Skwuurk

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There’s no getting away from it.  Chickens make some of the most ludicrously dismal noises in the world, only to be compared to small children learning to play the violin.

This morning I let the guest chooks out to stravage about the garden for a few hours, watching in case they explored into next door or ate my young plants.  It was fairly easy to keep an eye on four of them as they scratched deep in the vegetables and weeds, but the fifth was more difficult to see.

Indeed, occasionally I put shoes on and went out to find the highly camouflaged Dotty, as I don’t want to have to Explain Myself to a tearful owner, but luckily she always turned up.

She was more visible when on a green background; an odd-looking creature, her booffy britches fluffed up and twirled by the wind.

The main task for the morning was to lead them up and down the garden a few times with trails of brown bread crumbs, of which they are inordinately fond, in the hope that they will associate me with treats and thus come when called.  The evenings are reserved for Fluffers, who has her own indoor space (she is too small to associate readily with the outdoor flock, and thinks she is a person anyway).  Occasionally she condescends to use me as a heated mattress.

Chicken selfies.  Sigh.

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