The grass is always greener for Houdini with her garden break out routine
One of our hens has decided, a bit like Putin, that a neighbour’s garden looks as if it might be worth invading. Of course she is right, for over the fence there are a whole range of tasty treats, greenery and blooms as well as oodles of slugs and bugs to tempt a feathered friend.
The reason that the garden is so verdant is that no chicken has dared to cross the frontier. The reason: our neighbour, like Zelensky, is made of strong stuff, slow to anger but with a steely resolve so I’d think twice before messing with her blooms. However one chook is not easily convinced.
A few years ago when we got our first batch of rescue hens, one briefly flew over the cuckoo’s nest but was soon spotted and collected, tail firmly between her legs. She had accidentally flown a bit higher than she’d expected and was stunned to find herself on unfamiliar turf, so she did what wise hens do when they face an unknown situation, stayed put, hunkered down, until she was promptly returned.
Following that one-off incursion, a higher fence was built and I had a stern chat with the ladies. The next set just followed the unwritten rules and didn’t bother making a break for the border. The current flock have one miscreant who seems unable to realise crossing the fence is verboten.
The low fence to one side of my garden leads to my neighbour’s veritable oasis, the other is a grassed lane which is hen heaven. The lane is ideal for scratching around, however it also leads on to a wilderness, where not too far away a fox or two live, so for pretty obvious reasons fence skipping is not encouraged.
Marsha is undaunted by the risks, a free spirit who thinks nothing of crossing the line. Following their release from flockdown restrictions, I’ve taken to only letting the ladies free range whilst being supervised. But the second I turn my head, I find I’m missing a hen, and it is always predictably Marsha.
Last time on being discovered AWOL, as I escorted her back towards our garden gate she disdainfully let out a disgruntled craw to make her feelings clear. Now I have had to instigate a three strikes and you’re out policy. After the third misdemeanour Marsha gets unceremoniously huckled under my arm and deposited back in the hen run, which is the chicken equivalent of the naughty step. However Marsha has other ideas, and has cleverly worked out how to break out of Fort Knox. Our neighbour has even caught her and pointed out her folly as she teeters on the fence, adding “I don’t care but if you go that way you’ll get eaten by a fox.” But Marsha was undaunted; I think her middle name is Houdini.