Last night, Farmer H got a phone call from our across-the-road neighbors, the McCoys. You can already sense that this isn't going to end well, can't you?
Mrs. McCoy asked if we had seen their dog. The boxer. Not the black hound that I had caught chasing our chickens last week. When Farmer H said that we had not seen it for a few days, Mrs. McCoy reported that Mr. McCoy had just seen their boxer walking up their driveway with a dead chicken in his mouth.
Of course, Farmer H, that caring soul, did not even inquire about the color or kind of chicken. So we don't know which of our darlings is now deceased. I'm also pretty sure he did not share how he dealt with the early massacre at the jaws of our own canines, which was by beating the dogs around the head and shoulders with the dead chicken.
Mrs. McCoy apologized for her boxer, and said to do whatever we needed to do to avoid a recurrence. But I'm also sure that Farmer H did not share his views on the .22 and my sniper skills. He did inform her that I had caught her OTHER dog chasing the chickens last week. Mrs. McCoyo replied that Mr. McCoy was planning to invest in a shock collar, which he would bring over so he and Farmer H could do a little dog training. Until then, we're on our own.
Farmer H called twice today to see if the dogs had been sniffing around. Negative. Right now, he is sitting on his Gator, minding his goats, armed with a paintball gun.
Hillmomba is the new Old West.