I have just been stood outside in the freezing cold for at least half an hour trying to outlast the cockerels. Bearing in mind my parents rescued the pair when they were found, believed to have been dumped, on the golf course where we live. So, the hens and ducks went away without a battle, the goose went into his shed a little begrudgingly but without too much hassle whilst the pigs screamed for food. My attempts to wave the cockerels towards the shed that is acting as their temporary home were to no avail. As soon as one of them got close to the door the other one did his best road runner impression and sprinted back off up the garden. I coaxed and cajoled with no result. After about five or ten minutes of these antics I decided to sit and try and wait them out: not before I ranted at them that if they were so keen to get eaten I would GLADLY be of service and fulfil such a request.
I don’t know how many of you have watched a chicken walk but one comedian made a spot on observation of their walking style recently that frustrated the life out of me trying to get them to go away. Chickens walk as if they are afraid of stepping on a land mine. One clawed foot goes up, rests in the air and is very gingerly placed down a few millimetres from where it started out then the same with the other foot. This ridiculous dance is continued almost all the way to the shed door. Then the chicken alters his choreography slightly and adds in some impromptu cleaning action…edges forward…edges back… ballerina stretch…cleans a bit….the suspense is killing me…ballerina stretch… actually the suspense is about to kill him.
Eventually the pair of them give in and enter the house for the night. I throw myself against the shed door and bolt it as quickly as I can before one of them decides to make another break for it. Inside there is not so concealed mirth from the cockerels as I can hear them clucking away to each other about the good joke they just played on me. I have just one word for you boys: “dinner”.
As I walk back up the garden I check that all the others are definitely away and secure. Walking past the shed that the goose is housed in I simply sigh at the eccentricities of my parents “pets”. This goose, named Lou Lou but more deserving of “Butch” or “Rocky”, attacks Mum and I with real zest any time we walk past him and hisses and screeches any time he gets a glimpse of us. Very territorial and aggressive. However, as I walk past the shed I can see him through the window. At my eye level. He has somehow managed to propel his fat frame up onto the shed shelf in a bid to stay off the floor. Why? Because he’s absolutely petrified of the mouse that lives in the shed. Go figure.