One afternoon this week, we arrived home from class and had just put down our bags before a flash of movement out the window caught my attention, followed closely by sounds of furious clucking. In a flash I was out the door, chasing down a black and white dog that was engaged in a game of Hunting after one of our chickens. It literally scared the crap out of her. The dog stopped as soon as I yelled a single word (NO) and he beat a hasty retreat. My voice, infused with adrenaline-charged authority was all I needed. If only I had the same affect on bratty little kittens.
The chicken kept running from me after the dog was gone, not caring what was chasing her. Poor thing. She made for some bushes and hid, while I gave her a minute to realize that it was only me, the crazy woman who tortures the girls with singing and affectionate kisses.*
Isabella (the chicken) escapes from the chicken enclosure on a daily basis because she is a wanderer by nature. I'm guessing here. There's no roof on the chicken area, which is getting to be a problem now that we have a chicken that knows how to get out. The others look at her like she's a magician. "How did you do that?" they seem to cluck, even though they have watched her do it. I haven't seen her in the act, but I imagine it has something to do with jumping or flying to the top of things until she can get over the fence.
The grass is greener, except when a predator comes along.
This is from the spring when they were babies. One of these turds is Isabella, named after the Queen of Spain, circa 1474.(The other is Elizabeth I, Good Queen Bess.)
* Yes, I kiss my chickens. But not on the lips.