Saturday, July 14, 2012

Picking On Something Not My Own Size

No critter pictures today. Nothing creepy or crawly invaded the Mansion. Unless you count Farmer H. And as he always says, he doesn't seem to count.

The McCoys appear to have invested in one of those electronic pet fencing dealybobbers. Farmer H says he has seen their hounds run halfway up the driveway when he goes by on his Mule. They stop abruptly. I think Farmer H needs to stop taunting the McCoy hounds. Anyway...he hasn't talked to the folks, but that's what he hypothesizes has happened. At least we won't have a visit from Mr. Shocky.

We have deduced that the chicken killed and carried home in the mouth of the McCoy perpetrator was Son of Yellow Leg. It's quite upsetting, actually. He was one of our seven or eight roosters. Third in the pecking order.

Our first and main rooster is Survivor. He's a beautiful Ameraucana. Looks like the multicolored roosters you see painted on kitchen gewgaws. Then, second in command, we have Yellow Leg. He's a giant burnt orange fellow who finally grew into his neon yellow legs. That poor adolescent rooster was as gawky and gangly and uncoordinated as an eighth-grade nerd on a basketball court. Then he grew up, and stole half of Survivor's hens.

Son of Yellow Leg was an even more brilliant specimen. More orange. Yellower legs. Longer spurs. He just had some growing up to do. Some maturing. Of course he would be the one to tangle with a McCoy hound. The Pony and I miss him.

A couple of months ago, some critter ate the husband of our little black-and-white checkered hen. They were a matched pair. Farmer H bought them at the auction. Always roamed with Survivor's band, but appeared to be mated for life. The Pony and Farmer H hated that banty rooster. He attacked them every time they walked across the yard, jumping at them feet first, flapping his wings, pecking their feet and ankles. He left me alone, save for one instance, when I was tending to Juno in her first days at the Mansion, when she was in her rabbit hutch for safekeeping. I went to take her out for playtime, and felt like I was being watched. That black-and-white banty rooster was heading for me with violence on his mind. I turned to face him, pointed my finger, and said, "Don't you even THINK of trying that crap with ME!"

I think I made my point. He backed away. Slowly. Don't tell PETA. There may or may not have been some psychological damage done. But I swear I have no idea what actions resulted in his disappearance.

4 comments:

Sioux said...

Some "critter" ate it? I assume, then, that no evidence was found. Which makes me suspect YOU.

Have you read Roald Dahl's "Fantastic Mr. Fox" too many times, and that's when you started hatching your scheme? Or, did you put Glenn Close on a pedastal, genuflect, and changed "rabbit" to "chicken" to get rid of that innocent rooster who challenged you?

Don't be surprised if an official from Chicken Lovers Undertaking Chicken Kindness (CLUCK)is on your front porch soon. Very soon.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Sioux,
Only in Sioux's world would NO EVIDENCE point to ME. I think I need to ask for a change of venue.

I am not familiar with Fantastic Mr. Fox. Nor do I need him for hatching my schemes. I learned at the knees of Lucy and Ethel. Ms. Close was simply misunderstood. She knows that NOBODY puts Little Checkered Banty Rooster in a pot.

I can deal with CLUCK. Just ask Al Bundy and his NO MA'AM folks. What's that? You can't find Al anymore? Exactly!

knancy said...

Killer women - take that any way you want.

Hillbilly Mom said...

knancy,
I, for one, will take it as a compliment.