File this under the It Could Have Been Worse file. Had made plans to take a quick trip to Missouri early this morning, to firm up some short term housing.
It was early when I heard the horrible sound that chickens make when they are in distress. By the time I made it out the front door and into the yard, Roostifer was already gone. It was a stray dog, a beagle, one we had spotted yesterday, and mistakenly thought we had run off.
That incident happened just at dawn, and by 9 a.m. we had captured Fried Chicken and 4 of his hens and placed them in the old bunny loft. Two hens were too quick for us, so we took a break from the chasing. About an hour later, one more hen was taken, as well as Omelet, who had ventured out into the yard from her usual safe enclosure. This time, Sweetie got a shot off with the pellet gun, and he hit the dog.
Enquiries were made, it was indeed nobody's dog; from around here, anyway. Sweetie tried to track it, but the neighbor's said the cur was hauling ass-over-head down the road after being shot.
So. Looking at the bright side, we could have blithely left home for a day or two, only to return to no chickens at all. And I was able to snag that last hen a little bit later.
I'm sad for little Buffalo Wing, as her only friend now is Howard the Duck. But, unlike the folks in John Prine's song, I do know how lucky I am, living here in a semi-rural area, to have not lost any other chickens to predators this year.
So it goes.