Pat the sexton

I mentioned in an earlier post about the mysterious disappearance of one of the black chooks. Well, she hadn’t been taken by a fox, mink or marten, she had succumbed to old age in her sleep in one of the small shelters down in the goose pen. I was down having a good root around yesterday to check the demesne and found a woeful heap of feathers and bones that was her mortal remains. Given that she disappeared five weeks ago, I was astonished that there was enough of her left to bury in one piece. So, out with the spade, which made her hearse to the (now) traditional chook graveyard by the birch tree where are already interred Old Red and the yellow chook who parted from this vale of tears probably only the day before this old girl. Five minutes work and it was done; she was well-stamped into the sod and away from potential feasters of carrion.


2 Responses to “Pat the sexton”

  1. joared Says:

    Guess old age gets us all sooner or later, even black chooks. Didn’t know what a chook was, so had to look it up. Now you’re talking about Hogmanay which I’ll have to look up, too. Looks like I’ll get a real education with some unfamiliar words.

  2. Pat the Chooks Says:

    Hogmanay is the Scottish New Year. Scotland gets two days off after Hogmanay, unlike the rest of the UK, which only gets one.

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