Having been away for a few days, I was delighted to come home to find all chooks hale and hearty. My friend who has recently aquired her own ladies was looking after them for me, and a sterling job she did. When we got in yesterday evening, the girls still had an hour of daylight left to explore the garden and I was more than happy to oblige. Over the two days I was absent, they managed eight eggs between them. A most satisfactory haul.
Its a particularly blustery day here, which is great for me as I have a washing mountain to climb. The chooks are less keen. Small, light, feathery hens tend to get buffeted by anything stronger than a moderate breeze. Lots of mad dashes in between gusts have been undertaken, from Convent to dustbath, from dustbath to border, and from border to decking. Amusing to watch even if the girls enjoy it significantly less.
The chooklets are still living in the garage, and will be until the chook palace is installed. Opening the garage door, I propped the door open with the rake as usual. Big mistake. The chooklets hopped over to the door way and then my view was obscured by the slamming garage door. I admit to feeling a little queasy at this point, and could only envisage horrors now residing behind the closed portal. Gulp.
Gingerly, I reached for the handle and simultaneously said a little prayer. The door step was empty. A quick scan of the garage revealed Purdy sitting atop the lawn mower with a startled expression on her face. No sign of Celia. Not good. A quick search revealed no silver partridge chooklet, and I began to consider the possibility that she had been totally vapourised leaving no trace. Not even a solitary feather. Of course, at this point Celia waddled out from under the wood shavings bale, cocked her head at me and sneezed at my general incompetence.
There is now a very heavy wheelie bin holding the door open.