Wednesday, July 14, 2010


How quickly the enjoyment of a beautiful summer day, working in the garden can turn ugly so quickly. All it takes is a group cackle from a bunch of hens that make you instantly jump to your feet and fly around the yard wondering what in the world is going on. When you get a glimpse of a big bushy tail, feathers laying on the ground your heart skips a beat. Adrenaline kicks in and you're off on the now too familiar run (Along with trusty side kick Winslow Homer). Once again the fox has struck and yes, once again Gladys is the victim. The fox had her by the back and had the gall to stop and look at me while lugging her off across the field. Be still my heart. I kept mentally repeating to Gladys "remember to play dead" It seemed like forever before I had located the rest of the girls and wrangled them to their pen. Winslow and I did the mandatory walk around the fields and through the gravel pit located next door. No luck (I have made a vow to myself, a predator may get away with killing my hens, but they will never be eaten, never). So with sadness in my heart I returned to the pen making sure everyone else was okay. I gave them a treat of blueberries and me a glass of lemonade (If I had vodka in the house I would have had me a big old swig). An hour or so later I was just about to slip my feet into my Muck Boots, when low and behold there was Gladys sitting on the porch.
Yup, my girl had once again made it back, no bite marks, no blood, no worse for wear. No "hospital lodging" required.
My girl Gladys has used up two of her nine lives, two too many. I am so thankful that "up there somewhere" she has a guardian angel. I do believe in angels, thank you Grammy Lile you do make a believer out of me and Gladys believes too. Now all you chicken keepers out there groom your chickens to play dead, it works- just ask Gladys!