Yuki needs a good shaking...or maybe just a shower. All the hens cool themselves and retard mites by taking dust baths, and then they fluff themselves off and look good. When Yuki, on the other hand, takes a dust bath, she looks like a well-used feather duster. Her pure white, downy feathers hold the dirt like a magnet. Her feathered feet look like she's been making mud pies. Satomi's and Keiko's black feathers don't show the dust, so even though they also have the same fluffy feathers, they can get away with it. For someone like myself who puts dusting at the far, far bottom of the list, having a dusty chicken is a bit much.
At four-fifty-four this morning, well before dawn, from further up the road there were two shots about five seconds apart from what sounded like a .38 pistol...too big for a .22, not big enough for a .45, and not a rifle. No cars came down Gray Rock, and no sirens have gone up. I don't much care for this type of mystery.
We're still in the doldrums...too hot to move unless it's before sunup or after sundown. Makes me appreciate the old-movies channels on TV. Bessie goes with me as I put the critters to bed, and asks for a cool drink from the hose while I'm filling the water troughs. In the house, she moves from tile to hearth and back, trying to find a cooler spot during the day. There isn't one.