#wee hen is out more so she doesn’t have my number on hers

[cheekydogs]

I got Wee Hen and Sunny some collars off Etsy!! I’m so in love with how they look on them ❤️

[isitgintimeyet]

Just A Friend

Wow. I’m so, so grateful for the lovely response to chapter 1 of this story. I’ve never had so many notes on one of my posts before, so many, many thanks to everyone who took the time to read, like, reblog and comment on it. i do appreciate it

Thanks also to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

Previous chapter

AO3

Chapter 2: From Scrubs to Sauvignon

Sunlight streaming through the shutters wakes me before the alarm. After the previous seventy two hours with too much alcohol, not enough sleep and shared hotel rooms, last night’s sleep was a solid nine and a half hours and I feel so much better for it.

Trying, for a moment at least, to ignore both the demands of my bladder and my desperate need for caffeine, I gaze up at the ceiling and contemplate the surgery ahead of me. Whilst it’s a comparatively routine procedure for me, I always think about the families — parents, grandparents, siblings. It’s an anxious time for them, never routine, a step into the unknown and they are putting their trust in me to look after their precious child. Their faith in me is something I take very seriously.

I have a ritual I follow every time before theatre. I take a few minutes to close my eyes and let the procedure play inside my head, my hands echoing the images in my brain. I trace the path my scalpel will take on the skin; I position, in mid air, the locations of the clamps; I work with my imaginary mallet and chisel honing the bone, the X-ray images clear in my head.

By the time I’ve finished closing the incision, the demands of my bladder can no longer be ignored. That’s my cue to get out of bed and start my day.

***********

Before I put my scrubs on, I pay a visit to the side room where Robbie, my seven year old patient has spent the night. His parents have already given consent for the operation, but I like to go and do a final check.

Robbie is sitting up in bed, a bit subdued but in good health. His mother is sitting expectantly, nervously playing with the skin around her nails. The foldaway bed has already been put away, but, judging by her red rimmed eyes, I don’t think it got much use. Robbie’s father follows me into the room, two coffees in his hands.

“Sorry, Doctor Claire,” he nods at the coffee. “I didna get ye one. D’ye want one?”

I let the doctor reference pass. As a surgeon, my title is no longer doctor. Officially, I am Miss Beauchamp, but prefer my juvenile patients to call me Claire. Quite a lot of the parents seem to call me Doctor Claire. I suppose they like the reassurance that I am actually a proper doctor.

“No, thanks.” I smile. “Are we all set then?”

They nod nervously.

“Aye,” Robbie’s father agrees. “We need tae get it done.”

“How long will it take?” Robbie’s mother looks directly at me, wanting a definitive answer.

I hesitate. I don’t like to give precise times. If the surgery goes longer then parents start to fear the worst, and that’s not always the case. So I give a vague answer. “‘Till lunchtime… you could always go and sit outside in the little garden, it’s a lovely day.”

His mother looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “No, I want tae be right here …”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to. I know exactly what she’s thinking.

I turn to Robbie, blissfully unaware of his parents’ thoughts. He beckons me to him.

“When I wakes up,” he begins in a stage whisper. “Can I have a treat?”

“What sort of treat did you have in mind?”

“Can I have a MacDonald’s? But no’ a kid’s meal. I’ve never had a Big Mac.”

I glance at his parents who nod at me before I whisper back, “Of course you can, but don’t let nurse Geillis see, will you? She can be ever so naughty. She’ll be trying to steal your chips away, if you’re not careful.”

And with that, I stroke Robbie’s little cheek before saying my goodbyes and head out to get changed.

**********

Robbie’s surgery went to plan, no nasty surprises or tricky complications. I call in to check on Robbie’s parents before they head to recovery. They look totally different to when I saw them this morning. Still worn out of course, I don’t think they’ll sleep properly until their little lad is home with them, but their faces shine with sheer relief. I have warned them about the long road ahead, with many hours of physiotherapy and exercises, but, for today, I’ll let them have their moment of pure happiness. Reality will hit them again soon enough.

