The Good Life
Michele Hewitson
Aman in Hamilton accidentally bought 1000 chickens on Trade Me. He thought he was bidding on one chicken. Even one would have been a mistake. But 1000 chickens is a full-blown chicken catastrophe. Once I had finished laughing my head off, I thought: that poor bugger. A thousand chickens is a ton of trouble. Believe me, I know.
The poor bloke is now attempting to rehouse his 1000 chickens (or perhaps 999 of them; presumably he actually did want one chook, although he may already have gone completely off the idea).
I’d offer to take a couple, but I already have four too many chickens. Our four, Prime Minister, Little Linda, Joanna and Catherine, are, it is true, beautiful. They make the loveliest of garden sculptures. If only they had no legs, on the end of which are enormous claws, all the better to dig up the herbaceous borders. And no heads, at the ends of which are sharp beaks, all the better to shred my hostas and foxglove seedlings.
Miles the sheep farmer sent a text asking if we would like a baby duck.
He has adopted three feral cats, which now, of course, sleep on the bed. (He is the only farmer I am ever likely to meet whose sheep dog, Red the kelpie, has her own armchair in the living room.)
One of the formerly feral cats likes to hunt things and bring them inside to Red’s parlour and liberate them unharmed. The baby duck came courtesy of the cat’s catch-and-release policy. I would rather have liked a baby duck but, as Greg pointed out, I once spent this entire column musing on which would win a fight between a chicken and a duck, concluding that it would be no contest: the chicken would win. We are not getting a baby duck.
We are not getting any more animals. I thought I wanted a puppy, because there is an idea that anyone living in the country should get a dog.
But I’ve changed my mind. As my friend the Artist says when anyone (me) is silly enough to ask if he and the Gardener have thought about getting a dog: “We’re not that needy.” Instead, I have an imaginary dog called Rosie. I take her for imaginary walks. This is not uniquely bonkers. James Ellroy, the crime novelist, also has an imaginary dog, a bull terrier called Ingrid, who is an alcoholic.
When I am not walking my imaginary dog, I spend my days shouting at the chickens, which usually takes the form of threatening to put them in the pot, thus shattering the peace of Lush Places. The chickens are now allowed out of their run only from 4pm. It is a beautiful big run, with a silk tree for shade, and Greg has made them a tent for shelter because they hate the rain. He has also made them toys: a cabbage on a string, which they attack with alacrity, and a swing, which they ignore with equal alacrity. They hate being in their run and complain about it. They do not seem to realise they are pampered. They are the chicken equivalents of Red the sheep dog.
When I shout at them, they complain back, but they are not in the least bit threatened. They know a hollow threat when they hear one.
Also, I have an awful feeling they know the story of a woman from Masterton who recently hit the wrong button while doing the online grocery shop, and accidentally ordered 15kg of chicken instead of 1.5kg. That is not quite the equivalent of 1000 chickens. But we have been eating a lot of poultry here at Lush Places.
When I shout at them, they are not in the least bit threatened. They know a hollow threat when they hear one.