Animal problems

It was a day of animal incidents, though I am very pleased to report my horses took no part in the festivities. For once. 

In the morning, while I was cleaning the barn, this picture was shared to our family group chat.

That would be a baby squirrel that R. had discovered had fallen from it's best and was very interested in it. (We just won't drill on the fact that the nest from which it fell was IN OUR ROOF.) H., noticing what was going on alerted L., who saw the mother squirrel come down and carry her baby back up to the nest IN OUR ROOF. This baby squirrel story ended much more happily than last year when children discovered a baby squirrel that the mother never retrieved. I like a happy ending. I would like the happy ending if the nest were located somewhere appropriate, such as in a tree. 

Alright, moving on.

At lunch time, L. and I had come back from an errand and were getting out of the car when L. says, "I think Everett is out." There is a pause and L. adds, "I think Fred is out, too." 

They had pushed the stake securing the wire which lines the round pen out of the ground so that they could squeeze underneath.

I'm not quite sure how Fred squeezed underneath the lowest bar of the round pen, but he did. Clark didn't seem to think he wanted to try that particular activity, though was very sad not to be with his friends eating the green grass. We lured the escapees back into the pen with a serving of sheep grain. Another adventure down. 

The third has been happening all day. Fluffy and Zorro, who have been cohabitating quite nicely all year are not cohabitating nicely any more. I did not take any pictures of the battles because I was too busy wading in to break them up. I'll share a couple of pictures from earlier when the birds were not being swamped by testosterone.

Zorro

Fluffy

I'm only really concerned because Fluffy is seven years old. Up until very recently he has looked just fine, but in the past few days he is definitely looking... well not at his prime. He's been a great (and calm) rooster.

What they don't tell you about having chickens is that it is the poultry equivalent of living in Shirley Jackson's short story, "The Lottery". Everything is all sunshine and rainbows until you go out to the coop to discover that a hen's name has been drawn and overnight that particular hen has been brutally attacked. Though we try to nurse the victims back to health, they never make it. I'm starting to worry that Fluffy's name might be the next drawn. 

And to end on a happier note, Buddy is doing much, much better. I've told him I am withdrawing him from the "Who can rack up the most vet bills?" competition. The rest have also been warned that they are not allowed to play, either.