I could cry. I know part of it is my fault for trusting this finger-licking-chicken-craving-blood-loving killer, but I am normally not worried about the chickens when the dogs are out.
As you know by now, Gus is my good dog. The keeper of the chickens. He loves them, and he is raising them basically. Dude, the younger one, has not caught on to the fact that chicken are friends, not food. However, Gus keeps him in line. But it finally happened. Dude ate one of my babies. To make matter worse, it was my handicap chick that he ate, Disco.
Poor Disco was a misfit right out of the shell. He has a broken wing and was always picked on by the others, but I always gave him special treats and attention. He was a little goofy looking, he didn’t develop as rapidly as the others, but he was sweet and I spent a lot of time with him. Every day I would let the baby chicks out to play so they could stretch their feathers after being cooped up in the brooder all day, and Dude, the killer, always seemed…interested…in Disco. I’m assuming it’s because Disco is slower than the others and not quite as bright.
Several times I had caught Dude trying to swallow poor Disco whole, but Dude got his whoopin’ and Disco got his cuddles, and then all would be well. I thought I had finally broke Dude of the wretched habit when yesterday, as I was sitting on the couch I looked out the back window and saw all my little fluff nuggets on the back porch. I got up to go greet and treat them, because they just looked so cute and fluffy! I did a small head count when I got out there. 1, 2, 3 ,4, 5, 6, 7…uh-oh. It was obvious that Disco wasn’t there. He was not only the runt, but he was my only black chick. I ran out front the see if he was hanging out alone on the front porch, but no such luck. I turned over rocks and looked under patio furniture until I decided that maybe he never left the coop in the first place. I started towards to coop and that when I saw the treachery. Dude, the killer, was laying right next to the coop. No remorse. No fear. No sympathy. Just cold-blood-killer status, laying next to the coop, chewing on my poor weakling.
The second I realized what was going on, I hollered for Clint. I scooped up Disco and saw that he was still alive. Thank God! So now I have Disco in one hand and the killer by the collar and I am dragging this hefty animal to the front porch so that Clint can rightfully punish his dog, because I have a life to save and don’t have the time nor the energy to carry out the things I want to do to this dog at the moment.
So whilst Clint is making arrangements for the killer, I am rocking my poor weakling on the front porch, trying to asses the damage. No external injuries were visible, but I imagine his insides were mush. Dude was gnawing on him like a piece of chewing tobacco. So all I could do is hold him and make his last minutes on Earth as pleasant as possible. And then he passed.
I’m not too proud to admit that I have a chicken cemetery. All of my birds that have died are buried under a tree in my front yard. And I have decided that since half of those deaths were brought to us in part by Dude the killer Aussie, I have made a deal with Clint. He just doesn’t know about the deal yet. For every chicken that dies at the paws of his dog, I will bring home 2.
I think it’s a fair trade.