We had a little . . . incident . . . over the weekend. It involved a chicken . . . and a dog . . . and lots and lots of feathers.
Our chickens apparently find their coop completely and utterly LAME because they like to fly out and free range it on a routine basis. Their new favorite is to roost on top of the grain bin. Turns out those birds can get some serious flight. And height.
What one couldn't get, though, was a break. She wandered across the lawn, over the lane, up the yard and near the deck, pecking the ground along the way.
And then it happened. Or so I assume. I just heard clucking. Lots of clucking.
I looked out the window and saw one dog come around the corner and trot right toward the chicken, who took it upon herself to fly down the stairs, which would have been a perfectly good escape route if . . . another dog hadn't been waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
This dog. This sweet little half Great Pyrenees, half Lab right here. This one. Winchester.
The chicken might have had a chance had the two dogs not been so strategically positioned. But as it stands, she didn't. Have a chance, that is. It's like they planned it.
Well, I'm sure you can imagine how this turned out.
And if you can't, let's just say: Dogs are dogs. And farm dogs are most definitely farm dogs.
I proceeded to chase Winchester through the yard -- as much as a pregnant lady can chase a dog -- yelling, "Drop!" as though he would (a) know what that command meant since I've never used it before because he's never nabbed a chicken before and (b) actually listen.
To no avail.
And then there were four.
Well, almost three. One of the Black Stars decided to take her chances and walked right into the pile of three dogs lounging in the yard.
Not the brightest.
She lived to see another day, but only after barricading herself behind a feed bag and then probably passing out due to fright.
That whole free-range thing? Not so much for us. Or the chickens.
But I'll tell you one thing: The dogs loved it!