Oh, dear, I've disabled my chicken.
We had a rather nasty visitor the other night in the shape of a fox.
He stole into our chicken run in the dead of night, and I awoke to the most appalling sounds of terrified birds and carnage at 4 o'clock in the morning.
After fifteen rather unpleasant minutes of chasing a fox away, and comforting those hens who were left, I and Husband, (who had joined me after hearing me yelling rather rude words to the fox) retired back to bed, leaving the poor old girls shocked and battered in their shed. All locked up. Again.
Two hens had died, and so we went about getting two replacements, who duly arrived a couple of days later from a very nice chicken farmer who lives down the road.
Our two new girls are extremely nice; one is called Margot, and the other one Betsy. Just don't ask why. They just ARE, OK?
Margot has taken to 'getting out' of the chicken run EVERYDAY.
How? The wire is high, there are no holes in the fence. She is clearly a Ninja chicken.
And so we, my husband and I, clipped her wings. Grabbed her while she was enjoying a perambulation around the vegetable garden, and with the use of my nice bright kitchen scissors, cut a couple of inches of wing off. On one side. Put her back into the chicken run and slammed the lock across.
Good job, we said, as we went back in for a cup of tea.
Looked out of window ten minutes later. Could see Margot BACK IN the vegetable garden, having a right old go at the left over mouldy old carrots.
Out we went again. We examined her wing, and reckoned that we needed to take two inches off the other wing.
Out came the lovely bright kitchen scissors again. Off came two inches of second wing.
Back we went to have another cup of tea, chuckling away at our wayward chicken. Ho ho ho!
Washing up my mug a few minutes later BLOODY Margot was back in the vegetable garden.
Out we went, Husband and I, determined that this chicken should not escape from the chicken run EVER again. What did she think she was; an ex film star from the film of that name?
Off came more wings. By now the poor chicken was looking decidedly dodgy, with tiny stumps of wings on each side.
'That'll do it,' muttered Husband as he chucked the feathers into the dustbin.
'That'll do it,' muttered I as I threw the chicken over the fence to fly down into the run.
Oops, I thought.
The poor chicken, having no wings, plummeted down like a rock.
Oh, dear, thought I. Have killed chicken.
But up she got, and started pecking away at another imaginary insect.
Phew, I thought.
Back we went inside.
Only to glance out of the window at the rather lovely sunset only MOMENTS later to see Margot BACK in the vegetable garden.
Right. THAT'S IT, we said.
We stomped out and grabbed the chicken and remembered just in time NOT to throw her back in the run.
How on EARTH did she get out?
It had now crossed our minds that the poor chicken was not so much Ninja as getting through fence somewhere.
It turned out that the fox had made a hole in the fence just next to the gate in his mad dash for freedom on being discovered. It didn't look broken at all, unless you stuck your nose a couple of inches away from it. Which I did.
Poor old Margot. She looks a mess. Tiny stubby wings like a new born chick.
Mind you, am very glad that we realised finally that it was a broken fence that had her escaping like a chickeny sort of Steve McQueen, and not her flying out again. Goodness knows what we might have cut off next.
All's well now. Fence is mended, and Margot is quite content with the chicken run.
Now we wait for a hen to produce the first egg since the Fox Incident. Am missing my boiled egg in the morning.
We'll keep you posted. xxx
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