Pumphrey's Purple Pants Palaver

Today was designated release day for Mrs Pumphrey. Her under wing wound has healed over nicely, she is sprouting new bottom feathers and has spent the last two days wrecking her hospital room as a subtle way of saying 'I'M A BORED CHICKEN...GET ME OUT OF HERE!'

There were a couple of things we needed to do before we let her back into the bosom of the flock. One was to cover her in anti-peck spray, and the other was to disguise her still-pink-but-with-little-white-tufty-bits bottom with gentian violet spray. I have learned, you see, that hens adore the colour pink. I guess it's a girl thing. They will go for anything pink -like worms and tuna and other chickens bare bottoms. And with Mrs Pumphrey being white, her pink bum shows up more than say a pink bum on a brown hen does, thus making her an easy and obvious target for, say a loonie like Mrs Slocombe.

Have you ever used gentian violet spray? If you haven't, and you plan to in the future, can I offer a word of advice. ALWAYS WEAR GLOVES. And old clothes. And DO NOT use it in a high wind, like we did this morning. Anyway, the upshot of the Mrs Pumphrey/ Mrs Slocombe swapover is that there is a purple chicken running around Cluckinghen Palace and she ain't doing it for Gay Pride. Cor blimey, what a palaver! Firstly, Andy held Mrs P upside-down and I did the spraying. Purple mist everywhere. We returned Mrs P to the run. Mrs Poo comes over.

'Hello,' she says. 'Back from the wars?'
'Yes,' says Pumphrey. 'The accommodation was nice but room service was terrible. It's good to be home.'
'Nice pants,' says Poo. 'Give us a twirl.'
'They're purple,' says Pumphrey.
'Hang on,' says Poo, 'I think you've got a bit of fluff on them.'

And she pecks off one of Mrs Pumphrey's new feather tufts that's taken her over a week to grow!!

'Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!!' I yell.
'What? What??' yells Andy, who's thinking, job done, better get this purple stuff off my hands before we go to Canterbury.
'Poo is going for Pumphrey's new feathers,' I wail. 'This is not what is supposed to happen. This is not part of my happy re-integration plan.'

Pumphrey is recaptured using fresh lettuce from Miggo's raised bed. (She's got wise to the apple trick which is pretty impressive for a chicken with three brain cells). On closer inspection, we discover the gentian violet hasn't been absorbed over the entire pink area and a couple of tiny patches are still undisguised. Andy takes charge. There is to be no more of my girly squirty-squirt handling of the situation. What is needed here is a good dowsing via the determined sprayings of a professional veterinary surgeon. He's got her upside-down and drenchedbefore I can say 'My isn't it blowy out here', finishing with a dose of anti-peck spray for good measure. Everywhere is purple, including most of Mrs Pumphrey.

Back she goes, completely camouflaged.

'Where's Mrs Pumphrey gone?' asks Miggins, who has made a selection of tiny sandwiches and some cream horns and has appeared with them balanced on her best china two-tiered cake stand ready to start the 'Welcome Home Gloria Pumphrey' party.
'I have no idea,' says Poo. 'One minute she was here with her purple pants and now she has disappeared.'
'Here I am,' says Pumphrey, although no-one can see her because of the gentian violet spray.
'I can hear her,' says Poo.
'Me, too,' says Miggo. 'In fact, I can sense her. Like a ghostly presence.'
'Hmmm, I know what you mean,' says Poo. 'There's eyes. Watching us. Spooky.'

And here is Mrs Pumphrey modelling her new purple pants...