It’s been one of those strange weeks again. For a start off it’s involved doing a good deal more digging than is usual. The reason for all this unscheduled spade work was the sudden deaths of a ferret, a cat and a chicken.

Already I can hear the sound of minds boggling as imaginations around the world create scenarios which might cause the simultaneous deaths of these three very different creatures. Were they perhaps victims of Norfolk’s Good O’ Boys rural sports gambling syndicate? Did they lose their lives entertaining blood thirsty country men in some bizarre inter species cage fight? Beak, teeth and claws pecking, biting and slashing to the last animal standing and big payout outs to the winning bets? If they had I’m sure each would have found it a thrilling and life enhancing experience just as foxes were always said to enjoy being chased by hounds. There must be as lot of miserable foxes roaming the countryside in search of excitement now that hunting with dogs has been banned.

People often say that truth is stranger than fiction. But this time the truth is quite mundane. Each one succumbed, as we all must, to simple old age.

The first to go was Igor the ferret found dead in his hutch, shared with Frankenferret, by Tara on Tuesday morning. He wasn’t very old, about four and a half and probably had a congenital weakness as his brother died when not much more than a year old. He was a handsome chap being a Silver Mitt which is a fairly rare variant of the polecat coated ferret. The brightly contrasting front paws gives the effect of having borrowed someone else’s hands. So he was named after the Igors in Terry Pratchett’s Disc World who are notable for their many shared, loaned or even inherited, body parts.

Brian, the Cornish Rex cat, was quietly put sleep by our vet at Holt on Wednesday afternoon. It was clear he would only last a few more days naturally so it seemed the kindest thing to do. You’ll find more about him in the ‘animals’ section.

The last to move on to a better place was the chicken called Bonnington. She was one of a party of four ex-battery hens who were given a new home earlier this year. Having had a hard working life none were expected to last long but she was only the second to expire: found stiff and cold in the nest box on Sunday. Named after the climber she had a special talent for escapology and could often be found perched at heights unreachable by her sisters.

All were found a place to rest in the garden.

A couple of happy events to report this week.
The big news is the hatching of a new chicken to add to the menagerie. This little boy or girl is a lavender Aracauana and is the sole hatching from a batch of six eggs purchased on Ebay. I’m hoping this will turn out to be a hen rather than a cockeral as the main claim to fame of the Aracauana is the laying of pale blue eggs. This will give me a good selection as I already have Welsommers which lay a brown egg and Wyandottes that lay white.

The second thing worth a mention is the removal of the previously mentioned cabbage smell by the harvesting of the oil seed rape. There is, however, a downside to the annual harvest season. All the little creatures whose homes in the field have been reaped and pillaged invariably decide to move in with me. My four cats have wonderful time chasing all the mice and voles. But I have a less wonderful time clearing up the numerous body parts that they leave around the house.

Worse are the creepy crawlies that are making their own way in. Already I seem to be knee deep in assorted beetles and spiders of all sizes. Yuck! Of course, I always remember the little rhyme recited by my superstitious mother: “If you wish to live and thrive, let a spider run alive.” So I’ve been busy with a tumbler and postcard catching each one and relocating them to the garden. I try to point out to each one as I carry them out that they are likely to be eaten by a cat if they hang around the place. But they dont seem to be passing this information on to their friends.

I cant remember a time when I have so longed for a change in the weather. To be specific, a reversal of wind direction.

Across the lane from my home is a field of about 30 acres. This year the farmer has grown a crop of oil seed rape. Now it’s by no means obvious from a casual look at a growing field (See the image at the top of the page) but rape happens to be a member of the cabbage family. In the Spring and early Summer this becomes apparent when the thousands (probably millions) of golden flowers fill the air with a fragrance similar to that of wallflowers which is another cousin in the family of cabbages. Not everyone cares for the smell and the pollen gives many hayfever but I number the scent among the joys of living in the countryside.

But, just as every coin has two sides, the pleasurable aroma of the flowers turns into a stink as the crop ripens. Now the rape is ready for harvesting, indeed rather more than ready. The air is filled with the pong of rotting cabbage. As I sit here in my study, which overlooks the field, I have the impression that some villian has murdered a cabbage patch doll and hidden the body beneath my desk. Blow wind blow. From a new direction please.