Rent-a-chicken dream comes to an end

My dream of once again being a chicken mistress got indulged when Heather Elliott's chickens came to visit a few weeks ago.
So for my big birthday, I treated myself to an entire month of Book-A-Chook bantams. Here are the three ladies that came to stay:

Marie Antoinette snuggles Madam Bovary

Little Grizelda, boss of the pecking order, challenges me to shoot

Dignified. Marie, you are one splendid chicken.

This flotilla of polite, softly-clucking bantams filled their days drifting back and forth across the lawn, or pretending to be jungle-chickens, weaving through the unending undergrowth of our huge shared back garden. I never saw their feet amongst all the feathers, which added to their opulent, bustled 19th century air.

The cats were hypnotized by them, unable to resist stalking, but too scared to actually pounce. I loved their small-brained ways, how enthusiastic they got when finding a potentially delicious morsel, how indignant they got when things weren't going their way. Just like us.

I will never know if they enjoyed or just endured the daily pats and cuddles. Their feathers smelt warm and wonderful. They didn't scratch up the garden, crow at dawn, or do anything ungainly.

But all their virtues were not enough.
The month was drawing to an end. I consulted the three (lovely) families with whom the chickens, and myself, share the huge back garden, proposing I keep them. That they let them stay one month was already rather wonderful, as I the approach I took was the John Macaulay (little brother) method: "Do not ask permission, merely ask forgiveness."

On the final night, one family said "Yes".
The next Family Said "Yes".
The third family didn't say "Yes".

So my chickens have just gone on to some other lucky garden. I'm back to blackbirds and possums, and a yellowed patch where a lovely rent-a-roost stood for the month.
I am utterly ...crestfallen.