Listening to: Do The Square Thing (The Three Johns)
Dark at: 4.40
What's for tea?: Pasta, tomato sauce, parmesan.
My attempts at rearing poultry have so far proved to be more than a little ropey.
I managed to suffocate one hen on the two-mile journey home after picking them up a few weeks ago and now we could be down to four feathery inmates.
As previously reported, Godber, along with Fletch, has developed a talent for accidentally escaping from the hen run before panicking, running up and down looking for a way back in.
As a result, she very nearly cashed in her chips last week. I was tatting around at the front of the house when I heard chickeny cries of alarm. I huffed around to the hen run where I saw a ball of white terrier fur and dark grey hen feathers. Spike had clocked that stupidly I'd left the back door of the barn open, had nipped out, gone to 'investigate' and been delighted to find a victim.
I managed to grab a handful of Jack Russell and - assuming Godber was an ex-hen, ceased to be and so on - carted the miscreant into the house and shoved him into the kitchen.
Going out to clear up the corpse, I was amazed to find she was alive and clucking. She made her way back into the run, apparently none the worse for the experience.
Sadly, when I checked the hens today, Godber seemed depressed and, for good measure, it looks like she might have damaged her wing in the attack which meant I had to lift her out through the hatch for her tour of the exercise yard. She had eaten OK, but I'm not sure how she's going to be in the long run.
Do hens suffer post-traumatic stress?