They didn’t get any greenery this morning and are cursing me.
We take in rescue chickens from farms every few years. Once they reach an age when they don’t lay regularly, they tend to be turned into chicken feed. They are, of course, not grateful. And now I’m home alone for a few weeks. And these chickens hate me. From the moment I take my first coffee into the back garden to wake up and clear my lungs, they are standing on their food containers and denouncing me from the bottom of the garden. Two weeks of this.
Enjoy Mildred and Maud (thank my daughter for those names), the furious chickens of the Thames Delta.