will have to put drops in their eyes.
‘And they’ll need to be shown where their food is and be lifted up on their perches until they learn to do it themselves again.’
‘If you buy healthy chickens, presumably they do all this for themselves.’
‘They do,’ Guy confirms. At which point I glare at Will. ‘It’ll be for a couple of months. Maybe a while longer.That’s all. Feed them right and they’ll perk up in no time.’
‘What about the sheep?’
‘You’ve got three very nice old ladies,’ the vet says.
Will looks sheepish again - no pun intended.
‘Old ladies? Is that a good or a bad thing?’
‘They were going to be slaughtered,’ my husband volunteers. ‘Look at them.’
I do. They’re standing in a line, staring straight back at me. They do, in fact, look just like three old ladies; all they’re short of is felt hats and handbags. Not only have we got blind chickens, but we’ve got menopausal sheep.
‘How could I let that happen?’ Will wants to know.
Spoken like a true townie.
‘I thought we’d look after them too,’ he continues.‘The farmer told me they’d got a touch of black bag. Or was it blue bag? Some colour bag.’ My husband shrugs away the need for technicalities. ‘He assured me it wasn’t contagious.’
‘Blue bag,’ the vet confirms. ‘It just means that the ewe can’t feed her offspring. I don’t think you have to worry about that with this little trio, they’re not much good for breeding anyway.’ Guy Burton addresses me, clearly thinking I’m the more rational of our couple. ‘Too old.’
I know how they feel.
‘So we can’t eat them either?’
‘They’ll make nice pets,’Will ventures.‘Three lovely old ladies.’
I bet he’s got names for them already.
‘I should be going,’ Guy says. ‘Mr Dawkins’s cat’s not very well. I said I’d call in on the way back to the surgery.’
‘Thank you,’ Will says. ‘Thanks for coming out here.’
‘No trouble,’ Guy says. ‘Have this one on me. I’ll just charge you for the drugs. I’ll send the bill through.’ He hands over boxes and boxes of chicken eye-drops. Yes, he’s probably going to go and put a deposit on a new Porsche after seeing the state of this lot. ‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you.’
I’m sure too, if Will keeps bringing these ramshackle, no hope animals home. Who does he think he is? Bridget Bardot?
We watch as Guy Burton strides to his Range Rover, climbs in and backs out of our drive.
‘Seems very nice,’ Will says. ‘Capable. The sort of chap you could rely on in a crisis.’
‘Yes,’ I agree.
‘Gave me some great tips on keeping chickens.’
I wonder if our vet reads Audrey Fanshawe at bedtime. I somehow doubt it. ‘Is that it?’ I say wearily. ‘There’s not a three-legged goat you’ve forgotten about? I don’t think I could cope with any more surprises.’
‘Ah,’ Will says.
And, with perfect comedy timing, the children come hurtling out of the kitchen.
‘Mummy,’ Jessica cries ecstatically. ‘We’ve got a kitty!’
Tom adds, ‘And a dog!’
Behind them, a big black and brown dog lollops towards me at full tilt. His tongue is hanging to the ground and there’s two trails of drool flying in the whirlwind he’s creating. He looks completely insane. I hate dogs. They smell and leave hair everywhere. The cat follows him, mincing over the gravel. It’s sleek, black and looks as mean as hell. I hate cats too. They’ve got bottoms like pencil sharpeners and try to eat babies while they lie sleeping in their prams.
The dog bowls into my knees and nearly knocks me clean over.
‘This is Hamish,’ my husband says, grabbing the dog before it does any more damage and roughing up its ears. This sends the hound into a frenzy of shaking, sending gobs of spit flying all over my lovely Joseph trousers.
I look at my husband and my eyes well up with tears. ‘Oh, William,’ I say. ‘What on earth have you done?’
Chapter
‘And they’ll need to be shown where their food is and be lifted up on their perches until they learn to do it themselves again.’
‘If you buy healthy chickens, presumably they do all this for themselves.’
‘They do,’ Guy confirms. At which point I glare at Will. ‘It’ll be for a couple of months. Maybe a while longer.That’s all. Feed them right and they’ll perk up in no time.’
‘What about the sheep?’
‘You’ve got three very nice old ladies,’ the vet says.
Will looks sheepish again - no pun intended.
‘Old ladies? Is that a good or a bad thing?’
‘They were going to be slaughtered,’ my husband volunteers. ‘Look at them.’
I do. They’re standing in a line, staring straight back at me. They do, in fact, look just like three old ladies; all they’re short of is felt hats and handbags. Not only have we got blind chickens, but we’ve got menopausal sheep.
‘How could I let that happen?’ Will wants to know.
Spoken like a true townie.
‘I thought we’d look after them too,’ he continues.‘The farmer told me they’d got a touch of black bag. Or was it blue bag? Some colour bag.’ My husband shrugs away the need for technicalities. ‘He assured me it wasn’t contagious.’
‘Blue bag,’ the vet confirms. ‘It just means that the ewe can’t feed her offspring. I don’t think you have to worry about that with this little trio, they’re not much good for breeding anyway.’ Guy Burton addresses me, clearly thinking I’m the more rational of our couple. ‘Too old.’
I know how they feel.
‘So we can’t eat them either?’
‘They’ll make nice pets,’Will ventures.‘Three lovely old ladies.’
I bet he’s got names for them already.
‘I should be going,’ Guy says. ‘Mr Dawkins’s cat’s not very well. I said I’d call in on the way back to the surgery.’
‘Thank you,’ Will says. ‘Thanks for coming out here.’
‘No trouble,’ Guy says. ‘Have this one on me. I’ll just charge you for the drugs. I’ll send the bill through.’ He hands over boxes and boxes of chicken eye-drops. Yes, he’s probably going to go and put a deposit on a new Porsche after seeing the state of this lot. ‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you.’
I’m sure too, if Will keeps bringing these ramshackle, no hope animals home. Who does he think he is? Bridget Bardot?
We watch as Guy Burton strides to his Range Rover, climbs in and backs out of our drive.
‘Seems very nice,’ Will says. ‘Capable. The sort of chap you could rely on in a crisis.’
‘Yes,’ I agree.
‘Gave me some great tips on keeping chickens.’
I wonder if our vet reads Audrey Fanshawe at bedtime. I somehow doubt it. ‘Is that it?’ I say wearily. ‘There’s not a three-legged goat you’ve forgotten about? I don’t think I could cope with any more surprises.’
‘Ah,’ Will says.
And, with perfect comedy timing, the children come hurtling out of the kitchen.
‘Mummy,’ Jessica cries ecstatically. ‘We’ve got a kitty!’
Tom adds, ‘And a dog!’
Behind them, a big black and brown dog lollops towards me at full tilt. His tongue is hanging to the ground and there’s two trails of drool flying in the whirlwind he’s creating. He looks completely insane. I hate dogs. They smell and leave hair everywhere. The cat follows him, mincing over the gravel. It’s sleek, black and looks as mean as hell. I hate cats too. They’ve got bottoms like pencil sharpeners and try to eat babies while they lie sleeping in their prams.
The dog bowls into my knees and nearly knocks me clean over.
‘This is Hamish,’ my husband says, grabbing the dog before it does any more damage and roughing up its ears. This sends the hound into a frenzy of shaking, sending gobs of spit flying all over my lovely Joseph trousers.
I look at my husband and my eyes well up with tears. ‘Oh, William,’ I say. ‘What on earth have you done?’
Chapter
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