Her name was Daisy and she was very young when she fell into the water and nearly drowned. She was rescued by my father, who resuscitated her and cared for her until she recovered from her ordeal …
Daisy was a chicken ! … a ‘Rhode Island Red’ hen to be precise, and she went on to be a ‘champion’ layer of large brown eggs, and avoided the fate of the other birds in my dad’s back yard chicken run.
During World War II and the years of rationing that followed, many people throughout the country tended vegetable patches and raised chickens and rabbits in their gardens to help feed their families, as did my parents and many of our neighbours.
As our neighbours were all a bit squeamish when it came to spilling their chickens’ blood, my dad became to the poultry of our street what Sanson had been to the French aristocracy; but he could never bring himself to dispatch old Daisy to that great ‘free range’ in the sky.
I was reminded of Daisy when I read about a one legged Rhode Island Red named Lily who suffered from ‘depression’ because she was left alone all day when her owners were at work… No ! I’m not making this up.
Lily’s only problem now seems to be that she falls over when she tries to scratch herself, but at least with birdbrained owners like hers, she will never get ‘depressed’ worrying about having …
… sage and onions stuffed up her arse.
bigjohn 
