blood. feathers. shit. death

This is a gruesome tale so stop reading now if you’re the sensitive type. If you like to harbour delusions about the glamour of inner-city life best you too go; maybe order another vodka martini and come back later when we’ve finished.

Bad Boy Boef


Yesterday, Boef, (henceforth to be known as Boef-the-bad) killed the last of our poor little chooks. We do have plans to dog-proof the chook run next week but time-ran out for Ollie as it had for her sisters before her. There were no excuses this time for Boef. He had had a long walk and a rather nice brunch which included scraps from the weekend’s organic lamb roast and home-made gravy. And yet I came home after only a short outing to discover him standing over an inert Ollie with a “she-just-fell-into-my-mouth” expression on his face. Bad Boy Boef!

As if this wasn’t bad enough I later discovered the deceased had vanished. Boef has never ‘partaken’ of his victims before so I wasn’t sure whether she’d been eaten or interred. I was soon to find out.

Later that afternoon, as we all sat around the lounge room, Boef draped elegantly across the sofa, he started heaving. Before we could get him outside he had thrown up several bits of disgusting. It was immediately and painfully clear these bits were feathers and chook. Identifiable pieces of my favourite chook, whats more.

Our spiraling descent into a special sort of farm-yard hell continued hours later when the same thing occurred as the Flipster was having his bedtime story read. Boef, curled in his basket next to the Flipster’s bed, threw up a very particular sort of fur-ball; chook-feathers held together with dog poo.

The utter and complete horror of the evening has left me kinda numb. It’s Breugel meets Tom Waits and David Lynch in the farm-yard eerily lit by inner-city neon. A deserted chook house hauntingly silent against a backdrop of distant police sirens and the squeal of tyres.

Ollie r.i.p.

Smelly stuff

For twenty-five years I’ve been planning to buy some jasmine, just as soon as I’d bought a house.

And now, in all its early-spring glory, here it is. Gracefully draping itself over the chook-shed! That reddish fluffball in the background is a chook bottom.

Just to add to the elegance of our chook shed, our quince is blossoming. I luvs me quince.


Chook tractor*

Today I arrived home from a trip to the local shops in great excitement thanks to a new issue of Australasian Poultry. There was a time, in the dim distant past, when only the latest Wallpaper* magazine would have generated quite the same level of anticipation. Those were also the days when I could rate most of Melbourne’s city bars on the vodka-martini-index. Sigh……

The incongruity of it all was further brought home to me later this afternoon while working on a chook tractor of my own design, cleverly (I like to think) fashioned from some chook wire, table trellises, a scary electric staple gun and at least two glasses of pinot noir.

I remembered a dog kennel I particularly admired from one of the earlier issues of Wallpaper*. A dog kennel designed for Dior if my memory serves me right. A particularly gorgeous dog kennel that looked like something Corbusier might have whipped up after a weekend at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Waterfall house.

A dog kennel that is to my chook tractor what Wallpaper* is to Australasian Poultry I’m afraid. More sighs ……
Photos of the chook tractor to follow once I’ve un-jammed the stapler, thats if I don’t staple my hand to the back fence in the process.