Gerry is laying an egg a day, pretty much, with pastel pink shells. Trouble is, nice though the shells are, and tasty though their contents might be, the confidence her new-found laying abilities has given her has turned her into a right madam.
She’s flighty and bossy now, and seems to have leapt from the bottom of the pecking order to the top. Every morning, as we open the pop hole, she jumps over Barbara and Margot as they step carefully down the stairs, and lands on the floor in the middle of whatever treats we’ve scattered in there for them.
She’s not keen on being shut up for the night, either. I went out on Christmas Eve to close the door and keep them cosy, and she put her foot on the runner, pushing it back as I tried to pull it across. She knew exactly what she was doing, and as I let go for a moment so that I wouldn’t run across her toes, she jumped down into the run, and that was that – no more closing up. I had to go out three times in the end until I could sneak up quietly enough to get the door closed without her noticing.
And then yesterday she bit me. And chickens, it turns out, can bite quite hard. I was putting my hand into the nesting box to take out the afternoon’s latest eggs when she suddenly got defensive about all their hard work and took a nip at my hand.
She used to be our favourite, but as her confidence grows, that’s starting to change.
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