Not a Good Day

We had a horrid day yesterday.
Doris, one of our chickens, got totally shagged by Cocky Bastard, our new cockerel. He left her, half dead, on the cold, wet grass and then carried on eating last night's leftovers right next to her.
I went out after breakfast to feed the 'girls' as we call our chickens. My children were reluctant to come with me as they were getting a tad frightened of Cocky Bastard as he can be quite fierce. (Poor girl feeding chickens while we were away leaned over to put food into chicken house, and Cocky Bastard jumped on her back and PECKED HER HEAD).
Out I went, whistling quietly to myself, treading over the large amounts of sheep poo (see last post) when suddenly I saw poor old Doris lying on her side. I threw myself through the door of the chicken run and rushed over to where she was lying on her side, looking thoroughly dead. When I picked her up I realised immediately that she was still alive. Just. I took her in, and with the help of my middle son, we made her as comfortable as we could in the utility room.
Out I marched into the garden again to see what the hell I could do with Cocky Bastard. I was Very Cross. And, indeed, very sad. I look after those chickens day in and day out. We all do. And in return, they give us their lovely brown eggs and make such comforting noises, rather like old ladies in a jumble sale. (Any one who has chickens will get this. Anyone who doesn't will probably stop reading about.....now)
My husband, at a children's party (10.30 on a Sunday morning, I ask you) was still not back.
We kept watch over Doris for the rest of the morning but she wasn't looking good at all. When my husband got home I dragged him to Doris' sick room and made him examine her. I needed to know if we should put her out of her misery. To my relief, he reckoned we should keep her warm and see what happened. I left him with a straw, trying to get some water into her beak. Successfully!
Well, then it all got horrible. Husband and I both agreed that Cocky Bastard was not only a menace, but potentially quite dangerous. Our youngest son is barely taller than Cocky, and it would have been awful to have him pecked in the face or eyes.
And so we Disposed of him. Cocky Bastard. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Felt simply Hitler-like but could not risk him either killing other hens, or hurting small children. My children were really upset too. We had to try to explain it but death is so very final and so very grim.
And then, after lunch, we went back into the utility room to see that Doris had died.
There was a full blown burial service, with my husband leading the prayers. I have to say that even though I was Most Aggrieved, I did get the giggles when he said, 'Dear Lord, please welcome Doris into your heavenly kingdom...' I struggled with the hysteria and managed to look quite solemn.
Now it is the next day. I told people at my pre-school this morning but they didn't really get it. Why should they? Not many of us go round disposing of chickens. So this afternoon I needed to get it off my chest and into Blogland. Hope you guys will still drop by even though there is a chicken killer on the loose.
And guess where my son is being taken to this evening for a friend's birthday treat...? Bloody KFC, that's where. Talk about rubbing my face in it.