Being God

Fat Boy 1 as a poult

For a moment I AM God or at least a deity of some kind or another. It gives one such a thrill to know that you are, for that moment, the centre of their world.

The bringer of good things: food, shelter, protection.

If they could only articulate in a language I understood I truly believe it would be in praise of me each and every morning. As it is people are beginning to say my chickens make too much noise and if I am not careful the council will be on me about noise abatement.

But the thrill I get when they come flocking at the sight of me. Cackling in delight and anticipation at my benefice. It quite goes to my head. You can see me in my large Blue Down Jacket spreading my arms wide over them all as they peck about in contentment at my feet.

I am the harbinger of life and death.

It is a heady tonic and one which sometimes brings with it headaches.

My biggest headache at present is what to do with Fat Boy 1 and Fat Boy 2 who should have been hens but aren’t.

They are my acolytes waiting out for my return from the school run, rushing up to greet me as I get out the car chortling and squawking and telling me all sorts of things – I prefer to think they are telling me things rather than ordering me about and I am quite happy  in my delusions. They are characters. When I chat to Tatu or J they come and sit on my feet keeping them warm. They follow me about the garden and in reward I lob them worms and other tasty morsels.

But

They are boys and come the spring when the days are longer and the sap starts to rise again they are going to be quite a handful and they are not going to be nice to my poor hens.

So for the good of the whole flock they must be dispatched in some way or another.

Being a God is not easy and for those looking up to the god where the hand strikes must seem a bit random and essentially rather unfair.

It is not the part of the job I enjoy.

But no one said being God is easy…