27mar24

I think it’s going to be a day. Our oldest chicken, Crazy, died in the night. So before I did anything else, I needed to bury her. The spot I picked to dig a hole turned out to be filled with very old bricks – god knows how they got there – and I got less than two feet down when the handle snapped off the spade. Not ideal. Today was intended to be a nice easy day of scripting, after getting only four hours’ straight sleep the night before last, but now it’s coffee and figuring out how to secure that little grave better against the foxes. Sounds proper rural, doesn’t it?

Crazy, by the way, lived at least three years longer than anyone expected, and ended her days as the demented matriarch of the chicken house, having started as the scrawny oven-ready runt who just ran around screaming until someone hit her, which just made her run around faster and scream louder. I remember having to build her a separate defended space to stop the other rescue hens from murdering her, while, frankly, having some sympathy with them. She died a mad queen.