The Birthday Beagle and the Unfortunate Chicken Massacre of 2019

This is my birthday cake. A master work of art and craftsmanship, I call it “Eat Your Heart Out.” Absolutely brilliant, doncha think? I was supposed to share it with people (one of whom baked it for me at 6 in the morning…I don’t do anything constructive for anyone at 6 in the morning), but the minute I got to where I was supposed to be, chicken pullets were loose and hiding in a woodpile, and an overly aggressive year-old “puppy” was attacking my friend’s goat herd. And by “attack,” I do mean attack.

Poor Baby just stood there in this lady’s pasture looking completely confused as the shepherd-beagle mix he’d come to play with ran around full tilt like some yippy, gleeful, unhinged hyena, repeatedly grabbed the tethered goats by their throats and dragged them to the ground. If I could have caught her, I would have wrung her neck, but she is wise to Catch-the-Mutt. Instead, I decided to beat her to death…it turned into a fruitless game of Whack-A-Mole.

Whilst my friend went in the house to get a gun, I stood in the middle of the pasture, legs held tight by a half a dozen tangled lead lines and surrounded by terrified does pressed against me for safety, waving around a giant tree branch whilst screaming “NOOOO!!!” like a lunatic trying to protect my friend’s herd. At one point I managed to catch FrootLoops Psycho by the scruff of the neck just long enough to pull her off of one strangled doe and get myself bit, instead….

Two hours later, a months-long wish of mine had finally come true: this high-maintanance definitely-NOT-a-farm-dog was back at the local pound on the shit list for misbehaving cretins, and I felt some relief for the goats and chickens. Not at all the way I had intended on spending my birthday. Especially not when you consider that my friend’s demented (I’m not even exaggerating on this) husband told her that she should leave and go home with me, he wanted to keep the bloodthirsty dog, instead. That was fun.

I left my shindig with a box of 21 coveted Rhode Island Red and Golden Comet chicks (4 died in transit) and my birthday cake in hand. Tomorrow I have to go back when the shitstorm dies down and retrieve Butch’s baby brother, Bobbie. When I do, I’m taking the redecorated cake back as a gift to my friend’s asshole husband, whose unappreciated bride is more than welcome to seek refuge in my guest bedroom until the cows come home.

See, there had been 50 chicks a few days ago….FrootLoops Psycho viciously ate 28 of them and scattered their tiny mauled carcasses like chew toys. I now have the sole remaining sister from the older batch. Asshole Husband evidently forgot about this bloodbath in his family room. I haven’t. And whilst I’m not one for taking animals to the pound or animal control except in the most dire of circumstances, you bet your sweet ass I was happy to give this one a ride, no matter how angry some confused old man gets about it….

Eat My Leftovers, Papa Smurf!

All in all, I had an awesome birfday. You all should have been there. Next year, we’ll do a potluck at my place. You guys bring guns. And beer. It’ll be a riot! đź’–

4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Chris Chan
    Apr 19, 2019 @ 09:59:30

    Happy belated birthday, Miki! And Happy Easter, too!

    Liked by 1 person


  2. MikiDaShrew
    Apr 19, 2019 @ 12:53:22

    Thank you, Chris!

    I need to write to you. Thank you for writing to me, still.



  3. Chris Chan
    Apr 20, 2019 @ 09:27:34

    You’re welcome! I wanted to make sure that I was sending emails to the right address.

    Liked by 1 person


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