The impatient patient

'She's very highly strung, isn't she?' says Andy,emerging from my writing room at the sound of my call to lunch. He has been chicken sitting Mrs Slocombe who is now in situ in what was the Pumphrey Wing and is now the equivalent of Chicken Bedlam.

'Yes, she is,' I say, because I know all about Mrs Slocombe and her highly-strunginess. I've been watching her behaviour for many months now. I have spent lots of time with her thinking, 'Just how barking mad can a chicken be, for Heaven's sake?' I've seen the mad look in her eye, the crazy cock of her comb, the way she can't sit still for more than 10 seconds at a time. I am fully aware she is very highly strung.

For the last 24 hours, Mrs Slocombe has been sulking in the corner at her enforced committal to barracks. On being placed in the cage, she was told, very firmly, that this was her home now until 1) she stops eating her feathers and 2) she stops eating other people's feathers, especially those belonging to Mrs Pumphrey Purple Pants.

'You will eat only layers pellets and greens,' I said. 'No treats. Your diet will be supplemented with tuna. I have decided against feeding you cat food as a good source of protein because I don't want to risk you developing mad cow disease, or scrapie, or anything else of that ilk. Not that it will affect your brain, but it might affect mine when I eat your eggs.'
'Pah!' said Mrs Slocombe. 'And ptui!' And she huffed up what was left of her feathers and began her massive sulk-in.

This morning, on rising, I attend to the in-patient. My writing room smells like a chicken shed. Mrs Slocombe eyes me from the corner of the cage with the look of a chicken that has been up all night, pooping.
'I'm not getting up,' she says.
'You'll have to. I need to clean out your cage,' I say.
'Well, I ain't budging,' she insists and sits tight whilst I shuffle clean sheets of newspaper and fresh straw around her. I refill the large water bowl and place her ration of layers pellets before her.
'What's this?' she says, pecking one piece and spitting it out like a truculent child that's been forced to try spinach.
'Breakfast,' I say cheerfully.
'You said tuna,' says Slocombe.
'Not until this afternoon,' I say firmly, and leave her to it.

Andy and I go to the allotment. We weed, plant more seeds, put straw 'neath the strawberry plants. It is too windy to apply polythene to polytunnel so that will have to wait for a calmer day.

On our return I go to check on the patient. She is standing in 3 inches of water.

'Look,' she says with a glimpse of crazed triumph in her eyes. 'I've built a paddling pool. And tiled it with layers pellets.'

'Good grief,' I say. Mrs S has managed, goodness knows how, to unhook her large water bowl from the side of the cage and tip it all over the floor. Everything is sodden. The whole cage will have to go outside to be cleaned up.

Doctor Andy arrives. 'What's up, Nurse Denise?' he says.
'The patient is being difficult,' I say, through gritted teeth because my plan for the rest of the morning was to go into the greenhouse and pot on the tomatoes, peppers, aubergines and bee flowers and NOT clean up after a loonie chicken for the second time in 3 hours.
'I'll hold her,' says Doctor Andy. He wraps the patient in a green towel straight jacket and tucks her under his arm. The patient looks at me and smirks because she likes being carted about. Saves wearing outher feet.

I clean out the ward, re-line with fresh paper and straw and fetch a smaller water bowl which, if divested of its contents, won't cause quite so much damage next time.
'I'm thinking of making you a T-shirt,' I say to Mrs S as she is returned to the cage.
'Oh, I don't wear T-shirts,' she says airily. 'I am French. I am far too chic for such a common item.'
'It's not going to be a fashion statement,' I say. 'And if you don't behave and mend your ways quickly, I may make it in yellow.' (Mrs S hates yellow. It clashes with her eyes.)

Anyway, Doctor Andy has decided that Mrs Slocombe's problem is that she is a HIGHLY INTELLIGENT CHICKEN who is easily bored and needs lots of entertainment, so whilst I was indulging in some back garden farming, he provided occupational therapy in the form of playing his GameBoy Advance and reading at her. He has also provided her with a mirror, a sort of pseudo-chicken company for her, as she clearly misses being out and about with the others.

We are going to persist with her treatment for at least a week. Longer than that, and I fear one of us shall crack through sheer lack of patience.

'Not me,' says Slocombe. 'I mad, I am. I can carry on like this FOREVER!!!!! And then some!!!Ahahahahahahahahahahaha - bok!'