As I leave the waiting room, making my farewells, Robbie’s dad thanks me once more. I can tell he’s unsure whether hugging me is appropriate or not, so he settles for a handshake. His wife has no such qualms, wrapping me tightly in a hug, whispering her thanks until her husband reminds her that they need to be with their son. I point the way and head down to the nurses station.

Geillis is sitting there, looking very busy on the computer. I pull up a chair and sit next to her. The screen is filled with images of our weekend in Barcelona.

“What?” She looks at me as if I’ve accused her of something. “I’m on ma lunch, aren’t I?”

“How was your night then?”

Geillis beams from ear to ear— she’s like the cat who got the cream. “Nay bad, nay bad at all. After two nights away, Dougal realises what he’s got wi’ me, and he dinna hesitate tae show me, if ye ken what I mean?”

She winks at a poor medical student, who blushes and busies himself with a set of medical notes.

“Geillis,” I warn. “Behave yourself.”

“Anyway, pet, how was yer evening? Another tryst wi’ Professor Randall?” Her face says it all. Geillis thinks about as much of Frank as he does of her. Literally the only thing they have in common is me, and it’s getting pretty wearing.

“No, I was worn out and— oh, that reminds me.” I fumble in my pocket for my phone as I carry on talking. “I’ve got someone else’s suitcase. I hope they’ve got mine.”

I glance at the screen. Two missed calls and one message. All from the same number. All from the number I called last night, the James-Fraser-isn’t-here-don’t-call-again-ever number. Looks like this James Fraser has a jealous or suspicious wife-partner-girlfriend-housekeeper.

“Catch up later, Geillis, I need to deal with this.”

I rush back to my office to try and sort the suitcase problem out.

The message is brief and to the point.

Hi, Jamie Fraser here. I think I have your case too. Can we arrange a swap? I live in Glasgow. Hopefully you too. Where and when? I’m free after 5 today.

After five will work for me too, I just need to pop home and pick up his case. Now, based on his wardrobe choices and his one message to me, he doesn’t actually seem like an axe murderer or sex pervert, but you can’t really tell, so I think about a public location.

How about the benches by the cafe at Kelvingrove Park? 5:30? Claire Beauchamp

A couple of minutes later his reply appears on my screen.

Fine. See you then.  I’ll be the one wheeling a black Samsonite. JF

**************

It’s another glorious sunny day here in Glasgow. Just ideal for going for a stroll in the park. I do feel a bit conspicuous with a suitcase trailing along behind me — kind of like an upmarket bag lady.

There are no other suitcases around, so I perch on a bench. I fire a quick message to Geillis, just so that she knows where to direct the police if I disappear and then wait. It’s not too bad waiting. The sun is still warm, so I stretch my legs out trying for a tan. With my eyes closed, I lift my face up to soak up the rays. I may get panda eyes with my sunglasses on, but I don’t really care. The warmth is so good and I can feel myself relaxing totally —

“Ahem.”

I am conscious of a shadow across my face. I open my eyes and quickly stand up.

He’s tall. That’s the first thing I notice. A good few inches taller than me, and I’m 5 feet 9. And broad. Broad enough to block my sun. His hair is red, very red and the sun behind him creates a fiery corona around his head.

He’s a Viking. A Viking in a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt. How many of those white shirts does he own, I wonder?

“Claire Beauchamp, I presume. I recognise the case. That red ribbon on the handle, such a unique idea.”

He smiles, a lopsided half grin and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Jamie Fraser.”

“Claire Beauchamp,” I say somewhat unnecessarily as we shake hands.

He sits down. “So,” he begins politely. “I hope ye havena come far out of yer way.”

I join him on the bench.

“No,” I gesture vaguely to my right. “I live not too far from here. How about you?”

That lopsided grin appears again. “Nah,” he gestures to his left. “No’ too far at all.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence. We are not really here for small talk, but is it too rude to just dive in and do the swap?

“So,” Jamie breaks the silence. “About the cases…”

Apparently it’s not too rude.

“I ken ye have ma case there, on account of ma contact details being in it, but what about this one? How do I ken this is yers? Black Samsonites with wee red ribbons seem to be awfa common ‘round here. As proof, can ye mebbe tell me something that’s in it? Something identifiable?”

