Bush eggs: two. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: full.
I shouldn’t have spoken ill of the dearly deperched. Valerie came to the second-worst end I’ve ever seen (Licorice being the worst). One minute she was standing there saying how she was off to lay one of her “extra special, super-duper BLUE eggs” and the next minute she had no throat. It wasn’t a ferret – not big enough – but the blur that got her was definitely either stoat or weasel shaped. Horrific. Unsettled us terribly to think we had such a quick and ruthless killer in our midst. But The Female Person and The Old One were on to it very promptly and caught the killing culprit (a stoat it turned out to be) within three days. Such a relief, and we’ve never seen another stoat or weasel since (touch shell).
A poem about Valerie by Ruby
Valerie was standing there
Minding her own self.
When along came death
And robbed her of health.
We saw the cause of death
It was a murderous stoat.
Quick as lightening
It ripped out her throat.
Valerie kept on talking
But no sound came out.
Then she keeled over
Like a drunken lay-about.
So no more kitschy blue eggs
From sweet Valerie.
And now we’re all very nervous
Could the next death be me?
Mmmm. I just keep getting better.
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