Born to be wild

I sit here with so many words in my brain, things I might say, things perhaps I should not say, in a word:


On Tuesday afternoon I heard the little dog from across the street yelp.  I ran out front to see a big green truck stop, wait, then take off.  This truck frequents our street often looking for goodies in our junk piles we place out for monthly collection.  He usually turns at he end of the lane and goes back out to the main road.  Not this time.  This time he had the nerve to drive through our neighbors property to get to the road on the other side!

Thankfully, little Payden is none the worse for the event.

Later that afternoon Bob came home and said, “I need your help!  Chuck says the new neighbor has run over Miss Dixie!”

I never heard a thing.  Surveying the road out front of our house I clearly see by the feathers that she hit her and kept right on going.  I followed the trail of feathers leading back into our yard to find her cowering under a bush.  She was badly hurt and I knew what needed to be done.

You may find it odd for someone who raises chickens for the table to have a hard time with

what needs to be done,

but it remains that I did.

Since Tuesday I kept waiting for the lady next door to come to me and say she was sorry, or at least to tell me a lie, but she has not.  I suppose she could just be feeling ashamed, but don’t believe that is the case.

Like that  guy in the truck, the same afternoon, she just drove on and ostensibly couldn’t care less.  People like that bother me.  I want to tell her about Dixie.  About how she came to be wild, about her run-ins with owls, hawks, tomato loving neighbors, and wayward dogs.  I want her to know about how she had been a survivor for all these years, and how just recently, she had started laying at home again and hooked onto my other chickens in the chicken yard.  (Although she still preferred to roost high in the tree out back.)

I want her to care.

However, when she kept going that afternoon, and has not come to me to say anything in the way of regrets, I simply know that she does not care.  To her Miss Dixie was just a stupid chicken in the road.

Goodbye, Miss Dixie

Looking for adventure
In whatever came her way…
She was  born
Born to be wild
She could fly so high
I never thought she’d die (not like this)
Born to be wild
Born to be wild

With deepest apologies to Steppenwolf   😉


The things that break your heart

I have avoided this news long enough.  It is hard for me to tell.

June, is usually a very happy month for us because we celebrate Bob’s Birthday and our anniversary.  This year we suffered two losses.

First to go was Tucker.  His demise was not unexpected and even the vet commented he never expected him to live so long after his diagnosis of Cushings and Diabetes two years ago, but he had a very strong will to survive.

Tucker was our *Fur Kid.  Smartest, cutest, most entertaining, the list could go on, but I won’t do that to you.  😉

Suffice it to say that he has left a very big hole in our lives.  That was the first Tuesday in June.

The very next Tuesday Claus didn’t come home for breakfast.  He was always at the picture window, pawing on the glass to be let in and mewing fervently, “Me-in, Me-in, Me-IN!”

Most cats are aloof, but not Claus.  We will never know for sure, but suspect it was the fox or coyote that have been visiting the chickens in our neighborhood.  I chills my heart to think of it.

Claus was a lover.  He always wanted to be in your lap, and purred the loudest of any cat we have ever had.  He was gimpy, couldn’t climb trees, and loved his comfort!

❤ They are gone, but not forgotten. ❤


*I’ve heard some people make jokes about us old folk who think of their pets as “fur-kids”.  However, for some of us they fill/filled that empty place that children might have if you’d been able to have them.  I mightn’t have said it before, but now realize, that Tucker and Claus were our two very special ‘fur-kids’.