“The chooks aren’t laying as many as they used to,” said Bill ominously as he brought in three eggs yesterday morning.

What did he mean? Well, I understood the words but I wondered what the penalty would be if the chooks continued to produce short rations. Now my brother is a kind man, surely he would keep the hens on in old age? Surely he wouldn’t have the heart to do away with them when they outlive their usefulness. No, Bill wouldn’t – but one of his friends might!

This morning I thought I would be helpful and feed the chooks for Bill…

So I opened the chicken house door and I can see that the chooks have the heebie-jeebies about something because all five of them want to rush out at once. I prevent them from escaping by shooing them back in with my feet. From the corner of one eye I notice the plastic water receptacle and I think to myself:

“That’s funny! How did an avocado get into the water basin?”

But I don’t dwell on it for long because, from the corner of my other eye, I see five beautiful brown eggs in one of the nesting boxes.

“These chooks are very perspicacious,” I think to myself again, and feel happy for their foreseeable future.

I throw in the scraps (including lots of lovely mango skins – from Bill’s mangoes) and then I go to the other shed to fill the scoop with grain. When I come back in my eyes are drawn to the water basin because something dark, and awfully like an avocado, moves in the water. I bend down to take a better look and I can see his legs kicking away.

My first instinct is very similar to that of the chooks – I want to run out raving (like a headless chicken) – but I have the dear hens to consider. I have to remove him without letting him jump on me (or I might get warts).

“Oh Bill, there’s a cane toad in the chooks’ water,” I say futilely (because Bill is at the other end of the garden, and even if he wasn’t, his hearing isn’t the best).

Luckily, I have with me the old carrier bag which held the scraps so I stretch the bag over the basin, covering everything except one corner that the toad is drawn towards because he fears being asphyxiated, obviously. Little does he know there is an even worse fate awaiting him – well, we Aussies know that the poisonous cane toads are the scourge of Queensland, and now the Northern Territory too.

I carry the chooks’ water basin carefully up the garden, plonk it down in front of Bill, and show him the toad. I don’t mind dispatching baby toads under my thonged feet but a bigger toad, even a small adult, is quite another matter. Bill tests me.

“You can deal with it – can’t you Sally?”

“What do you do?” I ask.

“Hit it on the head with a spade and bury it,” he answers.

“Too big,” I say.

Bill understands and he does it while I watch with interest from a distance. The chooks are safe; that’s the main thing. I feel happy that their futures seem quite secure one way or another.

I’m feeling so pleased for them that later on I go down to check on them to see if they are okay. As soon as I open the door ten inches all the chooks run out like crazy and go charging down to the compost bins. I guess I could have pushed them back with my feet if I had really wanted to… I look over at Bill up by the shed and I call out:

“The chooks got out – is that alright?”

“I let them out sometimes,” Bill says with a nod and a smile.