And at this, my mind goes blank, what did I pack?

“Er, denim shorts… black flip flops… white vest—”

“Weel, they’re all verra common. Is there anything a wee bit more… unique?”

Is it my imagination or is there a twinkle in his clear blue eyes as he says this? And then I remember exactly what’s in my case and start to blush.

“There may be some hen party bits and pieces in there too. It was my friend’s hen weekend, so I think there may be some, er, stuff from that, you know, er, handcuffs… shot glasses…”

He puts me out of my misery. “Och, that’s fine. It’s yers, right enough. Here ye go.”

And we do the exchange, just like in the spy movies. Except in those, the cases are filled with bank notes and the top secret blueprints for a submarine base, and not white dress shirts and an assortment of shot glasses shaped like penises.

Our phones beep practically simultaneously. I pull mine out of my pocket. Jamie does the same and glances at his phone.

Mine is a text from Frank confirming tonight’s arrangements “I’d better go. Plans for tonight, you know.”

“Snap. Plans here as well.”

“Goodbye then. I’m not sure whose fault it was, the mixup at the airport. So why don’t we both say sorry, or neither of us?” I suggest as I stand up and smooth the creases from my skirt.

“Sounds good tae me. How about neither?” He smiles again. “Ms Claire Beauchamp, nice to meet you.”

“Mr Jamie Fraser, likewise I’m sure.”

And with that we head off, me to the right and Jamie Fraser to the left.

************

Frank had said 7:30, and, sure enough, at 7:28 my intercom buzzes and I let Frank in. He arrives at my door carrying a large bunch of lilies and roses. No, not a bunch, I can’t describe it as a bunch… carrying a large bouquet of lilies and roses, beautifully arranged and hand-tied. Clearly not a supermarket purchase. Nor is the wine he also hands to me. A chilled bottle of my favourite Sauvignon Blanc, only available from quality wine merchants in the city.

Frank can be incredibly thoughtful and generous, and I am suitably grateful. I pop the flowers into the kitchen sink while I try to locate a vase big enough to hold them.  He walks in as I’m scrabbling around on my hands and knees, bum in the air, head buried in the cupboard under the sink.

“So what are we having for dinner?” He asks as he pours the wine. “Are you cooking?”

I emerge victorious, having found the vase wedged between a bottle of sink unblocker and an unused can of spray starch.

“Sorry?”

“Dinner?” He repeats, helping me to my feet.

“I’ve not had a chance to cook. I told you about the suitcase confusion, didn’t I?  Well, I had to get that sorted. I thought we could have something delivered. That’s ok, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure that will be fine, darling. What would you like?”

What would I like? What I would really like would be a huge, great pizza full of carbs and grease and pepperoni and cheese that pulls into strands when you try to take a slice. And to sit on the floor with the pizza box between us watching Netflix and drinking beer.

But, that is clearly a rhetorical question.

“Thai?” Frank doesn’t wait for my answer.

Thai is the only acceptable takeaway in Frank’s eyes, eaten at a table, on proper plates. I nod my agreement. After all, he’s brought me wonderful flowers, and a gorgeous bottle of wine. He deserves to have the choice. And I can have pizza with my friends any time.

“You ring the order through then, while I arrange these beautiful flowers.” I say and kiss his cheek.

And that is our evening sorted - takeaway, a couple of glasses of wine, Newsnight on the television and then to bed for a bit of sex.

So, that’s food, drink, mind and body all sorted. I should go to sleep feeling satisfied with everything. I should… shouldn’t I?

[amazinmango]

I present to you a will so strong that it defies all that would stand before it: science, biology, finance, reason.

It has defeated the efforts of medical professionals, direct physical and psychological intervention, thousands of dollars, and years of effort.

It is the epitome of defiance in the face of insurmountable odds.

It is contained within a very. smol. borb.

I give you the gorgeous idiot at the center of it all: Petrie.

So cockatiel hens can lay a handful of eggs each year, with or without fertilization or even companionship of another bird (species and gender notwithstanding). Also if said ladybird has bonded with her human; she don’t judge. They can produce clutches of a couple to five (or more, if feelin’ sassy) at a shot, and it’s typical to have maybe two clutches a year if any at all.

