Lemony was a special chook. We bought her as a young bird and Darcy raised her so that she really seemed to think he was his mother. She would sit on his lap and watch cartoons with him, tucking her head under her wing for a snooze. She helped him to settle into school life when she visited kindy with him for the morning. She would jog to meet him whenever he wandered into the yard. I cried when I found her lifeless body lying in the chook run, and expected the same from Darcy, who was much more pragmatic.
"Can I get a new one?"
"Why don't we wait a little while, until we stop feeling sad about Lemony?"
"Can I get a new one tomorrow?"
There were no golden Pekin pullets to be found in the Great Southern when Darcy turned seven, but his birthday card promised him a visit to the first poultry auction of the year to select his bird. And waiting for him in a cage was the golden feathered bird of his dreams. She is called Lemony (of course) and she promises to be just as sweet as her namesake.
I picked up a little Araucana for myself while we were there. I have missed having blue eggs and am looking forward to her reaching the point of lay, and perhaps inspiring the rest of our flock to lay the odd egg or two. We have had nothing but duck eggs for weeks.