The Ultimate Responsibility

Oh dear, number three chicken, who happens to be called Charity, is clearly unwell. For ten days she has refused food, stopped laying and is clearly going down hill. Now lying with her eyes closed unless disturbed I reach the unhappy conclusion that a quiet death is now the humane option.
I ring several farmer type men to request help in the immediate despatch of Charity, who has suffered long enough.
No one is available at this moment in time to do the dreaded deed. I stand looking at her in despair.
There is no escaping the terrible responsibility. I summon my co-executioner Poppy, gently we catch Charity, carry her out of sight and hearing of the other chickens and carry out the dreadful task.
The scientist in Pops emerges the minute life is extinguished.
"I must just open her up and discover what was wrong". My trusty dissecting kit, unused for three years is brought into action and sweet Charity's insides are scrutinised.
After approximately ten seconds of observation Poppy and I simultaneously decide that it is just possible she is a biohazard and hastily double wrap her in polythene and ring the vet.
We then embark on pretty thorough sterilisation programme of everything in the vicinity. The utility room has never been so clean.
Next day we receive the reassuring news that the ghastly sight inside her was caused by Avian T.B. which is not transmissable to people and we relax. She probably caught it from wild pigeons or a Magpie.
I am now monitoring Faith and Hope extremely thoroughly every morning.
So far, thankfully, they appear to be in rude health.

Pigeon Post- Delayed

There is a racing pigeon sitting on my roof. It looks both hungry and confused. I feed it some chicken corn and it looks less hungry but still confused.

I ponder the possible ways of catching it and, deciding against digging a hefalump trap.
I wedge one end of a laundry basket on a forked stick to which I attach a piece of string. Scattering corn under the basket I sit cross legged on the lawn holding the string, rather in the manner of an Eskimo fishing at an ice hole.
I am greatly relieved I do not have to tie my legs together to prevent shivering, a la "Nanuk of the North."

In less time than it takes to write this, the pigeon is busy devouring the corn, the string is tweaked and voila, one caught pigeon.
Three leg rings provide identification numbers and a quick call to the British Racing Pigeon Association yields an owner and telephone contact number.
I duly ring Stanley, who lives in Lichfield. He is grateful for the tender care I have lavished upon "Checker". Can I feed and water her and release her in forty eight hours.
She takes up residence in the stable and forty eight hours later she is on her way.
Six hours later she is back.
I ring Stanley again who says he will collect her that night.
He duly arrives, catches her and pops her in her basket. Apparently her mate is pining for her and I am sure she is glad to be homeward bound.
For future reference I learn that his telephone number is tattood under her right wing.
He also warns me that the next time she overflies my house she may yet again drop in for a warm roost and the avian equivalent of hot cocoa.
If that happens he will bring her mate down to join her. He reckons that there's plenty of room in the stable for a few pigeons.
Being a fount of knowledge for all things birdlike, he gives me the valuable information that if I nail strips of hessian in front of my chicken house door, like little curtains, it will deter the thieving magpies, who have taken to dropping in to snack on newly laid eggs.
To date this tip seems to be working. Bless you Checker.