I left for Berlin Friday. On Saturday, a water pipe in the bathroom, upstairs, sprung a leak, which spread downstairs to soak the washing machine and tumbledryer.
I get home Sunday night and put the chickens away. We have three rescued ex-battery hens. Came from the British Hen Welfare Trust, whom I recommend. A gift from me to Niki, who loves them. I notice one of them isn’t sleeping with the others as usual, but standing alone on the other side of the coop. I make a note.
And go back to my office. Longtime readers will know that I have a terminal allergy to house dust. My family, however, seems never to remember this. Lots of dusty boxes and books got moved into my office when the leak sprang.
Today is Niki’s birthday. It’s also the anniversary of my Dad’s funeral. I’m having a monster allergy attack, the second really bad one in as many months. This afternoon, the chicken stops eating and drinking, and flops on the ground. By 615, we’re at the vet with the damned bird, who tells us it’s a respiratory infection, gives her a shot and tells us it’s 50/50 whether she’ll see the morning. He gives us a mix to give her, telling us to syringe it into her through a straw. You think we can find anyone who’ll sell us straws? Juice carton straws are too sharp, and we can’t even find a Bic pen to disassemble. So we syringe it right into her beak and hope it goes down the right hole.
Then the chicken shits all over me.
Which at least indicates the antibiotic shot is working.
I’m about done with Monday now.