After four days on the road in the Panhandle for work, P and I were looking forward to coming home to Wyldswood and our critters. Last night we caravaned home in separate vehicles because P worked late, and I was dragging a pickup back to the farm. As I was driving along the Bloxham cutoff, a certain unease began to set in about the chickens and guineas. We had a couple young men in the neighborhood lined up to let them out of the pen in the morning and put them away at sunset. I figured it was a little extra money for them--they said they were saving up to buy their mother an air conditioner for her trailer--and told them to please take home all the eggs they found.
The place was pitch black by the time I pulled up. I turned on my flashlight and walked out to the pen, and found the water troughs turned over and the feeder empty. There were eggs lying about everywhere, and it looked like they had eaten away at a lot of the hay on the floor. Mange, Blackie, and the whole rest of the crew had obviously not left the pen for the entire time we were away.
Thankfully, they were alright, but very hungry and thirsty. I poured out a bunch of chicken feed, then filled the feeder. I also cleaned and filled all the water troughs and bowls. Although chickens tend to be dopey and half-blind at night, they dove onto the food and water like, well, they hadn't eaten all week.
Once they were put away and fed, I called the older of the young men and asked when was the last time they were here.
"Oh no. I'm so sorry, Mike. We just forgot. It was a crazy weekend."
"Well, today is Thursday. We're just lucky they were alive."
Peg was less sanguine about the whole thing. She called our friend and farm handyman George, for whom they'd also worked, and declared they would never be allowed to set foot on the property again. I'm told he let them go, as well.
It's all just so disappointing. I had high hopes that we'd give them an opportunity to make a little money, which clearly is in very short supply at their home, and model a different way of life than they'd experienced before. I figured they'd learn a little responsibility, taking care of the animals and getting into a work routine of sorts.
But the cardinal sin on a farm, according to P, is penning your animals and letting them starve. There's no going back from that, no second chance, no repentance and redemption.
One of the guineas is sitting on the rail of the steps leading down into the yard, cocking her head and looking at me with one eye through the window. It all could have been a lot worse, and we need to remember that.
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