From my East Coast tour and trip, I return to my glamorous life on the farm.
My chickens squawk a lot sometimes. When they wander happily around they make little purring sounds that are really quite pleasant, though I must admit it was not what I expected as a kid who grew up thinking all they did was cluck. If they cluck or squawk, they're upset. Ah, the things you learn.
Yesterday after supper one kept complaining. There are a few who do this, and when I rush out they are sitting there looking at me saying, "what? Oh, right. Umm... I was ... er... concerned. Yeah, that's it. Nothing to see here." And so last night I sighed, having scolded them several times before with the 'boy who cried wolf' story. I called the girls to head out and see if it was (again) nothing. Wrong.
As I passed out the door I heard A's shrill scream and saw a fox race across the yard to the field, Sam (aka Archie the Wonder Dog) in hot pursuit. I rounded the corner to see A's terrified face, and feathers on the ground. Not again, I thought. Apparently Queen Victoria the chicken did not use her secret pro hunter abilities.
But, a happy ending. All nine hens were safe, though scared and some had been grabbed at, though not injured. The fox in hindsight seemed small and may have found the hens too big to easily carry off. Sam was awfully pleased with himself, and I was glad again of having a large dog on the farm. The chickens, while thankful for their rescue, may well be giving me that condescending "I told you so!" look for the next few days.
I hate it when they're right.