I told The Man about Trixie’s new nest, of course, and if there was contained therein a wry dig at his housekeeping, that was just icing. I was a little sad to see, upon next entering the barn, that he had taken the felt moving blanket off the workbench, leaving Trixie nestless.
Ah, well. We certainly have enough ad hoc nests as it is.
This past weekend was a day of tremendous work here at our little farm, and I’ll post more about that later. Yesterday, The Man decided the time was right to put the mower on the belly of the tractor; the most important weapon we have against the biblical plague of ticks is short grass and clear, open spaces.
So, he was in the barn, under the tractor, for the better part of the morning, and, thus, had a front row seat to Trixie’s complaints. She had made herself a perfectly fine, new, private nest, and it had disappeared. Where had it gone?
According to The Man, she paced back and forth across the cluttered surface of the workbench, trying to find a place to rest, squatting first on an old box, then some wrenches, complaining and muttering as she went.
Unable to bear her nagging for one more minute, he got up from under the tractor and returned the blanket to the workbench’s surface, even making a nice little circular nest for her. And that’s how I found her, all settled in, when I went into the barn to check on his progress.
The squeaky chicken gets the nest.
Aoxa’s question in comments made me realise that Trixie has been laying only fart eggs for about 3-4 weeks. Might this be a delayed reaction to the attack?
Aoxa also asked if any of her eggs have yolks, and the answer is no…until a couple of days ago. Upon opening the smallest of her fart eggs yet (which is saying something), we discovered a tiny pinpoint of yolk, the seed of an egg that each hen has in multitude when born:
To give you a sense of scale, the yolk was about the size of the head of a large pin.