This farming business is liberally sprinkled with matters of life and death. Today I sadly have to report some of the latter.
Towards the end of every day, the chickens gather back at the farm yard to preen and feed before bedtime. Last Monday seemed no different, except that there were only three chickens. Big and Pretty were missing.
And in a sense, that is the end of the story. We searched our land, then the tracks and the lane. As the darkness fell, increasingly desperate, we walked the neighbouring fields vainly calling out their names.
We found no trace of them. No bodies, no feathers, nothing.
All we can assume is that a local fox came across them and took them to feed a hungry litter. Or some other predator took advantage of a feeding opportunity (we’ve seen goshawks, and we know there are martens in the commune).
Big (left) was very forward, and thought nothing of eating the cats’ food off the doorstep. Pretty (above) was an explorer, and the first to establish nests in our flower beds.
It’s a hard thing to happen. I get very attached to all our animals, and losing them is painful.
We could, of course, have kept them safe by keeping them all the time in their pen in the yard. But chickens are meant to range free, and we’ve seen them taking enormous chickeny pleasure in that freedom. Live fast, die young? Or perhaps it’s just nature in the raw.
Big and Pretty lived a lot longer, and much better, than those unfortunate chickens fattened up in confinement to make a cheap meal for the unaware, penny-pinching shopper. And their carefree, adventurous wandering endeared them to me.
Farewell brave hens. I shall miss you.
Big and Pretty set off on another adventure. They often led the others into risky open areas.
