Blogging without frontiers

The good thing about a personal blog is that I can digress, break off or give opinions and no one can stop me. I rarely do the last, as I’ve been shouted down too many times over the years and, in the past, it was very upsetting. I’m less vulnerable but also more cautious now. But anyway, tonight I digress. Only to be more current.

For the last several days, I’ve had a poorly cockerel. Jenson, son of Jenga, proud patriarch who died last year, was a gentle soul who cared for his wives but who was never seen to mate with them. He must have done so, as some, at least, of the eggs were fertilised, but it seemed he didn’t impose, unlike the average rooster. He went from proudly calling them to eat, when I’d scattered leftovers, greens or mealworms, to being on his own and his wattles and comb were paler and purply. In the course of a few days, he became worse. I couldn’t catch him and it would have made no difference. I’ve discovered, over the years, that I can’t nurse a cockerel, though sometimes I can persuade a hen to recover (from Hop to Hope could equally well have titled this post, though it’s only relevant because that girl chicken has done so well over a year and a half of being poorly).

Three days ago, he had collapsed and Wink, who fed them that morning, told me he was dead. But she had only looked from outside, he was just flopped. I put him in a box, with a bowl of water and some food, though I had no expectation of his recovery. Next morning, he was weaker. The next morning, I didn’t look for a few hours. Schrödinger’s Cock, I thought, as I avoided checking on him. But he was still alive and remained so all the day and evening. Even this morning, I wasn’t entirely sure as he was still warm, until I lifted him. Poor little guy. He wasn’t so old, but only Stringfellow is still alive of Jenna’s sons and I won’t let him father any chicks. New blood is needed for a healthy flock.

Last night, I took my second eldest granddaughter, Zerlina, to the theatre. She loves musicals and her mother doesn’t, so lucky granny is called on. I’m also a Friend of the theatre so get priority booking. Last night, we went to Six. Very good, very well played – it always cheers and thrills me to see how much performers put into a show. They work so damn hard! And, I’m not sure why this specific thing hadn’t occurred to me before, and the religious aspect wasn’t flagged up last night, but the paradox and irony finally came to me, that the devout Roman Catholic, Catherine of Aragon, caused the Reformation: that is, secession from Rome. If she had, however reluctantly, accepted an annulment of her marriage, Henry would never have broken from the Church of Rome.

But there. Too long ago to dwell on.

It’s still raining. I’ll come back to that too, sooner or later.

2 comments on “Blogging without frontiers

  1. savannah49

    That’s the best thing about blogging, we can write what we need/want to and let folks decide if they want to read/comment or not! I never kept chickens, but my grandmother did. Her rooster was really mean, so I kept my distance. xoxo

    1. Z Post author

      Roosters can be really mean, but ours never have been. We were given some pedigree bantams once, a very old English black breed and Polly is the last (nearly all) black one from that strain, though some girls have a bit of black in them. Russell gave away the young roosters, which were very handsome, but they were completely unsuited as garden pets, they chased their new owners and had to be eliminated. The girls were fine, but the boys were fighters!


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