By 
Last week, in a bid to augment my current flock, me and the little humans headed off to buy some more chooks.
We already had three feathered ladies at home – Beyonce, Brittany and Lizzo – and by the time Saturday afternoon had swung round we had three more – Dolly, Stevie Nicks and Miley. The incumbents weren’t getting any younger, you see and I was hoping that some new blood might ameliorate the egg production.
We hadn’t taken Waffle away on our mission, as you might imagine but by the time we returned, you’d have sworn someone had told him what was happening. Howling from the moment the car pulled onto the drive, once the Waff made it outside, he was doing his best kangaroo impression as I opened the car boot to remove the chooks.
“Calm thyself, crazed canine,” I didn’t say gently.
What I didn’t want was a hairy snarl frightening the new arrivals and thus discouraging them from laying big, beautiful eggs. I should have known though – I should have known.
By the time the cardboard box had been unpacked at the chicken run, Waffle had ensconced himself at the back of the run under the hen house – as far away from me as he could manage whilst still remaining amidst the action.
“Gentle dog, be careful with thine antics.”
The new hens had other things on their minds though, namely the grumpy original residents of the run.
I knew this from previous experience but when you add any new hens to a flock the originals aren’t pleased.
That meant that Dolly, Stevie Nicks and Miley couldn’t explore their new home without being pecked and stabbed at with pokey chicken feet. Strangely enough, I felt a little embarrassed. Beyonce, Brittany and Lizzo were showing us up badly here with their bullying – and which was especially vexing seeing as how none of them are currently producing eggs.
Any time a pecking took place or either Beyonce, Brittany or Lizzo sprang viciously at the newbies, Waffle started a high-pitched barking.
“Please Mr Waffle, I bid thee be placid with thy temperament.”
This was not going to plan. And yet, what could I do?
In the end, just to remove the barking from the equation, I hauled Waffle into the house with a stern rebuke that he should, “compose himself forthwith”.
That only left the hateful old hens bullying the younger ones.
Later in the evening, as I was considering broaching the concept of eating the original feathered inhabitants, Waffle started up a hullabaloo by the sunroom door. A fox!?! A buzzard!?!
I hesitated, ears straining, heart half-prepared to confront a marauding fox… or could it be a neighbour’s cat on a casual stroll?
Rushing into the garden with the hound streaking ahead, I made it to the chicken run to discover… nothing. The six hens were going about their hen-y business, pecking and scraping and craping.
“Dearest Waffle, perchance you could refrain from crying wolf.”
We weren’t back in the house ten minutes before the next commotion went up. Another wolf!?! A vampire!?!
After a beat I caught myself on and stopped short of exiting the house in a tizzy.
Instead, I waited on the third kerfuffle (which arrived within a trice) and then I immediately took Waffle aside. I held his muzzle with one hand and I tapped him on the nose with my index finger.
“Shut. Your. Fuppen. Mouth. Dog.”
