When I moved in, there were three clay flower pots on each of these weathered old church pews outside the cellar.
I’m down to two.
After watching a hen jump up and break one this morning. (The pots are planted, by the way, with marigolds. Which had just sprouted.)
I give up. I know when I’m beaten. And broken. The flower pots will have to be set on the ground forevermore.
Where the chickens can just reach in and dig them up.
It’s just win-win for them, isn’t it?