Once upon a time our long-suffering little hens laid three eggs a day.

Their eggs have never been easy to find, for despite having a perfectly good nesting box, they free range around our yard looking for the most difficult places possible to lay. So for a while we thought they had just discovered better hiding spots. Like right in the very centre of the grapevine, or underneath the spiky conifer. But no, the cold hard fact of the matter is that they have just stopped laying. And while Grace can't figure out why, there are a few likely causes. 

Perhaps it has something to do with tea parties on the lawn. Or being spun around and around in circles with Grace while she dances. It could have something to do with them being flung into the air so they can 'learn how to fly'. Or maybe it's due to the trauma inflicted on them by Charlie chasing them on his bike, roaring with laughter and yelling, 'Look out pennies! Charlie coming!' at the top of his lungs. Or just never being given a moment's peace in order to actually lay an egg.

Whatever the cause, I'm hoping the girls start earning their keep soon, because Bern is talking about bringing in some industrial-sized shaver hens like Cochrans have.

Which were suitably unimpressed with Grace's attempts to catch and nurture them during our recent visit to their farm. Resulting in her sobbing floods of tears and flinging herself onto the ground while the hens watched on from a safe distance, apparently unmoved.

Up until now, bringing in new hens has felt a bit like replacing striking workers with cheap offshore labour, but not today. Today, I need to bake a cake and we have no eggs, and out the window, I see the girls, sashaying around the garden without a care in the world. And apparently no intention of laying me an egg.

Ever since we house-sat last year, Grace has wanted to explore the Cochran's shearing shed. So when we woke to more rain today, I decided it would be a good distraction. And it was.

Lots of running around and around, climbing pens, opening and closing gates, and generally getting covered in muck wore them out. Eventually.

Last night we set off for Cochran's farm at Isla Bank and, despite driving through torrential rain for most of the way and almost losing the towball off the CRV (and therefore the trailer attached to it), we eventually arrived in one piece, ready for another house-sitting holiday.
 

This morning we woke to snow on the mountains (hello Summer?) and rain, but in between showers we managed to get out and go for a walk.

Despite a few heart-felt protests along the way...

Grace managed to get Charlie moving again and we eventually found a few of his favourite things - diggers, water, rocks and mud.

 

Our Rosie Posie has been a huge part of our lives for these past four months. 

Having a lamb has definitely been a steep learning curve for our family. Like when an over-excited Grace accidentally dropped her and we spent the next fortnight anxiously watching her hobble around, hoping she leg wasn't broken. Or when it became apparent that the she rivaled Charlie in her Houdini-like escape tactics that included (but was by no means limited to) jumping over the fence of her pen as well as crawling under it.

Despite all this, Rosie has been great fun and was much adored. She was as fat as a barrel (seriously, if she had fallen over she would have rolled down the hill) and kept us entertained with her funny antics like chasing then hens and getting stuck in the olive trees while climbing up to try and eat the leaves. She followed us around like a puppy and loved nothing more than to sit in the sun with Grace and have her head scratched. She also kept the grass down on our acre section, which reduced the five hours it takes Bern to mow most of the lawn (yes, a ride-on lawn mower is on the wish list).

So it was a big shock when we woke one morning this week to find that Rosie had died in the night. It was, as you can imagine, very upsetting for all of us, but especially Grace, who insisted on helping Bern bury her. Having a pet die may be a part of life, but try explaining that to a five year old.