It’s a bleak, wet and windy day on the croft, which felt appropriate when I decided Orville, our oldest Scots Grey cockerel, had to be put down.
In the last couple of days, I’d noticed Orville’s sight was fading. He was having to peer about to find his food, he kept misjudging the entrance to his hut and he kept walking into objects as he wandered about.
This morning, though, it was clear Orville had had enough.
He didn’t want to come out of his hut. His feathers were no longer well groomed. And he had a general air of misery.
He’d had a good run and, once he’d got over his early gender confusion, sired a fair number of offspring, even if most were cockerels that ended up on the dinner table.