The Freeloaders

The Freeloaders
We have had a succession of chickens as house guests. My daughter found
old abandoned eggs lying around the stables where she worked and ever
the optimist, she broke them open and searched for any signs of life.
Those that didn't smell too high got brought home to Chez Nous for
resuscitation.
The first of these to hatch was a shy little hen that we thought needed
a more aggressive aspect on life to see her through her orphanage. With
this in mind, we called her "Fang". It seemed to work, as soon she
became perfectly and almost suicidally brave.
The garden was her domain and she guarded her territory jealously. I'll
never forget the shocked exit of the neighbours cat as it vaulted the
garden fence with Fangs beak two inches from its' rear. Even the
sparrows weren't safe if she thought they were likely to grab a morsel
of bread that was rightly hers.
She would eat from the dogs' dishes, shouldering aside the slavering
snouts, scoffing as much as she could reach. When the dogs started
growing thin, we decided we had to return her to the stables.
The next foundling was also a hen and we named her Beryl. Her egg was
discovered lying on the manure heap, and she was quite given up for
dead when broken free from her eggshell. Her corpse was promptly
returned to the top of the muck heap. The pungent fumes must have had
some revitalising effects as she was seen to be raised twitching to
life within a few hours.
We considered it likely that some brain damage must have occurred for
she was the strangest and most endearing bird you ever could meet. It
was our opinion that it was the aggressive part of a chickens'
mentality that hadn't survived, leaving her incapable of harming a fly,
a big nutritional handicap for a free ranging fowl.
As she matured, her feathers grew but not her comb. She had the run of
the garden, and she used to scratch around all day, carefully stepping
over the beetles and stopping to smell the blossoms. Any earthworm
unlucky enough to be stranded on top of the grass would be swiftly
gathered up and carefully covered with soil under the nearest rose
bush. She was the only vegetarian chicken in existence.
She would come into the house in the evenings, and whilst perching
happily on my lap, would gently peck the hairs from my forearm. Then,
head beneath wing, she would nod off to sleep.
Eventually came the day we decided to return her to the stables, to
meet the other fowl and perhaps learn to live a more chicken-like life
style. She took one look at all the other chickens squabbling over a
hand full of corn and visibly shuddered. She wanted no part of any of
these coarse fellows, and decided to become a duck. She wandered of to
join Jules the drake and his gang.
She seemed to be quickly accepted by the ducks and could usually be
found plodding along behind them attempting to imitate their waddles,
the only chuck in existence. A lovely little character who laid her
first egg a few days after the start of her new life.
Then came the real challenge. My daughter brought home an egg that
duly brought forth a cockerel. Here was a real egoist. He was hatched
already complete with comb, spurs and beady eye. We took one look and
called him Delbert after a character created by Lenny Henry a British
comedian. He was born to rule!
He grew and he grew and both dogs lived in fear of him. It was not
unusual to look out of the kitchen window and see one or other of them
charging round the garden with what looked like a rampant Indian
Headdress covering their faces. If either of them were to stand still
for long, their nether regions were attacked by a demented feather
duster with claws. They became nervous wrecks, given to spinning round
and yelping whenever a sparrow fluttered past.
As he matured, Delbert became subject to other and more deviant urges.
He became fascinated by Wellington boots, mentally dividing them into
male (mine) and female (the wife's'). Mine he would attack whenever
they made an appearance in the garden, blowing himself up like a
Sergeant Major and hurling himself into the attack with beak and claws
flashing. As my feet were generally inside them at the time, I was not
amused, and took to arming myself with a plastic badminton racket
whenever I ventured near him. I must have cut a strange figure to the
neighbours, leaping and gambolling around the garden, parrying with
forehands and backhands whilst being pursued by an enormous speckled
shuttlecock.
My wife had an even bigger problem, as he wasn't interested in killing
her wellies. He was determined to inflict upon them what is commonly
known as 'the fate worse than death'.
My wife tells me that its not easy, gathering in the washing from the
rain with a five pound Lothario giving his all to your left
ankle.
When the day came that we let him out of his cage in the morning and
he rushed across the garden and ardently embraced an empty Coke bottle,
we knew that for the sake of any passing cats, we had to return him to
the stables!
After this, my daughter was urged not to bring any more chickens home
that weren't first, decently deep-frozen.
She did, however, bring home a couple of rabbits.
The first, a Lop called Gimpy, had three good legs. Her fourth leg,
the left rear, was congenitally deformed, attached as it was to her
pelvis by what appeared to be a universal coupling. Useless for
locomotion, it flapped behind her as she progressed, now pointing
rearward, then at the sky, and occasionally appearing to be on the
point of embedding itself in her left ear. She was totally oblivious to
any handicap, and showed herself to be a master of escapology. No gap
was too small, no ladder unscaleable and no bush too impenetrable. This
was one rabbit that fast earned itself a ball and chain.
The other, a small, white, doe, was called Polo. A quiet character,
she was content to watch Gimpys' escape attempts, and to bask in the
reflected glory. She would follow Gimpy around keeping a few feet
behind until it was time for a snooze. Then she would snuggle up
contentedly to her bulky companion.
Should Gimpy disappear on one of her expeditions into the neighbours
garden or out through a half closed gate, Polo would panic, frantically
beating the bounds of our plot of land until someone noticed and went
on a search and rescue operation to restore Gimpy to her.
We had many occasion to both curse and cuddle all our animals but now
they are gone and our children are away chasing their own animals in
their own gardens, feeding their own memories.