The end of the time of Fowl-Keeping

So, four years on; another novel has been written and rejected, happy holidaymakers have come and gone, uncountable numbers of chickens have been eaten by ferrets and foxes but Le Comte and I are still Living the Dream in Deepest France. Princess 1 has abandoned us for a life racing rats in dear old Angleterre and misses our sunshine but not our geese. She was swept away by a knight in a black Landrover but all is not lost – they plan to return someday. Princess 2 is at la Fac, and not even in Angleterre, she has migrated to le pays de Galles, land of sheep and rainy mountains, where she is apparently – yet incomprehensibly – very happy.

Some things have changed; Luna our fat pony has moved on to new pastures in the sky. She is buried illegally chez nous; she didn’t have any papers so they refused to take her away. No matter, it’s what she would have wanted. Daisy the donkey pined for a week until le Comte was able to arrange for a new donkey companion for her. Her name is Princesse but she obviously isn’t – not even a pedigree -  so we call her Coco. Apparently she might be pregnant so her previous owners, professional donkey merchants, have forced us to sign a disclaimer saying that if she produces a foal within a year it will belong to them. And they insisted we gave them a cheque for 300€ to be cashed if this should come to pass. We don’t want a foal, by the way, and neither, by then, did we much want the donkey, but Daisy definitely did so here she stays.

Princess 1 with Coco and Daisy

Our latest batch of chickens lasted quite a while. The duck genocide left them untouched but then, one morning when we opened their normally secure hut, we found la grise lying dead with the tell-tale missing head (yeuch) and the remaining three looking decidedly nervous. Later that day an albino ferret with red eyes emerged from the barn licking its lips. Princess 2 identified it immediately as the chicken-murderer but she doesn’t believe in capital punishment so, compassionate soul that she is, she took it far away up the hill. Nevertheless, that same night, another chicken met a bloody end. And sure enough, just as before, another albino ferret with red eyes emerged, smiling, from the barn.

‘There must be a nest of them,’ concluded Princess 2 picking it up in gloved hands – these animals were surprisingly tame. Le Comte and I nodded sagely and the puzzled Princess made her way once more up the hill.

But that night (you’ve guessed it) the killer struck again and a third chicken was found duly decapitated.

Now I was really annoyed. This time, when yet another albino ferret emerged from the barn I elbowed Princess 2 aside. There was no nest; it was the same dastardly animal simply running back down the hill every evening to resume his chicken feast. We were dealing with a cunning serial killer but his days were numbered. I grabbed him firmly round the middle and shouted for le Comte who arrived carrying a sack, a large spade and a look of grim determination on his face. The ferret was bundled into the sack and the ensemble disappeared far away up the hill. Only le Comte and le spade returned.

One solitary chicken was left. Not really fancying the pen where her friends had met their deaths, she went to live in a flowerbed and seemed happy enough for about a week. Until perhaps the time had come for her to resume egg-laying and she made her way to her usual spot. Sadly, in the interim, la goose had taken up residence and le gander was on guard outside. Geese don’t take kindly to being intruded upon; as I drove up the drive I witnessed le gander shaking her to death, his wings flapping like a pterodactyl.

Here endeth the time of Fowl-Keeping.