Eschewing the vet, who will wring a hen’s neck as soon as you turn up rather than charge you for a cure that’s more then they’re worth, I diagnosed from my Hen Bible. Happy to report she is much perkier and will soon rejoin her sisters outside. Now the medicine is kicking in I no longer have to clear up hen diarrhoea (sorry) sixteen times a day. Until Release Date we have cat vs. chicken traffic control measures.
Ah - the cats. You may not know, but we were recently colonised by builders for ten months. Their HQ was in the utility room, right by the cat flap. My shy (terrified) cats were too scared to dart past them, so took to pooing upstairs on the landing carpet when we weren’t looking. Every day. Even when we left another door open for them. I’m now trying to re-house-train ancient cats, after scrubbing the carpet with a foaming disinfectant in the hope it would smell less like a litter tray (actually, now more like a morgue, but you can’t have everything).
Isabel Rogers used to work in the City, then lived for a decade in the Scottish Highlands before being tempted back south. She is nearing the end of her second novel (the first got an agent, was unbearably exciting for a moment and then … nothing). Her poetry has been published in various literary magazines. She blogs at isabelrogers.org and is on Twitter as @Isabelwriter.
Isabel attended my Blog Workshop in October.