Looks like another hen managed to escape via the compost heap this morning, because when I went out to see if there were any new eggs, there were feathers in the yard. Raymond had gotten another one — and had her hidden between the tall iris and the rhubarb.
It’s my fault really, I didn’t insist on building an enclosed chicken run like I thought we probably should because a) Chuck was being nice enough to build it for me in the first place and b) we had the recycled chain link, and I hoped it would work. But it didn’t. So now I’ve spent all day plotting enclosed chicken runs. I think I have a pretty simple idea, that might also provide them with a little more shade. I’ve got an old window screen in the basement that should make a decent door.
We’ll have to see. Someone with carpentry skills is muttering about diminishing returns. But I’m hoping that my nice milk lady will sell me a couple of laying hens, and we’ll be back in business. I was prepared for total failure during year one of chicken farming, but it’s still very disappointing. I liked those little golden hens so much, and now the remaining one, and the rooster, are all freaked out.
Bad dog! (Who can’t really help it — he’s bred to find birds after all, and well, he’s short on self-restraint to begin with. But he’s still a bad dog. At least for today.)
As for Miss Hen, she’s been buried in the yard, under an iris that was in the way of the new gate to the inadequate chicken yard. Circle of life and all that. Sigh.