I had no idea, when we first got chooks, that I’d get so attached. That I’d get so used to having them around. That I’d chat to them as I gardened. That I’d laugh at them. That I would enjoy holding them, stroking their silken feathers. That I’d love them so much. That I’d miss them so very much when they were gone.
It started raining last Sunday, at about 3.08pm.
I can’t tell you how much of a relief it was. The tanks were nearly empty, the grass was dry, brown and crackled beneath your feet. The dam levels were dropping. Everything and everyone looked parched.
It was beautiful, steady, soaking rain. Torrential rain when things were so dry and dusty would have been destructive, but the rain we got was just absorbed into the landscape. Within 48 hours there was a happy, fresh green tinge to the paddocks. Even the eucalyptus which usually cope so well with dry conditions, perked up.
Initially as the first run-off from our roof started pouring into the tanks, you could hear the echoey splashing deep down in the cavernous belly of the tanks. We’d come so close to running out, and with a month-long wait on water delivery, it would have been a long, hot and very dry December. Continue reading
One of the chooks is lame. We’re not sure what happened, but I have a nasty, sneaking suspicion that Jones might have caused some damage in a rumble. He generally leaves the girls alone these days, but if it wasn’t him, I have no idea what or who it was. Does he look guilty to you?