Thursday, 12 November 2015

No call for confit

We had a visit from a weary traveller yesterday.  Not so much as a knock on a farm door but more like an hysterical scream coming from the chook pen.  Just as dinner hit plate, the cries alerted us to all hell having erupted in the chicken house. Having only moments ago seen them tucked in alongside each other in their somewhat limited and soon to be renovated indoor outdoor pen, the new visitor sat outside causing concern.  A white duck with a troublesome leg came by to enquire about a place to rest.   He accepted our kind offer of some grain and a water bowl and didn't seem keen to move on.  In the spirit of Christmas he was given lodgings for the night in an old shed with plenty of fresh straw and a few restful piles of old cow manure. Our ever wise Cocker Spaniel looked on with Minnie our dumped and now resident farm cat unsure as to what chicken variety this was and how we really need to stop feeding them so much.  Post dinner our rested friend had regained his energy and was last seen walking slowing towards the dam at the back of our paddock. A little ditty sprang into my mind from an early memory of my Irish kindergarten friend Ema (pronounced Eema).  She used to sing a little song about always be kind to your duck.  Because your duck used to be your brother.  Or something to that effect.  I was four years old at the time and now that I think about it, given her accent it was probably dog not duck.  Anyway, best wishes my feathered friend - and good luck for the festive season (you might need it).

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