Wheaton’s Way

I’d swear the Cayman Compass story about fines and prison for feeding wildlife popped up on my phone as I was being swarmed by a flock of what I call Cayman peacocks, otherwise known as Chickenus Fowlus. (God, I love Wile E. Coyote.)

As I have reported in the past, despite some residents’ exasperation at the prevalence of these birds in certain areas, I have come to love and nurture those residing in my neighbourhood. Speaking as someone who recently took on a coop, I can tell you that feeding wild chickens is so much easier than being a landlord for snooty tenants. Not only are said tenants not paying rent (in THIS economic climate) for their cosy dwelling, but they get food and water, along with daily cleaning service. If I add cable TV, there’s no difference between that coop and an all-inclusive resort.

Last week, I attempted to change out the bedding straw for the first time since this new structure came to our garden. Instead of taking my brains with me, I left them in the house. I should have shooed the six hens and the rooster into one half of the coop and temporarily locked them there, but no. I lifted up the cover where they were all resting, propped it open with a stick, and before I could grab one forkful of old straw, two hens… (wait for it)… (drum roll please)… flew the coop!

For a moment I paused. Did I go after the two that were now toddling off together like a pair of amply-hipped ladies going for a shop, or did I concentrate on closing the roof of their dwelling ASAP to prevent further escapes? You know what they say: A bird in the coop is worth two on the lam. I stayed and secured the roof. Of course, by then the ‘Absolutely Fabulous’ gals had already made their way into the backyard. I went on the hunt with a rake and a laundry basket, planning to corral them into an area and then throw the basket over them. No such luck. They had a taste of freedom and weren’t interested in being caught. You see, they weren’t yet familiar with their new owner. However, my adorable wild charges who were used to me emerging every day with slices of bread came running over with no fear. Within moments, I had three on an arm and one on my head. The fugitives would have to keep.

Over the next few days, best friend/housemate Lynne and I actively tried to get those two hens into their home. They clearly were of the same mind – hanging outside the walls of the coop as their polyamorous rooster crowed plaintively on the other side – but couldn’t grasp the concept of an open gate.

Lynne, sporting heavy gloves, came from behind, as I cooed in front, cajoling and directing them like downtown traffic officer Fabian O’Connor, towards where I needed them to go. They bobbed, they weaved, they completely evaded us.

It took nearly a week before all the planets aligned, but not before antics worthy of the Three Stooges unfolded. What a shame that none of it was captured on video.

And… back to our regularly scheduled programme.

Every day, I walk out of my house and the wild chickens come running from all directions across my garden. They trust me and know me and jump on my arms while I feed them. It can be a bit overwhelming at times (Lynne is this close to wearing a crash helmet), but once everyone has a bit of bread in their beaks, things calm down. Most of the time I pooh-pooh Lynne and her advice against encouraging them, although even I have to admit that feeding them in their roosting bush a couple of late nights on the trot was a bad decision. It didn’t take them long to cotton on that bread may not only be available when the sun is up. So, now, if we go out in the evening, we have to open and close the front door quietly and take a circuitous route to the car in order not to activate the security lighting. Because the moment those bulbs come to life, the bush starts to rustle like Bigfoot lives in it, and suddenly a seemingly endless number of chickens come flapping from the depths like clowns out of a Mini.

Now, we might have been looking at probation with community service if it was just the above, but we look after stray cats as well (Your Honour). When we were at our previous residence, there was a family of cats living in the area, and Lynne trapped them one-by-one, had them neutered and spayed, and brought them back to our property (carefully using words that will help in our defence).

Despite the fact that we had subjected them to temporary imprisonment and surgery, they were quick to forgive, possibly due to the barrel of Meow Mix on the front porch and packets of Temptations treats in our kitchen. Every evening they would show up, with some becoming tamer than others, but all aware of the two saps at #4. Unfortunately, over the years, we lost a few to (indigenous?) free-roaming dogs whose owners didn’t care for them properly. How about a mandatory education programme on the responsible ownership and treatment of animals while we’re bandying about radical ideas and consequences?

In the meantime, here we are at Chez Wheaton and Firth, feeding chickens and taking care of stray cats as we always have. Hopefully the police won’t show up one night and activate our security light near that bush, or I’ll be getting life without the possibility of parole.