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Saturday, November 5, 2016

R.I.P. Khaleesi

The only chicken a Chihuahua should eat!

So there I was, staring vacantly out the kitchen window, waiting for the jug to boil for coffee, when I suddenly noticed one of our baby chickens was merrily pecking OUTSIDE the fudging coop!

“THE FUDGING CHICKENS ARE OUT!” I screamed to no-one in particular but very loudly and in an accusatory manner as if it was someone else’s fault.

Panic ensued.

Scotto and I, tore outside towards the coop. I was first there and swept little “Eejit” (the ginger chicken) from the ground and placed her back in the safety of the coop. Third on the scene was a puffing Scotto but he was beaten to the scene of massacre by the wily and expeditious Chihuahua, Pablo (who was in actual fact already in residence and had beaten us all to the genocide).

“Khaleesi” our whitey chick, lay strewn on the ground like it was asleep (but in a really bad, uncomfortable sleep). There was no blood but the Chihuahua sat with an incriminating white feather glued onto his diabolical muzzle.

I gasped and spun around trying to site the other two missing chicks. Somehow they had escaped the coop and the Chihuahua had sprinted down the garden and managed to throttle Khaleesi.

Nek minit, Pablo had our little black chick, Jon Snow, by the throat. It all happened in a flash. I screamed (out of some sort of primitive instinct) and Pablo dropped the black chick (as abruptly as Mariah Carey dropped James Packer) and I grasped the poor creature from the jaws of death into my hands and hoisted him to safety.

"Hodor", the weird-looking chick, was still missing. We searched high and low. We searched low and high. Eventually we decided to get a glass of wine and see if he would just… appear.

We are optimistic types.

Nek minit, who should arise from the ashes but Hodor! Shaking out his feathers from behind a rock where he’d been interred in undoubted terror he was suddenly alive. Meanwhile, Pablo the Chihuahua had been banished in disgrace to the kitchen.

Scotto went in search of a plastic bag for the recently passed Khaleesi in order to bury her in the wheelie bin.

When he returned to where I sat perched on a rock watching the chickens, he was a bit distraught.

“I gave her CPR but she didn’t respond,” he rasped.

“Did you do mouth to beak or just the compressions?”
I asked, slightly curious.

“Everything I could,” he answered, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Did you do the compressions to the beat of ‘Staying Alive’ or the ‘Chicken Dance’?" I enquired gently.

“A mixture,” he answered inexplicably.

We sat for a while pondering on the loss of our beloved chicken and how and when we should punish our despicable, murderous Chihuahua.

“You know that sometimes chickens play dead,” 
I commented softly.

Scotto arose slowly and went back to the wheelie bin.

He said that he gently shook the plastic bag but there was no movement whatsoever. 

Then he went back a half hour later and the result was the same. 

I don’t think Khaleesi was playing dead.

Please don’t think I’m making fun of the death of my chicken because I’m not. Chickens have feelings. That’s why I don’t eat them.

I might start eating Chihuahuas though.