Sad but true. Two of out of three of our beloved chickens are dead – having only had them for a few weeks.
Whilst visiting the Tour at Fa, three hunters dogs broke into the pottage chicken run. Anika’s chicken, Bluttit, stood no chance. Being a Pekin bantan she is slow on the ground and can not fly. The dogs ate all of her. Bianca Castafiori had her stomach opened. Anika buried her under a willow tree.
The farmer, Torine, came for his three dogs the net day. His insurance will pay out he said. He had little remorse to share. Little surprise – his favourite sport is hunting with his dogs. ‘They are clever,’ he explained, ‘always escaping’. We are worried now for what will happen when we get replacement chickens and when lambing season starts.
Torine is very friendly. Few words to spare but a firm handshake and a kind smile behind a grizzly unshaven face. Each time he has come for his dogs he has carried the scent of booze and fags. Alot of booze and fags. Torine is the chap that a few years ago held his family hostage at gunpoint. He is a hunter.
Whilst on the subject of odd local characters. I have some more information on that deserted hamlet. I hear that there were three occupants. The lady that had a tragic end in the snow. Her brother. Her husband. All from a distant past generation, they feared both the sun and people, preferring to remain holed up in their houses even when a visitor were to stand outside for 10 minutes (The property is now most certainly abandoned, I did not notice any curtain twitch). Her brother, or husband, or both, served some prison time. Always being desperately poor, they cooked up a plan to bump off a neighbor. The lady seduced the unknowing victim into entering the house, then Wham! A visitor one day spotted the deceased victims legs dangling down from an unused chimney and reported the find to the police. I guess little valleys are full of such tales.