(Herein lies a tale told with dark humor, murder most fowl, that is filled with the harsh realities of 'life on the farm'. If you don't want to mess up your day, just close this page now. She's not in a good frame of mind and will most likely offend your sensibilities with how she is choosing to report this situation. It's her coping strategy right now and I'm sure she is going to regret the entire post. . . . you've been warned.)
***
When my son A. and his wife T. were here recently, it came up in the conversation whether or not I was content here in my little corner of the world. I told them that yes I was very happy here on the edge of the wilderness and in fact sometimes of an early sunny morning I would break out in my rendition of a certain theme song from a TV show.
And because it's possible to do such crazy things these days with technology I used to be so worried and skeptical about... I popped onto my computer, bought a song on Amazon for 99 cents, downloaded it and make Alexa play it for us within five minutes. It was hilarious.... at the time.
https://youtu.be/6DkUCpMTeHc
But today... well. There's nothing funny about my Green Acres.
I'm not going to put any photos of the event, because, well, frankly all but a few traces have been removed by someone whose name begins with an S.
Yesterday, I can only conclude that little Miss Elizabeth, because she was still small enough to do it, decided to squeeze under the chicken yard gate into Sunny's pen. Sunny did what dogs with bird dog genes do. Then she covered up her instinctual behavior by eating the evidence. All that's left is a small pile of feathers.
I discovered the calamity when I went out to put the chickens to bed and Lydia was up on the roost instead of cuddling in her nest box with Lizzy. I searched all over... asking the chickens..."Where's the baby? Where's the baby?. They just looked at me like... 'What's yer problem? What baby? It's time for bed. Close the coop door, we're sleepy.' Because none of them seemed remotely disturbed. [This in itself was disturbing.]
I kept running around in dismay until I finally found the pile of feathers in the corner of Sunny's pen.
I couldn't talk to her. I locked her up in her pen and left her outdoors last night. Because I knew what was going to happen. And this morning I found out I was right. Sunny is sick. And for once, the aftermath of her eating something other than dog food is out there where it belongs where it can decompose as nature intended, rather than being deposited on my living room rug. I am sure she will recover. She seems fine. But she's still in her pen with her morning bowl of dog food to keep her company. I still haven't spoken to her. Not at all in the mood for it. Nope. Not yet. In fact, I don't think we will discuss it at all. EVER.
I mean around here we've had dead squirrels, dead doves, dead mice, dead rabbits, dead deer even. But this is the first poultricide on the property. Though Sunny was implicated in another incident with Ben at S's house all those years ago. I thought she had reformed. Alas, it seems not.
It's pretty hard right now to come up with one of Pollyanna's 'happy thoughts'. And I don't feel like gracefully accepting that when you tend animals, even if you give them names and fuss over them and care for them in their dotage, that they will cease to be what they really are, and that the natural course of events will not unfold in your very own back yard.
But accept it I must.
And no, John Denver... "Life on the farm is kinda laid back..." ? Not today dude, not today.
