Full recovery

There were times when we did wonder if Geisha our intensely annoying Anglo Nubian Non Nanny Goat would recover from her close encounter with barbed wire. The nasty injury on her leg took weeks, no, months to heal.

But now she is completely fixed, and is a common companion on our walks around the bonsai mountain. In fact she has recovered so well we have even thought it might be a good idea to let her have some little Anglo Nubian's, give her some purpose to life other than bothering the dogs, breaking in to the feed store and keeping vets busy. This insane plan has gone so far as to involve looking up Billy goats on the register to see if there is one close by. Hopefully sanity will prevail and no additional cloven hoofed nuisances will darken the doorstep of Rock HQ.

Speaking of nuisances we are bracing ourselves for a fresh attack of foxes. Stalag 15 has kept the big hens safe but the ducks have gone long range and the bantams and geese spend most of their day out of sight of the cottage. Not that being in sight offers any protection. Saturday night after a lovely stroll in the mountains we were treated to a steak supper at a local pub by way of celebration. As we drove up our drive a fox cub no bigger than a small cat ran in front of the car narrowly avoiding becoming part of the treads. As we oooohed two more broke cover, then mum, and another cub and finally a fifth. Now vermin they might be but beautiful vermin and if they didnt kill so many of our birds I would appreciate them like a townie. With beer goggles assisting my thinking I did ponder the possibility of catching one and taming it, that way we would have our own fox and others would keep away from its territory. We could train it to protect chickens, value all things poultry, start self help groups, PA, Poultry Anonymous where foxes gather and confess to crimes against egg layers and pledge abstinence, become vegetarian like Sara feeding almost entirely on a diet of sausage sandwiches (not veggie just fussy) our fox would be the defender of the feather. Thankfully three pints of beer, a thirty mile walk and a big steak supper meant that instead of pitting my wits against wily fox and her cubs hiding in the dark amongst the gorse bushes I contented myself with shouting abuse at fleeing fox vermin and vowing to strengthen the defenses at the cottage. This will involve sorting out the missing super shotgun application. Meanwhile we know that there is a mummy fox with five babies to feed within 300 yards of the hens. The odds are heavily stacked against the hens survival.