When I looked outside this morning, it was evident that the porcupine had been about. Carefully skirting the pieces of salted apple leading up to the trap, he had walked around the trap, ignored the apples within, and taken several sizable chunks out of the garage post.
With so many trees around, what is it about the garage post that he likes so much?
In the basement, the baby hens are prospering, sprouting real feathers at the tips of their little wings. They have warmth, food, and water. They are certainly not stressed. But I cannot help thinking how much more interesting their life would be–and how much smarter they would turn out–if they could toddle around on the grass behind their mother as she pointed out a bug here, a nice weed there, and instructed them from dawn to dusk on the basics of being a chicken.