The little circular path in the woods helped the dogs and me not to trample everywhere and everything indiscriminately. It swung down the hill, along to the stream, then up to the lane before heading back to the house. We moved many of the rocks and tree limbs but the bigger, leaves. We used it three or four times a day to give all of us some fresh air and exercise.
A neighbor had acquired a batch of baby chicks in the Spring. They did their thing, grew appropriately and laid eggs. They had been kept inside but eventually were allowed to range freely around the veggies. A nice idea before they would be shut in again with the onset of frost and snow.
One night, when returning from a meeting, I stopped the car to pick up the newspaper, and saw one of the chickens being interviewed by a fox. I informed the fox that this wasn’t appropriate social behavior, to which it agreed, and trotted off into the woods. The chicken – the rooster actually – had taken refuge behind the wood pile. I encouraged it back up the hill and escorted it towards the chicken coop. Meantime, of course, since it had been raining for three days, the ground was soggy at best and in the tire ruts decidedly awash. I was on the lower, tire rut side of the track and when the wretched bird swerved my way I landed, good pumps and all, right in the very wet mud. But the operation was successful, and the rooster and I were glad that the fox had chosen just that moment to visit with the rooster.
The following evening, when I was walking the dogs round the little path in the woods, the chickens had chosen to cross the lane and were happily checking out the fallen leaves for seeds and bugs, way below the big wood pile. Bad choice.
The dogs caught sight of them and thought this was the best game since cushions were invented. They got into the middle of the flock, separated out one that went right instead of left with the others, and gave chase. The poor wretched chicken got very flustered, ran into a big rock, and m’lady puppy, taking absolutely no notice of my yelling and screaming, got the chicken in her mouth and raced happily down the hill, leaping rocks and avoiding trees, at break-neck pace. Her more sedate chum trundled along behind, barking furiously. Keeping up the rear, falling over every rock available, I eventually caught up to the joyous miscreants. After appropriate yelling and screaming, flailing arms and legs, I got the puppy and chicken separated and marched the puppy back to her crate in the house. She didn’t approve.
My attention turned to the slower but no less determined chum. With littler legs and heavier body he couldn’t keep up with the puppy but could challenge a traumatized chicken. I separated them, while the chicken was still protesting violently, and marched him back to the house.
Then I went to look for the chicken.
It had dematerialized.
With swiftly encroaching darkness, I gave up and decided to check again in the morning. I found a few feathers, but no body or other evidence of fowl play. Maybe it managed to find its way back to the coop before curfew? Last seen, it was very much alive and protesting violently.
Of course, the fox may have had it for dinner! Who knows?!