The isolation brought on by this pandemic has heightened my relationship with my feathered and furry friends. From a hilarious hen, to Lars the lover (a dog the size of a small pony), to a remarkably ancient cat named Puma. Life, here, during quarantine is not really boring.
Henrietta, our resident hen, is friendly to the point of making people uncomfortable. She’s like that guy in a bar that stands way to close to you and at other times, like the toddler that follows you around, waiting for a carrot . In the past (and it seems oh so long ago) when I had guests doing cocktails or dinner in the garden, she would initially circle the group and then insist on being at equal level and try and jump on the table and cock her head back and forth. This gets 1 of 2 responses: 1. Horror or, 2. She ends up on Instagram in all her glory.
Henrietta’s eggs are not always where they are supposed to be. Seeking them out, with basket in hand, makes me think of the sentimentality of Easter and the ritual of looking for eggs during different parts if my life. These days, searching for eggs is a regular part of my daily chores. During this pandemic, finding an egg is uniquely like coming upon a little lump of hope during strained times. When I was a child, searching for eggs (as the youngest of three girls) was a competitive sport and kind of stressful, one which often left me with a pittance of what my sister’s had.