Eggs, easy

(Google image)

The hens are laying again. One by one, they find suitable places (never a regular nest; god forbid!) and lay a lovely brown orb full of nutritious goodness. A popular place for Betty (or is it Biddy?) is in the waist-high brick planter by the back door.

Last season, it was in the seat of my dead aunt's power wheelchair that recharged by the backdoor, waiting for my sister's husband to retrieve it. That didn't go well. Winston the Wonder Dog ate every one of them. It wasn't a happy situation; how can a girl relax enough to pass an egg with a squished black face waiting eagerly to consume the next generation? She fretted, he gobbled (then farted), we were without eggs. But, she could not be dissuaded. Even when the chair was removed, she laid the egg on the patio where the chair had been. I'm telling you, it is no wonder these birds need the protection of humans.

So, here we have the sad tale of the modern small farm. Hen lays egg, Pug eats egg, farmer goes hungry. Farmer endures smelly companion.