This has not been a good morning here at our idyllic home in the country. I had to shoot one of our chickens (sadly, this was done with with a gun, not a camera) to put the badly injured hen out of her misery after our two dogs decided to play a game of chase-the-chicken. Normally the chickens can skitter into our fenced pasture or into the barn and out of harm’s way if the dogs decide to play chase. The poor hen this morning skittered right, away from the safety of the barn, when she should have gone left.Talk about taking a wrong turn...
I’m sure the dogs had no idea that their game could end this way--that there was even a remote possibility they might catch that feathery, cackling bird. I scolded and scolded the dogs, who stood there, looking puzzled, as if thinking:
Well shoot, Homer, the rule book says we chase the hen and she goes left. We go right and nobody gets hurt. The book doesn’t say what we’re supposed to do if she runs the wrong damn direction.
And though the above might sound like I’m making light of this living-and-dying cycle that goes on here on our small farm, I must tell you: Watching an animal die is something I suspect will always--always--break my heart. We moved here to make a life, but somehow, we, like the dogs, neglected to consider the possibility of death.
