We’ve had to deal with more death lately – one of the chickens died.
Our flock has dimished quickly. First the ducks left us – now they lurk in the canal outside our front gate, taunting us.
Then one of the hens turned out to be a boy, and that causes me to accelerate my explanations about sex, as I don’t want her images to come solely from the violent assault that is poultry mating. Now, a hen – The Girl had named her Trudy -- died and we don’t know why. As of today we have two hens left, and I hope they can keep supplying us with some eggs.
Trudy and Marge had been the troublemakers of the group, and The Girl had declared that “Trudy’s not really bad at heart – Marge just drags her along and gets her in trouble. Trudy’s like Peter Lorre’s character in Arsenic and Old Lace.”
The Girl and I buried Trudy beside the rowan tree.
“We’re going to have to be extra-nice to Marge,” she said. “She and Trudy were sisters.”