Sunday, November 29, 2009
I just spent the last half hour chasing a chicken.
It came strolling past my house as if chickens did this in my suburban neighborhood as a matter of course. Actually, up until about 6 months or so ago, they did. Then people complained, and they surrounded their yard with chicken wire. So chooks de-ticking my lawn became a thing of the past.
Until Sylvie strolled up the sidewalk.
The saner part of me told me to go get my newspaper and leave the bird to its own devices. But my conscience said no, you know where the bird belongs and you better get it home.
Paper abandoned (as well as my pride I suppose), I shrugged on hubby's jacket and began what I foolishly thought would be a five minute jaunt around the corner and back to the bird's house.
The bird thwarted me across three front yards and two back yards. She decided she liked the relative safety of the thick brush against our wooden fence. I'm sure if my driveway neighbors were awake, they were at the window with coffees in hand, enjoying the show, and wondering why the hell I was engaging with the fowl across the fence.
Eventually, I saw the owner in her robe in her back yard, and I waved her over. A fox had gotten into the chook house, and Sylvie (that's the fugitive's name) was the last one to be recovered. She came over and much to our collective amusement, her bird figured out a way to go around the fence.
Silly me. I thought I was going to take the bird for a longer walk.
Given my relative lack of shepherding skills, the bird was definitely the smarter of the two of us.