My husband always says that you plan plans—you don’t plan results. Today, as on many other days, he was proven right. My schedule involved a set of papers that needed to be graded, an editorial project that needed work, and a couple of errands, in addition to all the regular things. It started off nicely. Porch grading, coffee, motivational knitting:
Say hello to Miss Babs Yowza! Whatta Skein! in the “Perfectly Wreckless” colorway. Is it gorgeous, or what? I blame the purchase on Cari. She’s behind of lot of my craziness. But more on that another time.
I was planning to wrap up the day much as I did yesterday, with more sock knitting:
And a pretty sunset:
But our hen Eudora got sick. We’ve had chickens for just over a year, and they are one of the happiest things in my life. Chickens equal instant zen. Especially Eudora. Here she is as a baby, navigating the perch for the first time:
She’s named after Eudora Welty, one of my favorite authors, and from day one, she’s been the most outgoing, loving, interesting creature you’d ever want to meet. She’s not the head hen. Nor is she the least hen. She’s her own hen. And she’s wonderful.
Well, something happened today, and one of her eggs broke before she’d hatched it. About half of it was hatched, and the rest wasn’t. And she clearly didn’t feel well. I started calling vets, but no one would see a chicken. I looked online, and the predictions were all dire. In the end I extracted the rest of the broken egg myself, and thankfully, through a friend, was able to find a vet who would at least prescribe an antibiotic. Said antibiotic has been administered, and Eudora seems to be a little better than she did earlier. Despite the never-to-be-broken, “no chickens in the house” rule, she’s asleep in the downstairs bathroom. Please send good thoughts. Here we are under the heat lamp a few hours after the “procedure.”
The worst downpour of the year took place as we were trying to get from coop to house. Hence our bad hair.