over his collection of dumb hens than Trip did. In any case, it was once again time to test his mettle with egg gathering.
Zack had returned for this encore performance; he knew it was show time. He had recruited Bessie. Leading Bessie by her rope halter, Zack sat on his haunches in front of the chicken-coop door. Bessie welcomed Trip with a taunting moo as he walked toward his Waterloo.
“Thanks a lot, guys,” Trip scolded as Zack dropped Bessie’s rope to the barn driveway floor. “No show today. It’s either me, or him.”
Zack didn’t know whether to bark or whimper. Even dogs exhibit some discretion. He settled on a shake of his head and a wag of his tail.
Basket in one hand, other on the chicken-coop door latch, Trip inhaled deeply. Bessie shifted her feet back and forth. Zack’s ears flopped to-and-fro as he shook his head in anticipation. Trip disappeared into the abyss.
Cluck, cluck. No big deal for a brief moment. It is thought that a dog can predict or announce an earthquake five or six seconds before the most sensitive Richter instrument registers the smallest of tremors on its scale. Zack leapt to his feet. Front paws danced like he was walking on hot coals, barking to announce the end of the world. Bessie joined the chorus as her tail accurately flicked a fly off her back.
Chicken feathers generally look innocent and clean. Not so when ruffled–a micro-dust kind of dander floats through the air. Zack’s every sense was being challenged. The hen squawks, dampened somewhat by wing-flapped wind, disturbed the morning calm. The feather dust or better described, chicken dandruff, rose from the coop and blotted the sunlight streaming onto the barn driveway. The smell of this floating dirt and dust from unbathed hens insulted Bessie’s mucus-clogged nostrils. She shook her head and sneezed a snot-blob that almost landed on Zack’s head. The scene inside the chicken coop might best be described as mayhem. ‘Henhem’ would be more descriptive, if not insulting to Webster.
The chicken-coop door strained under the assault. The door burst open with Trip staggering to freedom. It’s hard to tell when a dog or a cow laughs. Dog joy is usually communicated with the wag of a tail or a jumping, tight turn-spin chasing of a tail. Cows might have a gleam in a dark brown eye. Whatever it is that Zack and Bessie did, it was clear they both failed at masking their laughter.
Zack and Bessie could hardly contain themselves. Trip had his shoulders pressed against the chicken-coop door as though it protected him from a flesh-starved velociraptor. Covered with feathers and broken eggs, he limped his way toward Zack and Bessie. He sorted through his basket of broken, dripping eggs. He rescued one perfect egg. Admiring it, he lost control, but caught it safely. Triumphant at last.
The door shook behind him. Zack barked in protest. Bessie, hard to rattle, zapped another fly off her back. Trip whirled and threw his only perfect egg against the chicken-coop door. Goopy, broken egg yolk dripped down the door. Trip dropped his basket. With focused resolve, he looked over at the workbench. On the wall peg-board, he eyed the assortment of tools: hammer, handsaw, hatchet, T-square, and then back to the hatchet.
Trip removed the hatchet from the peg-board. Possessed, he approached the chicken coop. If cow minds could be read, Bessie would now be thinking, hey mister, don’t even think it. Trip methodically patted his hand on the side of the hatchet blade.
He’s in. The coop door eased shut behind him. Zack and Bessie reacted to the ruckus. Horrific chicken squawks confirmed–it was over. Bessie’s rope halter dragged the ground as she left the barn, head bowed into the sunlight. Zack plopped his chin on the barn driveway floor.
The pall of death permeated the air.
Chapter Sixteen
Dinner with Gerty highlighted the end of each day. Not only was she the best cook Trip had ever known, her no-nonsense attitude toward life
Zack had returned for this encore performance; he knew it was show time. He had recruited Bessie. Leading Bessie by her rope halter, Zack sat on his haunches in front of the chicken-coop door. Bessie welcomed Trip with a taunting moo as he walked toward his Waterloo.
“Thanks a lot, guys,” Trip scolded as Zack dropped Bessie’s rope to the barn driveway floor. “No show today. It’s either me, or him.”
Zack didn’t know whether to bark or whimper. Even dogs exhibit some discretion. He settled on a shake of his head and a wag of his tail.
Basket in one hand, other on the chicken-coop door latch, Trip inhaled deeply. Bessie shifted her feet back and forth. Zack’s ears flopped to-and-fro as he shook his head in anticipation. Trip disappeared into the abyss.
Cluck, cluck. No big deal for a brief moment. It is thought that a dog can predict or announce an earthquake five or six seconds before the most sensitive Richter instrument registers the smallest of tremors on its scale. Zack leapt to his feet. Front paws danced like he was walking on hot coals, barking to announce the end of the world. Bessie joined the chorus as her tail accurately flicked a fly off her back.
Chicken feathers generally look innocent and clean. Not so when ruffled–a micro-dust kind of dander floats through the air. Zack’s every sense was being challenged. The hen squawks, dampened somewhat by wing-flapped wind, disturbed the morning calm. The feather dust or better described, chicken dandruff, rose from the coop and blotted the sunlight streaming onto the barn driveway. The smell of this floating dirt and dust from unbathed hens insulted Bessie’s mucus-clogged nostrils. She shook her head and sneezed a snot-blob that almost landed on Zack’s head. The scene inside the chicken coop might best be described as mayhem. ‘Henhem’ would be more descriptive, if not insulting to Webster.
The chicken-coop door strained under the assault. The door burst open with Trip staggering to freedom. It’s hard to tell when a dog or a cow laughs. Dog joy is usually communicated with the wag of a tail or a jumping, tight turn-spin chasing of a tail. Cows might have a gleam in a dark brown eye. Whatever it is that Zack and Bessie did, it was clear they both failed at masking their laughter.
Zack and Bessie could hardly contain themselves. Trip had his shoulders pressed against the chicken-coop door as though it protected him from a flesh-starved velociraptor. Covered with feathers and broken eggs, he limped his way toward Zack and Bessie. He sorted through his basket of broken, dripping eggs. He rescued one perfect egg. Admiring it, he lost control, but caught it safely. Triumphant at last.
The door shook behind him. Zack barked in protest. Bessie, hard to rattle, zapped another fly off her back. Trip whirled and threw his only perfect egg against the chicken-coop door. Goopy, broken egg yolk dripped down the door. Trip dropped his basket. With focused resolve, he looked over at the workbench. On the wall peg-board, he eyed the assortment of tools: hammer, handsaw, hatchet, T-square, and then back to the hatchet.
Trip removed the hatchet from the peg-board. Possessed, he approached the chicken coop. If cow minds could be read, Bessie would now be thinking, hey mister, don’t even think it. Trip methodically patted his hand on the side of the hatchet blade.
He’s in. The coop door eased shut behind him. Zack and Bessie reacted to the ruckus. Horrific chicken squawks confirmed–it was over. Bessie’s rope halter dragged the ground as she left the barn, head bowed into the sunlight. Zack plopped his chin on the barn driveway floor.
The pall of death permeated the air.
Chapter Sixteen
Dinner with Gerty highlighted the end of each day. Not only was she the best cook Trip had ever known, her no-nonsense attitude toward life
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