Yesterday, as dusky chicken bed-time approached, we realised that only four chickens had gathered for the usual final snack. Naughty Chicken (long my favourite) was not there.
It didn’t take many minutes for us to draw the sad conclusion that she must have been killed and taken by a predator. Memories of the loss of Big and Pretty Chickens came flooding back. Once again, a desperate but despairing hunt around the land and buildings revealed no sight or sound of our splendidly entertaining chicken.
I spent much of the evening trying not to think about Naughty. I have to acknowledge that I have become ridiculously fond of the chickens, and the original brown birds have a special place in my affections. Naughty hasn’t laid any eggs for ages, but that doesn’t matter in the slightest. I was devastated to have lost her, and blamed myself for not protecting her.
Our chickens do revel in their ability to range free, and they queue up impatiently at the end of the morning laying time to get out to explore their extensive home ground. We will have to think again about how to deter predators, but this cannot over constrain chicken liberty. It’s a weighty responsibility . . . literally a matter of life and death.
Today, after a mid-morning tea break, I went out to resume chain sawing. I casually greeted the brown chicken standing almost on the door step, and then realised that we hadn’t yet released the chickens from their pen. And sure enough, there in the pen were four chickens. Naughty Chicken was alive and standing, staring inquisitively, in front of me!
Where had she been? We really don’t know, but guess she might have found a way into the upper reaches of the barn. Either that, or she roosted in a hedgerow having been caught out by the falling dusk. Whatever the story, I felt elated at her ‘resurrection’! She devoured a bowl of lettuce and cheese rind, and although truthfully she showed little sign of the emotion I was feeling, I like to think that she was celebrating with me.
