It’s rare that I get a private conversation with Pecorino but this week
Mimo was off laying an egg and Appenzeller was occupied around the other side
of the house where I’d put out a melon rind. Pecorino grazed on the corny
kibble and then wandered over for a chat.
“They’re losing their grip, you know.”
“Who?”
“The other two. Neither of them grips the perch.”
“I knew about Appenzeller sleeping underneath,” I said, “but Mimo too?”
“You’ll see this evening if you pop your head in.”
“Generally do.”
“That’s what happens when you get old…you lose your grip.”
“But you're the same age.”
“I am?”
“You were all born in the same week.”
“Really?”
“That’s what we were told.”
“I must have more spring in me then.”
“How do you get spring?”
“A little bird told me that it is unevenly distributed.”
She wandered off and I thought we were done, but no. New subject.
“You know crows know the origin of the rhododendron?”
“I thought Mimo said not to listen to corvids.”
“That’s why I do.”
“Got it. So how did rhododendrons come to be here?”
“Came across the land bridge with the first gods.”
“Slight issue with that; current thinking is that the first migration of people
to this continent was by coastal navigation.”
“Really? Explains a lot.”
“What?”
“The crows said gods carried rhododendrons to give to other gods, so they
didn’t arrive empty-handed, a gesture. So if there weren’t gods here in the
first place, who would they give the flowers to?”
“You’re saying people brought flowers across the Baring Straight to give to
others.”
“What’s a naked straight?”
“Where they walked. Baring, not naked… People walked flowers across to give to
others?”
“So I’m told.”
“When did the crows tell you this?”
“April the first, why?
It’s been a week of new foods. Pineapple was popular, shrimp shells
and heads, less so. There have been strident demands for weeds.
“What do we want?”
“Weeds.”
“When do we want them?”
“NOW!”
The big surprise was peas. We had some that were beginning to sprout so I
stepped outside and dropped them as an offering. The chickens stared at me as
if I were crazy.
Mimo, “What’s all this then?”
“Peas.”
Appenzeller, “Bollocks.”
“No,” I said, “they would have a different consistency.”
Pecorino began to sing and to my great surprise the girls turned out to be fans
of the Hollies. “Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe, and to love
you.”
Mimo and Appenzeller gave it plenty of welly, “All I need is the air that I
breathe and to love you.”
Then they stopped. “That’s all you know?” I asked.
“Oh no,” said Mimo.
“We were explaining,” said Pecorino.
“Explaining what?”
Appenzeller, “Why we can’t eat the bollocks.”
“Usually I’m good at following chicken conversation,” I said. “But I’m missing
a step here.”
“They’re deadly,” said Pecorino.
“What are?”
Chorus, “Peas!”
Pecorino, “Kill you instantly.”
Mimo, “Says so in the song.”
“What song? 'Delicious eating goober peas? Black Eyed Peas control your area/
Bringing the vibe that create hysteria?' What?”
They did that nodding thing that singers do to get the beat and then…”Peas came
upon me and leaved me weak/ So sleep, silent angel, go to sleep.”
“Murderous,” said Mimo.
“No,” I said, “You misheard. The line is ‘peace came upon me and *it leaves*
me weak.’ Not about peas at all.”
Mimo looked embarrassed, “Oh well then, let’s have a taste.”
They did.
But the result was the same. Ixnay the easpay.
One of the rites of Spring hereabouts is to lift away the sides of the
compost container before digging in an spreading the vital nutrients on my
vegetable beds. One of the few things chickens are good at, apart from
mishearing and then singing Hollies’ songs, is turning compost. I told them to
have at it and settled to finish my book, Henning Mankell "The Pyramid," which
I’m happy to report is among those volumes I’ve read recently which actually
lives up to the cover blurb. After a few pages I lay still on the reclining
garden chair, looked up at the fir canopy and wondered *how* the novel was
good. The answer is that it’s not really about the murder or the triumph of
the detective mind; it’s about a badly-paid policeman who wonders how to afford
a second hand Peugeot that works, takes out a loan, and then has to spend the
money on a plane ticket because his daft father has climbed a pyramid in Egypt
and been arrested. A very human tale.
But why would a Swede buy a Peugeot?
“Happy Spring,” I said to one and all when they wandered past, looking
fatigued. And thenI thought, to chickens who are losing their grip, maybe
“happy spring” is ageist.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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