Gertrude: Mole Killer

The chicken seems quite insistent that I blog about her. Please, let me indulge my chicken...

Last night about 8ish Isabel went outside to complete the task Matt & Dan have termed "chicken wrangling". Apparently Gertrude is not easy to catch if she doesn't know you. While Izzy & I have little problem and Zoli simply has to appear outside and the chicken is drawn to him like a feathery magnet; It seems that Whilst they were in charge, at various time this summer; Matt and poor Dan (my "good" college age son) had a hell of a time bringing her poultry ass back in at night. She apparently has no fear of raccoons or coyotes, both of which we know full well are in close proximity, and she prefers to "hide" and laugh at the silly humans trying their best to protect her. So, last night was a perfectly ordinary Weds. night and starting to get darker and Iz took it upon herself to "tuck in" her beloved chicken.

About five minutes into the expected routine (it usually takes a second to find her) we hear Isabel's voice has gone up an octave or two and has that tense tone--"Daaaaad" her voice cuts in through the dining room window. "I need somebody tall." The alarm in her voice roused us all from our DVR/Daily Show haze and we quickly emerged onto the back porch. The chicken has been known to chide Izzy (or myself) in our tardy habits by ensconcing herself on the cushioned furniture of the back porch if she feels it is time to bed down for the night. After we wander around the yard clucking and "here chicken-ing" somebody will notice she is sitting there, smugly snuggled on the bench or nestled into a chair cushion. The world's most spoiled chicken. HOWEVER! last night she was not perched on the rail (in order to peek in the windows), nor was she contentedly snoozing on the lawn chair--no dear one, Gertrude had in fact perched herself on the banner of fairy flags, (similar to Tibetan prayer flags) we have strung across the back porch. There she was swinging like grade schooler at recess, perfectly happy--except Iz couldn't reach her and Isabel was pretty sure Gertrude was going to fall. I was laughing so hard, and quite sure that if I took the time to swap out the lens I would miss the moment--but I did get some shots, blurry tho they are-- Zoli was adamant that I blog about it immediately. But I am not about to be told what to do by a 13 year old nor a chicken. I ignored that advice...

Until today...

When- as I was unloading groceries, I noticed Gertrude was quite busy flipping something floppy around the yard. Now generally she is all over largeish bugs, fat bumblebees and grasshoppers etc, and that seems quite normal. You may recall our adventure with the tomato worm that recently attacked me-- and you might if you are a true believer; you will certainly remember the day she got her FIRST Toad. She has since gotten several toads, but this afternoon she has branched out into the mammalian realm and had indeed procured herself a tiny mole! NOW we have something to write about! It was about three inches long and missing most of its entrails. My vicious mole killing chicken. Free range has a whole new meaning!

The Voyage of the Short Serpent

EWWWWW!!!

For all my freaky darlings who count themselves as Viking--EWWWWWWW!!!!!

I finished the horrible little book I mentioned back in August--The Voyage of the SS by Frenchman Bernard du Boucheron. Okay, it wasn't REALLY about Vikings--persay--But well--yeah.

I mean can a novel that features catholicism, cannibals, gangrene, and "A modest proposal" on a Viking style ship really be taken seriously? I loved the narrative from the First chapters-- it read like an historic document--then a personal log from an omniscient narrator who is so overwhelmed by his situation he just goes on auto pilot--finally the last chapter is written from somebody else's PoV (not quite sure who--) and this chapter really drives home the point that maybe missionaries aren't as awesome as they think they are. It was gruesome to say the least and the grotesque amputations were described with gleeful greed. The tale of a colony of Roman Catholics marooned in medieval Greenland by the encroachment of a new ice age. I was almost sympathetic til I realized he probably only kept his son as a snack for the voyage home.

Yesterday was the first day of Fall

We have had the most beautiful weather. I adore Fall. The temps are perfect. The leaves are starting to turn and the garden is wrapping up.
Today the chimney sweep guy comes. I look forward to pleasant "recreational" fires in our clean fireplace-- as opposed to heating the whole house like we did last winter.

And I should take down the cucumber trellis. It looks dumb. Those plants have been "done" since before coronation. I am at once sad to realize it is fall but when I look back through my gardening notebook (an actual hard copy binder, with handwritten dates/temps and hauls) and see how many cucumbers we got from three seeds I am pretty damn proud of myself... and look at this 'mater!! Veggies aren't the only thing growing--Isabel and Gertrude are in a race to see who will grow faster. Besides trellis removal I need to tidy up the chicken pen. That is such a misnomer. It was a successful chicken pen for about four weeks. Once Gertrude was big enough to not squeeze thru the slats she figured out she could fly over the top!! Bleh. It did make a nice retirement home for Roxy's bunny. For four weeks--then old age caught up with Ribbett and he now has his favorite resting place forever.

So yeah--I have some work to do. get the garden tidied up before Compost Day!