Pumpkin Palaver

The chickens eyed me with new suspicion this morning when I presented them with a pumpkin.

'What's this?' asked Mrs Miggins, standing well back in case of explosions.
'It's a pumpkin,' I said, placing the halved squash on the chicken sushi bar (you know, the paving slab where I sacrifice snails in the spring for the girls, to save the pain of them trying to bash them death themselves. My one shot is more humane than their 57, I think.)'I thought you might like it for a change.'
'What on earth gave you that idea?' said Miggins.
'It's orange,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Shouldn't it be an orange then?'
'Or perhaps it's orange squash,' suggested Mrs Pumphrey.
'I hadn't thought of that,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'We can't have orange squash, it's bad for our teeth.'
'Hens don't have teeth,' I said.
'Wanna bet?' said Mrs Slocombe, baring a magnificent set of pearly whites. 'I inherited them from my great-great-great Dane. He was a dog, you know. On my father's side.'

'Look,' I said. 'It's just that I've read a few chicken blogs and it seems that other chicken keepers have given their chickens a pumpkin to play with and they've quite liked it, that's all.'
'Oh, you want us to play with it?' said Mrs Miggins. 'You should have said.'
'When I say 'play', I mean eat,' I said.
'We could attach handles to it and use it for a space hopper,' said Mrs Pumphrey.
'I could draw a face on it,' added Mrs Slocombe.
'It won't bounce,' I said.
'Won't it?' said Mrs Pumphrey, looking a little comb-fallen.
'We'll that's no good, is it?' said Mrs Miggins. 'Bringing us a space hopper that won't bounce. What kind of chicken enrichment programme are you running here anyway?'

To be honest, I'm not sure. I mean, I try my best. Andy and I have been chicken keepers for more than a year and a half now. Twenty months to be exact, and we like to think we know a fair bit about the craft now, because it is a craft, chicken-keeping. At least, chicken are crafty.

'I'll leave it here and you can do what you like with it,' I said, because sometimes giving up and backing down is the only way with hens. As I returned to the Manor, all three hens appeared to have lost immediate interest in the pumpkin sacrifice and had gone to excavate the compost bin, which is their current favourite project.

But later, as I passed the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace to visit the greenhouse to reassure myself that it is indeed the Christmas tree ensconced there within, and not, as I keep thinking, a giant hedgehog, I heard the hens chattering about things like pumpkin pie, pumpkin meringue, pumpkin curry, pumpkin and nut bread and other such squashy delicacies.

Sounds like they're planning on eating the pumpkin after all.