Wednesday, March 28, 2012

The Enticing Farmer H

I asked Farmer H to take a look at Juno last night. Right after he carried the new little black chick over to the burn pile and tossed it on the flames. Cremation, you know. Even though The Pony had just checked on the five (make that four, now) new chicks, and announced that the little black one was breathing and blinking. The hen rolled his egg out of the nest to start with. Farmer H picked it up and helped the chick get the end open, then put it back in the rabbit-turned-chicken hutch. Where the other four chicks promptly started pecking at it. I'm hoping at the shell. But it might have been the chick. Pecking order, you know. I suppose mother knows best. She rolled his egg out for a reason.

Farmer H pronounced Juno fit as a fiddle. In the bloom of health. A robust specimen of nondescript black mixed breed canine. In other words, he did not see a need to take her to the vet. She DID recover from previous leg ailments. So we are taking a wait and see attitude. She does not whimper or cry out or try to bite if her leg is touched. Or whacked, twice, by my book bag. She still favors the leg, but has learned to limp better. She drug the lagging limb over Tank's back when he got in her way. So it doesn't seem to hurt her unless her weight is on it.

I'd better not catch Farmer H enticing her toward the burn pile.


Sioux Roslawski said...

Juno is too smart of a girl for that. After all, she was wily enough to find a home (in a round-about way).

But just in case...tell Farmer H that your hordes of followers have followed Juno's story since the beginning, and we will seek revenge if something terrible happens to her.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

I was so sorry to hear about Juno's battle! I tried to comment, but blogger was finicky. My grandmother once presented me with two little chicks. Both were lame and I splinted their legs and they both lived for many years, providing many eggs before meeting my mother at the chopping block. Mother was not enchanted with my love of animals ....

Hillbilly Mom said...

Farmer H does not understand the concept of blogging. He thinks I am holed up in the basement flirting with men online. I'm not sure whether to be flattered by his overestimation of my man-trapping skills, or insulted by his insinuation that I am doing something unwholesome.

However, I will file away the offer of revenge in my mental vault, should the need arise.

BLOGGER has been gobbling up my comments like a Survivor contestant at a Reward Challenge feast of pizza and beer.

For the record, BLOGGER regurgitated your comments, as I received three identical messages.

Out of curiosity...did you partake of the bounty your pets provided at the dinner table? And if so, were their legs crooked, yet tasty?

Kathy's Klothesline said...

No, I did not eat my pets. I had already left home when she chopped their heads off. I had a rooster, too. His name was Herbert. He was one mean bird. He spurred me and I cried, he spurred my dad and got a swift kick. He spurred Mother and ended up on the dinner table that very night. I refused to partake of my mean pet. Mother chortled and smacked her lips as she ate, though. She was not the sensitive sort, my mother.