The Dog Is Incontinent

So Twizzle is incontinent.

I should just leave it there really.

It only adds to his charm obviously. 

Also he is allergic to his own fur which means a slight medicated fungus smell to the entire soft furnishing collection in the house and all garments that reach below the thigh. (Husband’s mini skirts are all ok then, har har). 

The thing is, he wasn’t that incontinent until we got chickens, just when My Mother visited, it was kind of their special thing. 

Obviously, we have a glorious and majestic history with pets in the Millennium Housewife household, Twizzle being the pinnacle of our reign with his humping and biting party piece. 

Chickens we thought, would be a wise addition to the family. Don’t they live outside? Check. Practically look after themselves? Check. Provide money saving opportunities by supplying eggs? Check. Cost very little indeed? Check. 

We had this wonderful, Good Life dream of owning a few chickens; little chooks that will toddle around the garden and give us lots of fresh and wholesome eggs. Fluffy birdies that cluck when you throw them corn and peck at bits of vegetables gratefully and in a humorous manner. An educating experience for the kids, one that includes regular cleaning out and Responsibility.

Yup, chickens were the way to go. Easy peasy.

To date they have cost us a million pounds. 

Firstly they require quite a lot of things to live in and keep them safe from foxes. Then they don’t like a lot of the things you have paid to have built to save their lives and lay eggs in places that you didn’t build for them to lay eggs.

So then you have to get other things like RABBIT HUTCHES so that they feel comfortable laying the free eggs that you’re hoping they’ll lay.

And they do lay free eggs. When it’s warm and light and dry. We live in England. They lay eggs about three days a year.

Plus, one of them got an inverted vent, which means its bottom went inside out. All of the pages on the Internet which had encouraged us to have chickens showed helpful pictures of steaming the chicken's bottom over warm water, much in the manner of a facial. Then gently putting your finger up the chicken’s bottom and turning the outside bottom inside.

I will type that again: putting your finger up the chicken’s bottom and turning the outside bottom inside. 

Which fell to me. Husband said that he’d try but the girth of his fingers would be uncomfortable for the chicken. Quite.

The worst bit was that it didn’t work the first time. We gave it longer on the steamer the second time and I was encouraged to poke a bit further up. We held our breath as the outside bottom seemed to stay where it should be, on the inside bottom, for a few seconds.

And then it popped out again, like a pink, accusatory turd.

It was at this bottom popping out moment that Twizzle humped the sideboard and managed an eye line with the chicken’s bottom having a facial over the sink. And then he froze, witnessing the outside bottom poking inside exercise. And yelped when the thing popped out again.

A which point he wee’d all over the floor and hasn’t stopped.

Then the chicken cost us £150 at the vets for a steroid injection to get the bottom to go in again, and we couldn’t eat any of the eggs because of the steroids. 

So now we have four chickens, no eggs, a rabbit hutch and an incontinent dog.

Any thoughts on hamsters?