I buried two of Auntie’s chickens in the past few months and frankly, was and still am devastated.
They died on my watch, you see. Or more specifically, while I am here. But they were really old – no matter,I do feel like I let her down and recognize I am being silly, but still.
Hens are strange, and those that live on the Allen Fowl Spa are exceptionally so as they can really be quite naughty, despite being in such a safe place… (they have such an eye for when something new is just planted and they just zoom in to scratch, scratch, scratch!). The younger ladies are also very comical and seem to be able to identify when She Who Feeds (ie, me now) is here, and when I call them they just come running out, and are able to respond to individual names.
Which is why I don’t get it when they deliberately scratch the new stuff out – I mean, if you are capable of discerning voices and all, why do you want to run the risk of having a boot thrown at you ( not me – his dad, haha. Oops.)
Seriously – they know when they are up to mischief. That’s the scary part!
Anyway this is the first time I am properly spending time here, and while I grieve over the passing of the two white hens the country has been beautific waking up from its wintry slumber – in the backyard now we have two duck families, who rule the pond – the Armada, the first to arrive here this season, has 14 in its fold, whilst the second is comprised of a smaller nest, with eight physically tinier ducklings, one of whom is really small, and who I hope can make it through.
And then, we have Ginger, who was hatched not long ago, and who we are desperately hoping is a girl. We have Sparky, the one-eyed (ahem) cockerel who really should be doing more than crow at 4 am, and should just GET ON WITH IT but nooooooooo… I digress. If, and if Ginger is a Roger, it seems he will have to go upstairs MUCH SOONER.
Praying really hard we can keep Ginger – else Roger will have to go.