terror in paradise

Readers of this blog will know that a piece of poultry paradise has been created on this earth in my garden for our three pet bantams.

Our three pampered princesses lead a life of privilege. They eat the best organic food, roam around our garden and live under the benign management of two vegetarians.

What can enter this hen heaven and spoil it?

The answer came early Sunday morning when I was woken by a commotion.

There was flapping and squarking out in the run - and down there was Britains largest fox (easily German Shepherd size) with fangs as long as carving knives. The birds were terrified.

I have been a passionate opponent of fox hunting all my life, but, if at that moment, a fat red-coated upper class twit blowing a cheap trumpet astride a horse with more brains than its rider had soared over next doors fence with a posse of hounds -I would have kissed him.

As it was I was just in time to see my enemy disappear behind the shed and be gone. I would have fought and killed it with my bare hands if I could.

The hens and their owner were very quiet that day, I can tell you.

There is an unacceptable face of wildlife gardening.

No-one told me that hen keeping would be quite so traumatic.