Death in the Family

First, word of warning: one very graphic image below.

After slipping out for an hour after work, I came home and knew something was wrong.  There were feathers by the hose.  The feathers looked familiar.  They looked like my chickens' feathers.  They were my chickens' feathers.  They were everywhere.

A quick look left and there was the first one.  Completely dead and left in the middle of the yard.  It looked like her neck had been broken.

Then to the coop and run.  The chicken wire was all broken and torn up.  There were multiple points of entry and exit.  Feathers were everywhere and the waterer was on its side.  No sign of the other two.

So I opened the door to the coop.  There was the second one, killed in front of the nesting boxes.  Deep gashes all over.

Then there was a flicker of life from the bottom of the two nesting boxes.  The girls never went into that one.  A little prodding and the lone survivor came out into the war torn run.  She went right to the corner where there was some semi-intact fencing.  They used to love their run--I could leave the door open all day and they'd just as soon hang out there snacking on the previous evening's leftovers.

That's her below.

Will probably put her down tomorrow.

I wouldn't have known for sure what had happened, even though the total destruction of the run seemed to point to something other than a cat and the time of day ruled out a possum or raccoon.  Then while I was making dinner over came the two pictured dogs.  Right back through the yard and right back to the coop.  Some shouting scared them away.  The cohabitant talked me out of getting the gun.  Probably for the best.  Double-ought buckshot may have been excessive.

What a waste.  Because some asshole can't keep track of his (or her) fucking dogs. They both have collars.  We followed them to about West 74th and Detroit, and then they kept walking west on the street.


Photo by Bob Perkoski/Freshwater Cleveland

We'll miss you girls.  You won't be forgotten.