Thursday, March 02, 2017

Chicken check

I hadn't seen the scruff—who looks like Don Music—all morning so I entered the chicken pen to find her thinking her dead and perhaps needing to remove her corpse.

As I went in I slipped straight into hyper vigilance—a common trait of PTSD—because of the duck who is no longer here. As I moved through the yard I maintained active wariness scanning left and right to ensure it wasn't hiding in my blind spot and ready to attack.

I couldn't shake the sense of impending menace. That perhaps it had escaped the new family and come back seeking revenge—because it was just that evil. Bearing in mind of course it couldn't fly and as far as I am aware cannot likely use Apple Maps if it gets a hold of an iPhone. 

The scruff was okay—in the new hutch in lay mode—and she clucked annoyance as I let the sun bright in. 

Then I left the pen unmolested, not even by the big chicken with the bare bum who rules the roost now the duck is gone. 

That duck was mean, man. It once chased me into my shed—all around us, man, game over.

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