On the seventh day…

The end of the week was gratefully reached. After driving well over 300 miles in three days, when I often don’t go that far in a month (and that’s when Tim and I go to Reading), and an early start and late finish yesterday, I didn’t want to do anything nor go anywhere today. I took Rose to the bus station yesterday at 6 am, for the start of her visit to her West Indian family, and picked Ro and family from the airport, which should have been at 9 pm but the plane was late and it was 10.15 by the time they were out, and over an hour later before I got home again. So, apart from making a loaf of bread, I’ve been thoroughly lazy today.

I must take more photos of the chicks. Their plumage has changed over the last few days, the final fluff gone and more colours coming out. The brown showed first, but now there are black and white feathers on some of them too. They’re very pretty. The run that Tim and I made for them is plenty big enough, though Canasta has dug a lot of holes in it – it’s charming to watch them dustbath, but she’s gone rather further than strictly necessary. Perhaps we’ll be able to move the whole thing in the next few days, they’d certainly appreciate it. Canasta is still happy to be with them, but we’ll probably take her out in the next week or two, when she’ll be ready to join the others. Things have changed since she became broody, because Rose’s chickens have joined ours in the henhouse to roost. Rose had enough on her plate and it’s no extra bother to shut them all up together. In fact, it’s less than one of use shutting them in two different places. I’m sure Canasta will catch on pretty quickly. And Jenga, the cockerel, will soon make sure she troops in with the others.

I was very relieved yesterday, when Betty, the feral girl cat, turned up to be fed in the evening. I hadn’t seen her since we got home, which was only a week but long enough for me to start to worry. She’s more independent than her brothers, so I thought she’d be all right, but father RasPutin had come for food a couple of times, so wild food couldn’t have been in that great supply. I’m sure that the mother cat and Zain, the tabby ex-kitten, found families to live with, because they wanted to be pets and were very tame and friendly, but none of the three remaining siblings will ever be adopted. They’re all cautious, though all allow me to stroke them now and are as fond of me as they are able to be. I’m fond of them too, but don’t think of them as pets. It doesn’t mean I don’t care or get anxious, though.

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