Unless you’re Petrie.

If you are Petrie, you can churn out stupid numbers of little white ovoids, each one of which contains enough craziness fit to drive your human off the deep end. I lost count after she’d pooped out thirty just over the course of one year; there was maybe a three-week span when she, for the love of some deity somewhere, took a breather. (That’s a little under ten clutches; at the time I was removing them as she laid them when I could distract her before I realized I was making the problem worse.)

Thing is, Petrie is very pretty. She has an apartment next to her buddy Loona, a Very Old Man who has no interest in her That Way. There’s one brain cell between them (spoiler: it’s his) and Petrie typically has the memory of a gnat. Cockatiels and similar small parrot(lets) are thought to possess intellect along the lines of a human toddler. Cause-and-effect are something Loona understands quite well. You can see him mapping out his path from where he is to where he wants to go, and then watch him implement it. He knows where the bathroom is down the hall, and how to get there. He knows where he is not allowed to go in the kitchen, and goes there anyway. He has specific calls for “Where are you? Okay, thanks!” and “Hey, I’m hungry and don’t WANT these pellets” and “WE’RE OUTTA WATER BC SHE SHAT IN IT AGAIN.”

Petrie, tho. She will fly from her cage, land upon the floor in front of it (near the ladder that leads up to the entrance), and walk in circles backwards, screaming, until rescue.

...she is very, very pretty.

So Cockatiels aren’t laying hens, right; their tiny bodies are not designed to churn out calcium-fortified baby-containment units on the regular. Chronic layers can become egg-bound--they run outta calcium to the point that the egg’s shell is neither hard nor soft enough to pass. It gets stuck, jams up the works--being birds, there’s one business-end orifice for all functions. She can’t poop because the egg is in the holding position, and her body doesn’t stop making poop especially if she continues eating. Her strength wanes, and her calcium deficient and heavily-taxed body is not built to handle this shit.

In short, she becomes even more highly stressed, malnourished, possibly septic, and dies.

It’s a shitty way to go.

Solution(s): 

Provide plenty of calcium, discourage laying and breeding behaviors. 

Avoid overfeeding and reduce free-feeding. 

Rearrange the cage frequently, try to eliminate cozy spots that look very NestableTM. 

Don’t touch her on her back, and do not engage when she’s sticking her butt in the air and squeaking. 

Redirect, distract, do anything that gets her out of make-babies mode and go on with your lives.

As you might have guessed, Petrie is a Chronic Layer to end all chronic layers. She shan’t cease egging for no man. You can’t take away an egg she has made, as she will immediately get to work on cooking another. Rearrange the cage all you like! That perch and dish combo really make that corner pop. Change the photoperiod to the point that you are genuinely worried about her psychological wellbeing, until telltale squeaking emits from a covered cage at three AM. Balance out her diet with regulated mealtimes (how DARE you father i am sTaRVinG) that inevitably regresses into free-feeding chaos because she needs all the nutrients bc shitting out eggs. 

You can consult avian vets, plural, on other solutions.

Purchase expensive, stressful shots (as in needle-y injections into this tiny borb) that are intended to have a stern discussion with her single functional ovary. Being governed by hormones, it can, in theory, be deactivated by the same principles--throw the right kinds of hormones at the birb, the birb stops egging.

Petrie’s utterly-fucking-determined drive to create egg after egg after egg is so insurmountable that she has laughed in the face of said injections on a quarterly basis for more than one year. These shots, btw, are $75 a stick.

You can discuss with an avian veterinarian possible surgical options--but removing the ovary in a cockatiel is a high-risk operation on a healthy bird; the prognosis for coming out of the operation alive is fifty-fifty.

Never mind if your bird is stressed and already egg-bound. If you’ve gently massaged her bootie above where the egg sits, and you’ve vaseline’d her butthole (technical term for gentle application of approved oils to cloaca, of course) and given her the equivalent of a bird sitz bath. All short of gently taking this fluffball in hand and just squeezing her.

