Experience has taught me any odd noise from the hen yard is a bad thing, something to investigate right away. So when late yesterday I heard an unfamiliar commotion I rushed out to see about the ensuing mayhem. Sure enough Noodle Bonaparte was inexplicably inside the hen yard and being pecked mercilessly by a trio of hens; furthermore, she’d gotten herself stuck half way through a little lattice hole which any sighted creature would have realized was far too small to pass through.
It only took a moment for The Husband to reach her but by then little Noodle was a motionless pile of fuzz. Oh no, I thought. We lost one.
Not dead, just frozen in terror; the instant he scooped her up Noodle began flapping in fright.
We decided then and there to liberate our silkies from the plume that simultaneously served as their most prized feature and source of blindness.
|A Delicate Procedure.|
The Husband and The Girl performed the delicate procedure. Once the feathers began to fall away the birds went uncharacteristically still. Chickens, it turns out, enjoy seeing. I’ve decided those fuzzy feathers are a hazard, not to mention pure meanness. We’ll keep the girls trimmed from now on.
Because there is nothing ridiculous at all about chicken haircuts. Good Grief.
|She sees her shadow.|