June 20, 2013
-
The Neighborhood Report
I have assigned the chickens names. This is complex because a.) I can’t remember their names from one day to the next, b.) they’re not my chickens, and c.) I can’t tell three of the four of them apart. The chicken above is one of the three. She is braver than her sisters (they were huddled against the back fence, clucking to each other about the nerve of me, stepping into their yard,) and she came over to determine what I was doing. She stared very intently at my right shoe for some time. This apparently told her everything she needed to know and she went to the back of the yard to report her findings.
So, this may or may not be the same chicken. As you can see, she’s deformed (or holding her breath.) Some of their larger feathers are just not quite right. My grandmother’s chickens used to molt about once a year, and we would drop by for a family visit and her chickens would be running around about half-naked in their yard. Every so often she would have a hen in isolation because chickens are not at all bright, nor are they particularly kind to each other, and when something looks a little different, they peck at it. So all of the hens would decide Gertrude looked a little ‘off’ today and begin pecking at her, and soon Gertrude started sprouting holes, which would then bleed, which only fueled the frenzy… This dampened my ardor for chickens, actually. I was a child who had enough problems of her own in the school yard.
Somewhere in the neighborhood some little kick dog is issuing a singular Bark! followed by 7-35 seconds of silence and then another high-pitched Bark! And it’s not my dog. My dogs are behaving quite well, at the moment. They have given up on the chickens. This morning, after another character-building session of courage and food-eating, Riley burst through the back door and ran over to the chicken yard: once there, he looked around, seemed to nod to himself Yeah, they’re still there and went off to visit his other morning checkpoints. Annie has been in and out thirty-five times already this morning. She has a regular path worn into the lawn. First I go here and then I go there and then I duck back over here, and then I check the fence on the right and then …
There is a sound the dog’s paws make when they’re digging at the fence. It’s much like listening to someone hammer on their roof. Someone must be working on their roof because I’ve heard that sound three times already this morning, dashed out to rescue to the chickens, only to fall over Annie as she raced (yet again) through the hole in the back door and find Riley ambling along Annie’s path. Neither dog was anywhere near the chicken yard. I believe I can relax my vigil. Riley spent most of yesterday afternoon outside and he never once went near the chickens. You sprayed me six times with a water bottle, Cheryl. I hope weasels eat your chickens, and don’t think I’m going to tell you, when it happens…
My father is back in the hospital. He is on a number of medications that continue to do their work with complete disregard to how the rest of his system is functioning. Someone tested his blood and said, “Whoops–this is pretty much water, at this point,” which–while improving the flow–is not exactly the consistency the body expects of blood.
I have called for an update today, but while I can hear her, she apparently can’t hear me.
