Never Picnic on Yellow Lawn

There is still grave peril threatening my poultry. I glanced out of the office window this afternoon to see a dog fox on the grassy bank about 20 tiny feet from my lovely Brahma hens. And the reason I immediately recognised it for a dog fox and not a vixen?

The bugger was pissing up my shrub.

The audacity of it! Cocking its contumely bloody leg over my plant, before doubtless attempting to leave me henless. I nearly dropped my cup of coffee as I swelled with fury. A small shriek of indignation may well have escaped me. I galloped to the front door and erupted out of it like an enraged jack-in-the-box. I’d have booted him heavily up the arse if I could’ve got enough speed up, but I present a fair amount of surface-area wind-resistance these days, and I was therefore confined to roaring BANG! at the top of my voice. He took off like a rangy red ballistic missile heading for next door, and I suspect he will not be back to dine today.

There must be a local litter of cubs catalysing these daylight parental raids. I have no rancour towards the foxes themselves, as feeding your young is a fairly blameless occupation; I’d tackle a woolly mammoth sporting an extra helping of pointy tusk if it stood between me and my child’s starvation. But there’s any amount of other prey about at this time of year, so they can keep their damned dirty paws off my hens. Besides, there’s enough urine landing on that patch of grass to float a boat. Next door’s male labradors sprinkle everywhere conscientiously, our two dogs are both copious puddlers, and I know for a fact that when John lurches home from the pub full of beer and takes the dogs out for a bedtime pee, he sets them a good example himself in the long grass. The last thing we need is another bloody species joining in the fun.

Changing the subject radically, I went to the GP today to moan about the fact that my period has essentially lasted since the end of March. He blamed wild hormonal flux and promptly prescribed Norethisterone (Ahhh… hello again, ye initiator of IVF cycles!). He did ask whether I was still breastfeeding, to which I replied affirmative, so I’m puzzled to see that Dr Internet says they are mutually incompatible. I will have to ring him back tomorrow; if my breast milk goes bad then Harry will die of thirst: he regards all plastic teats with horror. The little man still isn’t any better: his congestion is becoming chronic and is thoroughly bringing the pair of us down. A 3rd tooth appeared over the weekend, and I hope that the imminent arrival of the 4th is all that caused tonight’s total meltdown. I am grimly expecting a long and interrupted night.

And to round off the day: I have just watched John despatch one of my geese, and it was most unpleasant. It has been on the cards for some time, as my previous bleating posts have chronicled, but my hand was finally forced today when the younger gander was savaged in the hut for the second night on the trot. We acquired our original breeding pair when Next Door’s gaggle had begun systematic executions of the young males, so I knew it was a choice between a quick death and a protracted one. Sigh. Why can’t everything just love each other?!

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