‘You don’t care about Waffle!’

I can’t be entirely sure about this, but I think Waffle is eating the hens’ poo. Aul Waff has come a long way in his own personal development, since the chooks first arrived at the homestead during the summer.

He doesn’t chase them any more, he doesn’t go sniffing around at their food like a slobbering wolf and most importantly, he doesn’t even follow me to coop during feeding time and whine like a hairy banshee who’s just had a kick up the rear end.

However, this positive personal development has been sullied in recent weeks when I’ve noticed the hound chowing down on things that aren’t specifically prescribed for his particular doggy diet.

Although I know that dining on dung is quite common for dogs in general, in Waffle’s case this is something to be discouraged, seeing as how he’s allergic to pretty much everything apart from his own special dog food (Life Stage Trout and Salmon).

Then again, there is always the risk posed by any nefarious parasites and/or bacteria which hen manure might harbour but which isn’t necessarily harmful to the hens themselves.

“Waffle, Waffle, Waffle,” I might have mumbled when I first noticed the hairy clown chugging down a mouthful of fowl turd. What I actually said, I can’t repeat in these pages, seeing how this is a family newspaper and all. Suffice it to say, Waffle seems to revel in rooting around in the garden after the hens have been out for their evening’s foraging so much so, that he whines and scratches at the back door to be allowed out.

If I had more time on my hands or perhaps even owned a pair of binoculars, I might keep a closer eye on the hound so as to ascertain what he’s actually at in the garden, after the hens have taken care of their toilet. Alas, I own neither binoculars nor superfluous time (nor even the inclination to retain such close tabs on the hairy fool) and so I had been waiting to see if and when his allergies might come back to the fore and if and when his inner ears might break out in a rash and he starts scratching his hairy lugs clean off himself.

“You don’t care about Waffle!” was the condemnatory admonishment when I aired my crappy suspicions one evening after I’d noticed His Hairyness choking down yet another mouthful of something unseen and yet suspicious.

“I do so care about Waffle,” I replied with as much conviction as I could muster amidst my hazy swirl of apathy.

“You do not! If you cared about Waffle, you would make sure that he isn’t eating any of the hens’ poos.”

“Right then!” I cried, peer pressure and guilt finally stoking my ire. “I will make sure!”

“Go on, then!”

“OK, then!”

So how does a person check to see if their dog is eating hen poo? Well, apart from monitoring his every move (something I am unwilling to do seeing as how he’s the most God-awful fool ever to have graced God’s green earth), the best I could come up with is another method, yet one which is no less bothersome in nature. The method? Checking his breath after he’s returned from a dander in the garden.

Now, generally speaking, our hens live in an enclosure in the back garden and are only permitted free reign during evenings and weekends, when there’s someone about the house to keep an eye. Generally speaking, they rove around this domain, pecking at unseen bugs and seeds and, generally speaking, enjoying themselves to no end. The good thing for the hens is that our back garden is a bit on the large side (it takes almost an hour to cut with a push lawn mower) and so they roam far and wide during these outside excursions. They are free range in the purest form of the term and this is subsequently reflected in their excellent eggs. The poos therefore, can be spread far and wide and apart from Waffle’s recent penchant, I have also noticed that this manure is doing wonders for the lustre of my grass. Anyways…

As I am not entirely sure that Waffle is actually eating the poo, I’ve had to check his breath on regular occasions, following his trips into the great outdoors. In reality, that means what is says on the tin and so after the hairy sap has returned to scratch at the backdoor to gain re-admittance to the residence, I have to collar him, prise open his mouth and sniff vigorously at a lolling tongue which is usually doing its level best to lick my face off.

Now, sniffing your pet’s gob for chicken turdage is one thing but having your face licked by the same tongue which possibly lapped up said turdage is something else entirely.

And then it struck me (not the lolling tongue but a clearer than clear realisation): Is this what my life has become? Am I actually checking a dog’s breath to see if I can detect the odour of chicken crap?

The party is over, pal.

ADDENDUM

This instalment in The Adventures of Waffle and his Subsequent Poo Related Activity was created prior to the Avian Influenza decree which resulted in mandatory housing measures for all kept birds and poultry. That means that the hens are now being kept in at all times now and Waffle is no longer snacking on their Mini Rolls.

Every cloud, and all that