The Floor Monster

[this is close to accuracy, but am not going to let accurate facts get in the way of a good story. Also, I do not want to give the impression that all is immaculate and pristine clean at the Farm - NOR do I wish to give the impression that all is in any way “shabby”. It is, after all, a WORKING Chook farm and, in my opinion at this point - over-all - Very Well Managed (More or less ..heh)].

After “showering in” at about 6am, stripping off in a (sort of) heater warmed change room, then through an adequate and functional shower stall, I step forth naked and see racks stacked with “uniforms”. Badged, blue Polo shirts and windcheaters, overalls, trousers, socks (well, the trousers and socks are not 'badged'). A crate of miscellaneous caps, hats and belts are in a plastic crate parked in one corner.

While washed daily some, if not most of the clothing is well used, trousers threadbare and patched in parts. Sizes vary, and if one is lucky can find a trouser size four. “No bloke wears size Four!” sez Dave, the farm manager, feigning mock horror, “Only girls wear size Four!”. So sometimes have to bang on the fibro wall and get the girls in the shower room next door to chuck me a pair of trousers, size Four.

Then collect my knickers and little lunch bag from the “pass-through” hatchway. From the options available get clothed comfortably and, with sparse hair wet and straggly, scurry outside in socks along the concrete apron of the amenities verandah to the rack of white gum-boots, try to find a pair of size “8's” then clump-clomp to the kitchen/lunch-room. Stow the lunch-bag, fossick among the wide selection of individual cups, mugs, spoons built up over long and ever-changing staff time. Find a mug with floral pattern, fill it with (supplied) sugar, coffee and hot water from the urn, cast a quick glance at the fridge, sandwich heater, microwave oven and pie warmer, return through the screen door with an ingenious Coke-bottle counter-weighted closure system, and stand on the gravel floored 'back verandah' 'smoker's area' to roll another ciggie, settle, and see who's here.


This sort of job is not to everyone's liking – and there is a constant turnover. The record is 20 minutes. One recent bloke 'showered in' took one look inside the shed – then pissed off. One lass, very young, slip of a girl – though will give her credit; it was on school holidays – lasted four days. Was hit by the Shed 1 rooster early on the second day, then had panic attacks every time she set foot in the sheds. Was given 'Annexe cleaning duties'. Decided to quit. Can't blame her, really. Can remember, early on, thinking that if she was hit by the particularly aggro rooster that hit me in Shed 1, he would knock her over.

[At this point, will write in defence of the roosters. They are NOT particularly harmful. Occasionally they feel the imperative to 'defend their territory'against strangers. Am usually in Shed 2, but was doing a floor walk in Shed 1 when hit from behind by a heavy “thump” on the back of my upper thigh. The rooster had leapt at me full force and hit me with his chest. I turned around and that was it. Tch, tch, say I, to him. All feathers, fluff, and prance - from then on.

(ah, sidenote – all the roosters have been “de-spurred” (but not de-knackered) as 5-7 day old chicks. Must find out the details of how they figure out which is which, later. And yes, can hear some of my female friends thinking .. 'if only it were that easy' .. heh ).

Have been assigned Shed 2, “my” shed. Constant staff turnover and rotating shifts do not allow individual “ownership” on this farm but am coming to love “my” Chooks in
Shed 2. 10,000 or so individuals locked into a “controlled”, constant temperature environment – which have known nothing but instinct since birth.
(MMMMM, am I experiencing the first glimmering understanding ..the
foundational delusions of dictatorship?)

And they ARE .. all “my” girls and boys ..+or- 9000 individuals. Walk among them day by day, sit with them, listen to their vocalisations .. try to begin to
understand their primeval pituitary sociological structures - and they are
primeval .. almost raptor-like. If a hen becomes sick or injured, it's not long before she's pecked to death, skin and organs stripped away to sad and
sorry carcase of bone and tattered feathers.]

There's “Boss” Dave, and “Red” - big-boned, bold, brash, shaved head bald – offset by a flaming red beard.[am guessing some sort of “foreman” or Leading Hand]. Jamie is his “offsider” (though not sure of the exact relationship – perhaps reversed) - quieter, more friendly, though of similar build; beard and shaved head. There's also “Science Dave” who began at the same time as self – almost the same age; tall, heavy, protuberant frontage, used to be a science teacher (islands North, PNG, Bougainville) but became “stressed out” and opted for a “simpler life”. His wife began at the same time but had to pack it in early due to the rotating shifts; apparently a Netball “star” and had to have every Saturday off. I wonder if she is beginning to appreciate his slow but steady weight loss.

There are/were others, but will compress them into names at this point. Trav, Denise, Glenys, Matt (by 3), Doug and Shawna, Wayne, Kathy, Sue .. so many more names .. so many fascinating characters and stories.

When I began it was “hit the sheds” at 7.30 am .. but the “girls” are in full production. It is now a 6.30am. start (out of bed at 5am, on the road at 5.30).

In the beginning I would spend all day “walking the shed” looking for an egg. Three days of nothing. Almost became like an expectant father, waiting to see that first egg on the floor. NOW, there are too many of the b***** things.

Ah, let me explain.


As far as can gather the Farm is an experiment in “automation”. At the Farms up the road, every egg is collected by hand. On this one, the hens are supposed to go into specially designed nest-boxes, the eggs roll down onto a conveyor-belt system which delivers them to a central collection and grading room. Part of my “job” is to train the chooks to choose to lay their eggs in the nest-boxes – and not on the sawdust /compost floor .. an interesting exercise .. heh. There is some debate as to whether the chooks are “intelligent”. Am coming to the conclusion that – apart from being firmly rooted in instinctual behaviour – they have a memory span of about five seconds, and the intelligence of a pea.

So, these days, after the quick banter and cup of coffee, grab the “floor count folder” and head off to shed 2. Tromp-clomp the short distance along the central pathway, past shed 1 and 8 to the annexe of shed 2. Check to see that the footbath is charged with disinfectant, stomp each boot, then look for my trays and “scoopie”**. Hopefully they will be as I left them, but the farm begins much earlier than 6.30am – machinery has to be started, feed-lines have to be run. If I have days away, anybody could be assigned to the shed.

**Ah, a “scoopie” is a tool used to pick up eggs from the floor without bending down. A very Hi-Tech gadget consisting of a length of plastic pipe with the cut-off handle of a plastic spaghetti spoon stuck in the end. Very effective with a bit of practice and 'flick o' the wrist'. It is also useful for other purposes .. which is where “the floor monster' comes into the story .. but, apart from ME tromping carefully through the carpet of chooks, you'll have to wait to discover what it also became.

[to be continued ..]