It seems very sad to break my posting drought with such bad news, but Gladys is no longer with us. This marvellous hen, who gave me my first ever baby animal, in Babbs, and who kept us all organised and entertained for almost eight years, died last week. She had had a small, hard mass in her crop for a few weeks; it was hot and didn’t feel like the usual impaction one might find with an older bird when crop musculature is weakening, so I suspect a tumour. It didn’t stop her from running for treats, yelling, being generally peevish, holding her tail high and being every inch herself. Her feathers were neat and preened, her comb red and perky, but last week she went downhill very quickly; no amount of olive oil and natural yoghurt could ease the alternating discomforts of impaction and souring of her crop, and she died in her sleep after a morning snuggled up in the house with The Duck, now the only original old girl left.
So, all very sad, and the end of an era, but Gladys would want us all to remain cross and despairing as to the general idiocy of others, so let’s have a look at her being wonderfully competent since 2006.
With most of the original gang, as a young whippersnapper;
Bathing with Big Girl; Gladys has been known to bathe in the embers of a still-hot bonfire,
Sprinting off with a tomato. She couldn’t be bettered at catching and absconding with fruit and veg!
Quite an old girl here, legs as smooth as a chick’s, still immaculately feathered and laying eggs like ping-pong balls with no obvious top or bottom.
And where are you going on your holidays love? A quick wash and blow dry in the kitchen before settling down to her favourite thing…
…being a mum. Here she is with Solo,
Encouraging Babbs to tuck into scrambled egg,
Random hatchlings and incubator orphans from Lucy…
Jarvis Cockerel, Gudrun, Dorcas and Gerda…
Still being mum to Dorcas and Gerda when they were fully grown – she never forgot who her babies were.
There’ll never be another Gladys. Next time you have transgressed in life, or not done your best at some small task, perhaps you will wake in the small grey hours before dawn and see a disgruntled-looking Light Sussex hen on the foot of your bed, and as you rub your eyes and she disappears, you may hear a faint ‘hoo-doot!’. Gladys sees all.
Never forget, when confronted with some dilemma, to ask yourself, ‘What would Gladys do?’
