We have poultry visitors from beyond the grave.
RB had a wild look in his eye after a visit to the henhouse last week. “I just saw Luna!!” That’s Luna the barred Plymouth Rock, who sadly, quietly, died about three weeks ago. And then, the next day, I saw her too, or at least her fluffy wraith-like behind, evanescent in the half-light by the woodshed.
You may doubt the evidence of our eyes*. I invite you to compare this spectral butt with the large as life hindquarters of Luna the barred rock in better days. The resemblance is uncanny.
And now Shyla the Australorp, thankfully still hale and hearty, has been possessed by the feisty spirit of the late, great Andy Ninja.
Never having shown any signs of Houdini-like qualities while Andy was in this world, she now greets us every morning from the back step. The garden gate, sturdy as an upcycled Ikea bedhead could ever be, and previously an impenetrable barrier, now presents no obstacle to her fulfilling her urge to join us in the dining room for breakfast.
Clearly Shyla has been inhabited over by a chicken possessed of both wisdom and wanderlust. Andy Ninja walks amongst us again.
* or indeed you may suspect that this fluffy behind belongs to the authors of our adventures in passive scrumping, the Barnevelder-cum-Australorp-cum-(possibly)-barred-Rocks from next door. You may be right.