Ding Dong

There was a song in my head yesterday morning, but I didn't feel good about it.  Think of the Munchkins in The Wizard Of Oz celebrating when the house fell on their archenemy, but with my words.  "Ding Dong, the rooster's dead...."  Never before in my life have I felt anything but sorrow when an animal in my care has died.  Rotten Stanley was the exception.  I could not bring myself to shoot him, nor ask anyone else to do him in, but he took all the joy out of having chickens.  He never went out of attack mode, so it was a case of open the gate, throw in the food, and make my escape.  Filling the waterer was an exercise in fear.  Having been nailed twice, with copious bleeding, I couldn't turn my back on him ever and I was most vulnerable when both hands were needed to carry the water.  When Michael and I were on our walks, I would look for Stanley in the pen.  "Rats, he's still there."  Yesterday, I didn't see him.  Afraid he might be hiding in ambush, I took Michael around to the back of the pen where I could see into the little coop.  He was in there, but stretched out flat.  That's when the song began playing.

One of the hens had predeceased Rotten Stanley.  That leaves just the one girl, now named Lonesome Lulu.  Chickens are social creatures, and I feel bad for her, but maybe now she and I can bond.  Or, maybe best for her, I will give her to Camille to put in with her flock.  We'll see.

This is my kind of winter.  Rain (minus the wind) at night, clearing by daybreak.  Michael didn't need his overcoat yesterday.  Cold, yes, but Stove can handle that.  It looks good for today, with more rain predicted tomorrow.  Arden is coming over this afternoon, so she won't get soaked, and that's a good thing.

Ding Dong.