An Innocent Spot of Gardening Can Get You into Trouble

This post previously appeared on the Brigley Prior Books blog in 2021.

A cautionary tale about Chickens, Runs, and wanting to run inside until next summer!

So, my garden is currently looking lovely, even though it definitely needs filling out now and the rockery planting up. And I can’t help but think back to memories of last summer when I roped in the help of my two brothers-in-law to help me renovate the area.

This happened over many weekends, shared frustrations, and the downside of having a garden separate to the house. If Darren asked me even just one more time to traipse back into the house, I might have cheerfully throttled him. Boots on, boots off, boots on, boots off. Plus, the presence of frozen pizza, coke, and other snacks I don’t generally have invading my kitchen. None of these things are good for your blood sugar or mood!

Don’t attempt to fence next to the neighbour’s chickens!

As part of the whole revamp, we had put up all new fencing in the bottom section; which happens to be adjacent to next-door’s chickens and run. This being a mainly rough, nettle bedecked patch of ground secured with brambles and wiring. Well, for starters, I must preface what follows with the statement that I have the loveliest neighbours, who would do most anything for me and have been very supportive.

So, this one beautiful Sunday, I arrived back from walking Brodie to find my brother-in-law Darren had arrived in my absence and the neighbour’s son was also energetically digging away at his corner of the plot. From a distance I assumed Darren had somehow roped him into helping, but as I got closer, I detected a distinct aura of disharmony.

For privacy, let’s call the neighbour’s son Frank. Now, Frank was looking very distressed, and on closer inspection, so was Darren, and I quickly gleaned that at some point the evening before, one of the chickens had gone missing. And while I was breezily enjoying a positive start to my morning, still in the revelatory flush of the 21 days of audio hypnosis following my first RTT session, Darren had been enduring the brunt of the accusations and mild acrimony.

Not knowing where to put myself, I spouted much unhelpful nonsense as you do, i.e. ‘How did it happen?’ etc etc. Receiving the answer, but not any eye contact, ‘Well, it’s whoever put up this fence. A fox has got in and made off with one of Dad’s chickens.’ The fanciest one, of course, its generous tail feathers ominously littering the coop.

These here chickens are famous in these parts

Now, these particular chickens are almost famous in these here very broad, Castleford, West Yorkshire parts, being much admired by every young family with 2+ wellie-booted kiddies as they pass on the riverbank. Imagine the responsibility of sharing a boundary with these fine specimen.

At this point a very pink-faced Darren, standing a mere metre away from Frank, counters gently, ‘That was me, mate, I put up the fence.’ Meaning – now you know very well it was me, you were right here when I did it. Meanwhile, little old me is thinking, ‘Oh, my god. How I am ever going to live this down. I’ve killed his chicken.’

And also thinking where do I purchase a card, during lockdown, that says, ‘Sorry for killing your chicken.’ Not to mention that I am a total animal lover and feeling mortified at the sheer idea I had some culpability.

I also felt bad for Darren, taking the rap for me, and poor Frank’s clear upset at the loss of a beloved pet. Chicken fanciers will know full well how attached you can get to these critters.

Eyes down, pretend nothing’s happening

Anyway, we proceeded to get on with our gardening amidst much huffing and puffing and Frank blotting his eyes and the weight of guilt and shame taking away the pleasure of my lovely new fence. I was also scratching my head, as I’d been outside much of the previous day, painting the new concrete. (Darren’s dictate, not mine. I still don’t fully get behind the concept of painting concrete) and I’d not seen sight of a fox, although I had heard a bout of frenzied squawking and popped my head up to investigate. All was fine. I felt sure it had been.

I also felt a little aggrieved, because surely any self-respecting fox wouldn’t have bothered squeezing through a gap in the brambles, he’d have just hopped over the blooming wire barricade anyway. (I inspected the area for the evidence of fox fluff and found nothing!)

Anyway, a few hours later, having somewhat come to grim terms with my new animal-killer status, there was another horrendous bout of squawking and I dropped the implement I was holding, feeling my nerves shredding further and managing just about not to bellow too loud, ‘What the ever-loving f***’s going on now? I really could not process any more.

The Great Escape

Lo and behold, a slightly scratched-up Frank is stood there in the middle of his chicken run, holding one very anxious chicken, clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and minus her entire rear plumage. ‘Fluff-head’ as she is affectionately known, had returned from beyond the grave.

I have never been so relieved to see a chicken in my entire life. I felt vindicated, my belief in miracles restored, praising God for my good fortune and relieved I wouldn’t have to worry about a card, or whether gifting brandy or whisky made up for manslaughter in the chicken degree.

Seriously, you cannot have known my level of ecstasy about this! I even ran indoors and grabbed one of my best towels to wrap it in, such was her level of shaking and my gleeful victory.

Don’t mess with fences and naked flames

The poor beastie had been in the higher branches of a bush all night, apparently having been scared out of her wits by either the invisible fox or the local sparrow-hawk (a much more likely villain). The sparrow-hawk I had at least seen sight of and could testify to his potential culpability.

I swear, I don’t think I got over this incident until Fluff-head’s butt feathers finally grew back in. That naked backside was a visible reminder of my trauma.

The upshot is I will be happy to be gardening on the down-low this spring and summer. Planting bushes like I know what I’m doing. I may even get my butane gas weed killer out and do some damage. Much like the time mum managed to set fire to her next-door neighbour’s farm field with one. The neighbourhood kids chipping in, ‘Eh, missus, what you doing?’ While she flapped and tried to ignore the growing under-10 crowd with their bicycles.

Actually, maybe I’ll think about gardening at midnight; we might all be safer. And I can keep an eye out for that fox while I’m at it. If, like me, you now have an animal trauma you need to deal with, book your free discovery call now!

A-M xx

About Me

Hello, I’m Anne-Marie. I am a RTT Practitioner, Romance Author, Championship Dog Show Judge.

I have a lot going on! But my primary focus is helping people achieve their personal and professional goals, whatever they may be. If you’re struggling, I am the kind of person you want in your corner.

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