After all the excitement of the snow, we are now back to good old rain. All day long, it has been pouring down. The ground simply cannot absorb any more of the wet stuff, and it runs in rivulets all over the flower beds.
Not surprisingly, my pampered ladies have not set one feathered foot outside of their cosy coop. Every so often, I have peered out of the kitchen window in an effort to catch a glimpse of a hen scoffing pellets, or having a scratch about. Nothing. The inclement weather means that I'd been putting off the daily poo clean, in the hope that it might brighten up. Eventually, I had to accept that it just wasn't going to happen, and reach for the water proofs.
Trudging across the decidedly boggy lawn, I heard familiar chunterings. I opened the coop to find four of the girls comfortably arranged in the nest boxes, while the top three peered down at me from the perch. Already drenched, I swept out as quickly as possible and replaced the paper. It suddenly occurred to me that the hens had the sense to stay in the dry when it was raining in biblical proportions, yet I, with the significantly bigger brain pan, was outside sweeping up their poo.
What's more, they were looking at me in a way that suggested that they knew it, too.