|Even Mr T and Mr Bond had given up protesting at Miss Agatha's|
campaign for world domination.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
School Holiday Ramblings No 2
There's no other way to say it. I had a miserable day yesterday when my pet chicken, Miss Agatha, died.
She was a chicken like no other. For a start, she had a partially severed claw which, no doubt, was the reason why she was the only West Sussex available at the farm we purchased her from.
She also thought she was a cockerel.
Which was slightly problematic. Especially, if you're expecting a nice placid hen who makes an occasional cluck and generally behaves herself.
So Miss Agatha was definitely not a well-behaved hen. Every morning for the last four and a half years she woke me at the crack of dawn with her loud cock-a-doodling. In fact, she would cock-a-doodle anytime she fancied some attention. (Which was a lot and particularly when in pursuit of luxury food items.) She was tenacious, stubborn and had no fear. She would chase off cats and other birds no matter what their size.
As the years passed, Miss Agatha would wander inside our home with increasing regularity. Her first stop was usually the kitchen where she would eat Mr Bond's cat food whilst he looked on with a variety of looks indicating his deep despair/loathing/false nonchalance/hunger. She would then saunter off to examine the rest of the house. On one occasion I found her laying an egg under my duvet and, on another occasion, on my pillow. Recently, she had taken to laying her eggs in an old cat basket in the lounge. For a housewife with an aversion to cleaning, Miss Agatha's mission to make my house even dirtier was my worst nightmare come true. (On the plus side it did lead to a jump in share prices for antiseptic toilet wipes.)
Nevertheless, despite the fact Miss Agatha was stir-crazy and determined to drive me insane it was pretty difficult not to get attached to her. She had a personality as big as any human's and, frankly, it was a lot bigger than that of some folks I've known.
I'm gonna miss her. Even the cock-a- doodling. (Maybe not the 4am stuff though.)
You know, I might write a children's story about Agatha sometime. Agatha immortalised on paper. I think she's kinda like that. I think I'll call it The Adventures of Miss Agatha Turley, Chicken Extraordinaire.
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