A Cruel Twist to Bucolic Bliss
This isn't easy to write. It's taken me the better part of two days to be in a calm enough mental state to sit down and process my feelings into real words. On Sunday morning my husband and I let 12 happy, yet dopey chickens to explore their new yard. By Sunday night, we could only put 7 to bed. Five of our New Hampshire reds had escaped the yard right before sundown and had been killed by our dogs. Look, I know chickens are going to die. They will more than likely get taken by hawks or another predator. They could die prematurely of some natural cause that we may never discover. They are livestock that masquerade as pets. So what I felt would be misinterpreted by some, as heartbreak. I didn't name those particular chickens. I hadn't studied their unique idiosyncrasies just yet. I couldn't look at a photo and tell you which ones perished and which survived. What I felt was frustration. I felt foolish. I felt traumatized. And 90...
