The lifespan of a chicken around here is from birth until the first time it crosses paths with a coyote, a raccoon, a hawk, or Blue Heeler. After the Great Boogey Beast War last winter, we pretty much lost all our hens to an enterprising raccoon. That does not mean, however, that there are no chickens around here.  My mother has a small house on my farm and she raises a little flock of New Hampshire Reds. They are loose during the day and she rounds them up each evening to lock them in Fort Knox at her back porch. The birds have absolutely no concept of what is off limits to them.  We have 9, count 'em NINE, dogs. The chances of a bird running crosswise of a dog are pretty darned high. Today was one of those days.

Since allowing nine dogs to run together is a recipe for disaster, we have them paired off into small sub-packs in different yards, paddocks, and the house. Today Blue Heeler and Briar The Livestock Guardian Dog were in the back yard.  (The sheep were in lockdown today so Briar was enjoying some off-duty yard time. Lucky for the chicken.  Unlucky for the chicken.  Sort of depends upon how you view torture.)

I came home to find chicken feathers all over the back porch. In my business, we call that "a clue." I followed the trail of chicken feathers through the doggy door and into the laundry room. This was NOT the high point of my day. Fortunately I didn't find a dead chicken laying beside the laundry basket. Thunderstorms were rolling through and it was raining harder than a cow pissin' on a flat rock so I didn't give the back yard more than a quick peek.  No floating chicken bodies in the back yard as far as I could see!

So I got ready to go to work. The guilty little voice in my head reminded me that these chickens were my mother's pets (WARNING!  Do NOT fall in love with something on the bottom of the Food Chain.) Nevertheless, I have been guilty of it myself (which is why I won't get geese again.  Bless their hearts, geese are like dogs with feathers.  I loved 'em!)  But I digress . . .

Anyway, I called Mom to inform her that she "might" be missing a chicken.  My mother is THE MOST RESPONSIBLE CHICKEN MOTHER ever.  Nowhere will you find a more responsible Keeper Of The Flock.  So despite the fact that it was raining, my mother, in her moo-moo, trucked out in the rain to hunt for the missing chicken.  Oh dear. She made it to my back porch and like Columbo, she examined the crime scene.  I've seen paid Homicide Detectives put less thought into a murder scene. 

Alas, she couldn't find a body either.  So she headed back home, and I headed for the shower . . . until something caught my eye. 

As I passed through the kitchen, I glanced out the window in time to see my Livestock Guardian Dog Giant Puppy bounce in the corner of the Kitchen Garden.  (I use that term loosely.  It USED to be a Kitchen Garden.  Now it is a fenced in area containing the dead bodies of tomato plants, lemon trees the goats have trimmed and weeds.)  But there was no mistaking the fact that Briar had Something in the corner.  My mother saw it too, and headed through the opened garden gate to examine Briar's treasure.  Sure enough, there was a live chicken in the corner.  Briar had been hugging and loving, and licking, and generally making that chicken's life a living hell.  She was thrilled with that chicken.  Mom rescued the chicken and Briar kissed it some more. 

This "might" explain why I was home for an hour and heard Briar and Blue Heeler get into two minor dog fights. My guess is Blue Heeler wanted to liberate Briar's chicken. (mercy killing?)  Anyway, there is no telling how long that poor chicken had to endure Briar's love.  She reminds me of Bugs Bunny's Abomindable Snowman who grabs up Daffy Duck in a bear hug and begins to stroke him roughly. 

"I will name him George, and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him . . . "

At last check, "George" has survived her ordeal. I wonder if she'll be walking through the back yard again any time soon.

  "Where's George?"