Flock of eight…
Dammit. Chel wasn’t there at chicken bedtime last night. I’m out in the garden most of the day and I count them multiple times. She was there not long before, for sure. I looked high and low (literally, that’s how you have to look for missing chickens) but no luck.
Whatever happened didn’t stir up the other chickens, who alarm call (read: scream) all day long for the slightest reason. If I had to guess, I’d say she went through the hedge into the sheep field next door and something nabbed her.
There’s a very, very tiny chance she’s gone broody and is sitting on a clutch of eggs in the hedge someplace. I doubt it. Polands aren’t known for their mothering instincts (unlike Pekins, who are a real nuisance about it all Summer). Even if she did, I reckon a fox has got her by now – something knocked my cages around last night. Looking for seconds probably, bastard.
Ah, well. As a chicken keeper, you learn to harden your heart if you can. Chickens are fragile things. But that’s just it: they’re little and harmless and pretty, which makes it awful when something bad happens to them.
I love this picture of Chel, out of focus though it is. I almost went with a picture of her as a four day old chick, but that would have been plain mean, like those late-night rescue charity commercials showing film of abused animals. Hate those.
May 18, 2020 — 7:51 pm
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