Mrs Orange

Today, I'm sad to say, we have one less chicken. And this isn't because one more February cockerel is being despatched to the freezer with B tripping along behind, eyeing the bloody neck of the carcass and twittering, "What happ'nd? What happ'nd?" (her latest conversational gambit).


No.

Mrs Orange was the oldest of our chickens. In fact, she was only a couple of months younger than AJ, which is pretty old in chicken years. She always gave us double-size eggs, but only every other day (and by the sound she made while producing, I'm not surprised it wasn't an everyday occurrence). In the last year or so, she's given us no eggs at all. Normally this is the cue to sharpen the falcetto. But Mrs Orange was different.

Mrs Orange escaped the fox...

One fine day, M and his late father were on chicken-sentry duty - all the chicks had been let out to roam around a bit, and the men were there to make sure nothing untoward took place.

Think chicken-hawks. Think weasels. Think foxes.

But to M and his late father, sentry duty meant having a nice little snooze in the grass, and while they snored gently, a big old fox was surveying the assembled menu. He lit upon the chubby Mrs Orange and in a flash had her by the neck and was making off with her into the woods. The rest of the chicks squawked summat terr'ble and the sentries came awake to see the last of Mrs Orange.

Much later ...

I was coming along the pretty woodland path that connects Carmine to Cannobio via the sentiero. And who should I come across, pecking happily among the leaf litter and seeming somewhat smug?

Mrs Orange.

How she managed to escape the jaws that had clamped around her scrawny neck will forever remain a mystery, but Mrs Orange became an instant wonder, a miracle, a chick who escaped certain death, a heroine in her own coop.

So, she was declared a Carmine Pensioner. Although she spurned the red uniform, she did enjoy the other benefits. Hand-feeding with the choicest crumbs from the human table. A seat on the highest perch alongside our rather fat cockerel. And a stay of execution when the chick-opause came around.

But yesterday it was clear that Mrs Orange was sickening. In fact, she had been for some days. So she went to meet her maker in a blaze of glory, and instead of a place in the freezer, she was given a Christian burial with all honours and a chorus of mourners keening in the background.


God bless 'er.