by Scott Smith
This morning I killed another chicken. I’ve lost count. Maybe 60 chickens. These hurt, though. Pollack escaped from the pasture, killing four chickens and leaving four others so wounded I had to finish them off.
Poor Doris. Poor Trick Chicken.
It was all my fault. I should have brought the dogs in before leaving for the store. I should have pounded a t-post into the ground next to the gate. Pollack is strong and skinny. Should of… should of…
Laura had called me while I was out and said it was horrible. She was right. Feathers everywhere. Four dead birds in the coop. The ducks escaped damage; I’m guessing the chief male duck confronted Pollack. He has seen one duck die and another nearly strangled to death. He confronts the dogs, chases Jack around the cars and generally let’s it be known no ducks will be hurt on his watch.
I only wish I had his sense of responsibility.
I failed those eight birds.