March 29, 2014 by Sez
Prompted by Chella Quint and also inspired by a story I heard Tim Ralphs tell.
Such a nice man, that “poultry inspector” who had demanded access to the coop, his clipboard hiding a twitching, pointed face.
His questions about when the birds were transferred from run to coop had displayed nothing but concern. His suggestion of a morning a week in the big field “so you can really call them free range” seemed reasonable, and the hens loved it.
Perhaps they’d flapped off independently, but they weren’t that adventurous; you’d expect to find them nearby.
Where could they be?
That nice inspector, short, slight, redhaired, would surely have ideas, if only he could be found.