You know who you are. You read about my chickens' demise and laughed. You made jokes about soup. You bit back a laugh but could not stop one small convulsion when I told you happy-birthday-your-chicken-is-dead and asked if your dog is all right. Never mind that I am traumatized and scarred for the rest of my life and experience deep remorse and guilt. For the chickens and my husband who came in and told me that one and a half chickens lived. He did not find pleasure in euthenizing the half dead chick. Sorry , dear. I played ostrich and turned on the radio in the bedroom. Loud. Sang to Journey's Faithfully. Loud and off key.
I bought a sturdy, medium sized dog carrier off the classifieds. The surviving chicken is safe in there for now. I am still looking for a shock collar for the damn dog. She still is not coming inside. She is standing outside the glass door, looking at me, tongue hanging out, wagging her tail with no memory of her bad dog behavior. Except that yesterday she saved our family from those dangerous little birds. Look what I did. Am I a good dog? Pat my head. I am a good dog. Stupid dog.
My tomato and green pepper starts were sitting on the mesh of the chicken box. She knocked those upside down. I saved them, too, thank you for asking. They are going to make it, thanks to my quick thinking. Don't even make the comparison.