose feathers are doing a moult. Feathers would drop off while you were looking at them. When they gave themselves a quick shake, great showers of the things fell on the ground. And the scene of devastation on my front steps was simply the result of a threefold grooming session in the sun.

"Why would they drop all their feathers just as it is getting cold?" asked my husband, very reasonably.

"The same reason they won't accept little Matilda into their fold like any other animal species would. They are contrary."

Matilda, the baby hen, who has always been streets ahead of my three red hens in the looks department, continues to grow glossier every day. Her shiny black and white feathers are triumphant. Her youth and vitality is a constant reminder to the balding older hens of their lost looks.

With feathers like that, I should have known she would never be accepted.

After one final attempt to integrate her with her three ugly stepsisters, which ended in yet another mass hen fight as they set about pecking her to death, she now leads a solitary existence in her own fenced-off section of the garden, like a hermit nun devoted to a life of contemplation. My garden, once again, has been given over to poultry-keeping.

"Those hens have a week to lay an egg or they're out of here," said my husband, who has never really liked them.

"Three eggs a day again ... dog roll works," explained a friend on Facebook. Apparently chickens need extra protein to make new feathers and keep up the egg-laying.

"Why is the dog dragging its food into the kitchen to eat it?" asked my daughter, picking a few feathers off the dog's dinner.

"Competition, it's good for her," I replied.

"One week and counting," said my husband, as he led the dog out the front to where she could eat her dinner free from attack by protein-starved hens.