Merry Freaking Christmas

Ghosts of Christmas Past bring memories of my large family lining up at the top of the stairs while our dad went down ahead to plug in the tree lights and exclaim "Oh, my!" and "Wonderful!" at the tremendous bounty of Santa's visit.  We would troop down the staircase in a riot of greed, tearing into the presents with abandon, and in ten minutes, the annual orgy would conclude in mixed sighs of satisfaction and "Is that all?"

Here in Carazo, my sister Mary Mary again shared her Christmas vacation with me, and we have enjoyed visits to Granada and Leon, and each other's company, with many cervesas and laughs together.

This morning, Mary Mary rose early and let out the dogs. She made coffee, as I slept on, until I heard her  say quietly, "Trish, wake up. I'm so sorry, but Mitzi went after your last chicken, and it's still alive and needs to be put out of its misery. With your machete, maybe? And Merry Christmas." My young German Shepherd has a sort of sweet tooth for live chicken, as previously noted. My sister was upset. She had heard the clucking commotion, and had seen the apparently lifeless bird on the porch, only to approach the poor thing and see it suddenly stand up, a large chunk of feathered breast dangling ominously.

"Okay, I'll do it," I said. I put on my shoes and went out to kill my last egg layer, a beautiful, sweet chicken I had dubbed "Soledad," after her five sisters met their own bloody end at the jaws of Mitzi.

In the dim light of dawn, I took the machete and aimed it toward the scrawny neck of the trembling bird and took a whack. "Oh, God!" Oh, no!" The chicken flapped and scrabbled about until Mary Mary took a shovel and pinned it to the concrete porch floor. I took a few more whacks until I was sure the head was clearly separated from the mutilated body, and my sister held down the flopping hen until it stilled. The deed done, Mary Mary brought buckets of water to rinse away the evidence of our Christmas morning execution.

Soledad had flown the coop, as they say. The coop door was still latched, and no one is to blame, except maybe Santa, who somehow missed my chimney-less roof. Today, we head to Managua for Christmas dinner with my poet friend Ivan and his family. We'll stay the night, and then tomorrow, MM heads back to Pennsylvania to bring in the new year.

I guess I really do need more chickens like a hole in the head. Rock on, 2018.

And Then There Were, Well, Hardly Any

Shortly after posting my last blog entry, I took a nap one day during the afternoon . When I awoke, I headed outside to refill the various water bowls for dogs and chickens, as is my usual wont. At first, I did not notice the unnatural quiet. No bird calls, no squawking from the egg nest, no barking... I stopped and stared at the lawn, over which were strewn bits of brown fluffy bits I recognized after a few moments as chicken feathers. I looked toward the hen house and saw, to my horror, that the door was open. It was empty, except for the closed off portion where the little black hen and her sole remaining peep were housed, along with the two pullets left from the original eight. My beloved layers were nowhere in sight, save for small clumps of feathers here and there.

On closer inspection, those clumps turned out to be whole wings, tatters of feathered skin, feet... chicken parts everywhere. I looked at Mitzi, whose bloodstained jowls told the story. Brynn, the corgi, had napped with me, and Susie had never bothered loose chickens before. My heart broke for my dismembered hens. I was doubtless to blame for carelessly leaving the coop improperly latched, but I was also furious with Mitzi, whose grim efficiency in dispatching the chickens raised no obvious hue and cry to disturb my sleep.

I walked over the yard, numbly collecting leftover chicken parts, and chanced upon a lone survivor cowering in some shrubbery. She seemed almost grateful to be picked up and stroked as I walked her back to the chicken coop. Mitzi's pricked ears and eager stance signaled her willingness to finish the job, and I wondered if I could ever feel the same affection for her again. The brute had destroyed my lovely chickens, no matter that I had bought her to be just that, a brute to ensure my security.

Later, I reflected that the people who had bred Mitzi are in the chicken business, and they regularly feed their dogs the raw carcasses left after butchering the chickens for sale to restaurants. Of course  Mitzi saw my hens as meals, and when they strolled through the open door, she just picked them off.

Lonesome Soledad

This morning, one of the two remaining pullets was dead. I saw no signs of violence. I must be becoming inured to this constant death. My lone layer, now called Soledad, keeps laying and scratching and clucking as if all is well, and who knows if the scrawny pullet or the little hen and peep will survive. I have forgiven Mitzi for being herself. She really is growing into a beautiful Shepherd.

Mitzi , at seven months, is now the largest of the trio, shown here sitting politely for treats in the kitchen.

Some people who rescue abused animals stopped by today to ask if I minded boarding an unfortunate horse in the land surrounding my fenced garden. I said it was not my property, but if the landlord did not mind, I did not either. They showed me a picture of a skinny, pathetic white horse, and I expect they'll be bring him by any time now. I hope he doesn't keel over, too.