Day 136.

Major as an Italian icon. Acrylic on canvas by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full. Fearful thoughts of mortality, mine and others: many.

Gosh, what if Jack WAS to die in the prime of his life? His father did, after all. There he was, Major, the biggest, kindest, most beautiful rooster a hen could ask for. He was a rich dark brown with a magnificent black tail shot with green. He had two long white tail feathers that used to flap in the breeze like they were trying hard to signal alien spacecraft. He had the most wonderful erect comb and sexy wattles and a gloss to him that could make a grown hen weep with desire (I did when I first met him!) He was the PICTURE of health and vitality the day we had had our first clutch of four chicks. But when he poked his head in for a look he DIED.

What an unexpected shock it was! He just up and carked it on the doorstep of the nest. It was horrible. I was trapped in there for half a day making up worse and worse excuses for why daddy was “sleeping in the doorway.” The female person eventually came and removed him and that was the last I ever saw of him. And me, left with four young and hungry mouths to feed! I was so ANGRY at Major for leaving us but also so devastated that he wouldn’t be part of the family. They were very sad and trying times.

Jack can’t die – we need him too much.