Thus you find yourselves at the emergency vet at two in the morning because she collapsed at the bottom of her cage, too weak to hold her head up. She’s checked in, and you go home with an empty carrier and stare at the stupid eggs she’s left on the floor of the cage away from any hospitable nesting configurations and amidst all the barriers and deterrents you’ve placed there.

You get the call at work that she’s holding steady but not looking good; she’s malnourished and they can’t risk trying to crack the egg, suck out contents, then gently crush and remove the shell. She won’t survive any sort of stress, never mind surgery. At this point, it’s touch and go if she’ll see the morning.

You can keep her checked in, and hope.

You get the call that she’s made it through the night, holding steady. And then in another day or so, she’s passed the damned egg, is scarfing enough food to feed a rottweiler, and is ready to come home.

That’s just the first time shit got real over the last several years of hyped-up egg production, the first thousand bucks and change.

After she’s back to a healthy weight and shows good on her bloodwork (another stressful test), Petrie goes back on the hormone injections.

She lays three eggs, her average clutch.

The vet says “hey, maybe it didn’t work, let her finish with this clutch and bring her in for an early next shot.”

She ‘finishes,’ as in loses interest in the unfertilized eggs long enough for me to distract her and remove them, rearrange the cages anew, and watch closely that she doesn’t immediately start going ass-in-air squeaktoy. We go to the vet. She gets the shot.

She lays three eggs.

The vet scratches her head, and reminds me of the half-chance of survival should we try to de-ovarize this bird.

She gets another shot, and lays three more eggs.

We stop the shots.

She bulldozes through a bunch of creative, bird-safe debris and obstacles placed at the bottom of the cage. I have found her underneath crunched-up water bottles sitting on eggs, happily poofed up and looking up at me like “I maked these!!”

She became egg-bound a second time, and that was a second vet trip, though not as dramatic or in the wee hours. She passed the egg overnight, to the tune of another cool grand.

This bird. This friggin borb.

She came home, and amazingly went for several months without egging. I was thrilled. She crapped out five eggs in January 2020, a big clutch for her. She rolled out the dummy eggs when I tried to get her to please stop, baby. She lost interest in them faster than usual, and then came another blessed fiveish weeks of egglessness.

And yet, as I sit in my mancave-turned-office for work-from-home, I hear the distinct sound of a fluffy borb shuffling through crunchy water bottles and squeaking as she goes. I can only hope to fortify her, love her, and support her as she works on her next set of freaking giantass (for a cockatiel) eggs.

Petrie contains her own fortitude and sheer will beyond any I can imagine. She persists, against all odds, and survives her own best efforts to do herself in, and when I look at her in exhausted exasperation, she gives me this little cute squinty-eyed cockatiel smile and chirps.

This gorgeous idiot cannot do otherwise, and I love her and hope to love her as long as I can, as I cannot do otherwise.

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

Fashionable and safe chickens wear little pink vests to cross the road

How did the chicken cross the road? By wearing a bright pink vest, of course!

A bed and breakfast in Perthshire, Scotland, gave their hens a makeover that's both fashionable and functional — they were given high-visibility vests for protection while they crossed the road.

Louise Lennox, owner of Glenshieling House on Hatton Road, Blairgowrie, shared this video on the Glenshieling House Facebook page of some of her chickens sporting their new garb while taking a stroll in the street.

SEE ALSO: Giant tortoise escapes the zoo, but doesn't make it very far

Did you know that fluorescent pink is this fall's hottest color? These hens are in the know.

According to STV NEWS, the bed and breakfast has 14 hens that occasionally wander off the property. Lennox hopes the vests will cause drivers to slow down as they see the chickens in the street. 

"I have 14 hens for my B&B, which help out with the breakfast side of things, along with a cockerel," she said. "They normally stay in the garden but a couple of them like to go for a wee wander down the path and sometimes across the road. I just thought it would be a little bit of fun and would also keep the hens safe, so I put some vests on the wanderers." 

Lennox took this opportunity to use the chickens' vests for advertising, too, as each one has "Glenshieling House Girl" and the B&B's phone number printed on the back. This way, locals will also know where to return the wandering hens.

Even though a few of the chickens are a bit more adventurous than others, Lennox says "they always do come home."

So stylish. So safe.

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