Boudica, Chapter Two

The Pandemic Years

The girls were an unexpected source of joy, during our many months of lockdown. Fortunately, I’d bought them just weeks before the lockdown. The time when our priorities changed and commodities like indoor plants, sourdough starter, puppies and chickens increased in rarity and consequently cost.

Husband Man turns to the garden and landscapes like he’s never landscaped before. Yep I mean, he’s never landscaped before!

This is the man who previously would delegate all handyman jobs to Phil. Phil has been a regular in our house. Actually has followed us around at least four houses and two states. Phil is sparing with his words, talks in a deep gravelly voice and is always calmly reassuring that no-one needs to worry their pretty little head. He’ll fix it. Phil is me.

Then, like an overall clad Adonis, Husband Man is cutting down weedy trees, digging up earth, building retaining walls, and very impressive steps to get around it all! And all the time, the chickens are there at his feet looking for some windfall, or earthbound, or whatever. Worms, they are looking for worms.

The Poppets play pirates with chickens perched on their shoulders. And let them come in to the kitchen for a cuddle and a feed. One night when a nasty storm is forecast they all come inside for safety. I think they look very cute and take some photos.

Husband Man tells me not to put it on social media, “everyone will think we’re crazy,” he says.

Luckily he doesn’t see anything on my blog.

“Jesus H Rosevelt Christ! Can you get out of the way?”

This is me. Blundstones, very ancient overalls and a hoe in hand. Yes I’ve become Claire from the Outlander stories. I’ve planted potatoes, and trying to plant more veggies, fruit trees and bee plants to sustain us through the famine. But every throw of the hoe is like a lottery of who’s head or feet might fall!

“Boudica! Seriously! Moooove! Sandy, Zoe, oh my lordy lord you’re all ridiculous!”

But I smile and move to another spot to dig, until they catch up with me there.

“Hello!” I open the kitchen door to five chickens all borking at me on the back step.

“What’s up?”

“Bork, bork, bork.”

“Treats? You want treats?”

“Bork, bork.”

“Okay, here you go, pepitas, you love them! Sesame seeds, mmmmm. Left over gluten free spagetti! Oh yeah, that’s good. No don’t come in. The dogs will get annoyed. Oh you’re coming in. There’s nothing here! Ok maybe that bit of stuff in the corner, but seriously the dogs won’t like it.”

Bark bark bark bark, squark squark bork bork becack!!

“I did try and warn you.”

Any time I leave the kitchen door open, is an opportunity to come inside looking for bits or a pat. Boudica is always the first in and the last to leave, and has no fear of the dogs or cat. “Boudica, you’re too curious and brave for your own good!”

Maybe it’s the lack of human interaction in our lockdown, or maybe I’m just a crazy chicken lady not that vigilant at keeping doors closed. But chicken chats in the kitchen become a fairly regular part of my week. And so the girls continue to enrich our lives both inside and out of our home.

With Lockdown rules we’re restricted to travel far from home or have social gatherings with other people. But we can exercise and we can do that with a companion. My good friend Kathryn suggests a ride with the kids along a bike trail not far from home. Yep that’s within the rules, even though we have to go through a police checkpoint to get to our starting location. I try not to think of The Handmaids Tale as we pass through. I know I’m not subject to such torture and inequity as this dystopian story, but the feeling of trepidation going through checkpoints is real.

Early on the bike ride Kathryn’s beautiful kind hearted daughter is bought to tears at finding a dead bird on the track. It prompts me to sadly tell my friend that I think I’ve finally lost Boudica.

There was one chicken missing when I went to lock them in last night. Boudica, it’s always Boudica. She didn’t come home. I searched our block and beyond, calling out “Boudi! Boudi? “ But came home tearful and empty handed.

When we stop to catch our breath at the end of the trail, I notice a message on my phone. It’s a photo of the girl child who stayed at home, holding a dishevilled looking chicken! Boudica!

I nearly can’t believe it! Somehow, girl child, who I’ve never known to enter the wild garden part of our property has discovered Boudica caught up in some chicken wire, of all things. Thank you Poppet, I don’t know how you ever found her!

Oh Boudica, that’s third time lucky!

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