At Stephen’s behest, i must begin this post by exonerating Moriarity, our cat. He did not slaughter two of our silkie chickens as i suspected he may have in the last post. We know this conclusively because . . . another silkie was killed and its blood sucked by what we can describe only as a vampiric opossum. Stephen discovered the murderer in the coop, in the corner, having its way with our last rooster. (Sigh.) I was out of town; i mourned from afar.
We have plans to re populate our chicken family, but have not made any moves in that direction thus far.
Pet Peacocks
In the meantime, we have been beset by a flock of peacocks. We know not from where they came, but they have come to stay, it seems. They spend their days on our front and back porch, making an unholy mess of poop and feathers. They are beautiful, which makes me reluctant to catagorize them as a pest.
I should correct myself, here. They are a group of two males and eight females so are correctly referred to as peafowl. Each day, the chief male shows up, checks things out, then flies to the roof and proceeds to honk like a 1984 Ford pick-up truck. About ten minutes later, the family arrives. On the couch cushions. On the picnic table. On the porch railings.
