Chicken Culprit

Anne yawned and stretched her hands over her head. She unlocked the kitchen window, took a deep breath of crisp Colorado air and sighed loudly. No longer would she have to deal with divorce lawyers or Duke. She could finally live her life as she saw fit.

Anne surveyed her domain. Even though boxes cluttered every available space, it didn’t matter. What she cared about was that it was all hers. While the work ahead might seem daunting, the prospect of transforming the old Victorian house didn’t deter Anne.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, both hands cradling the mug, before deciding to drink it on the back porch. Rays of sunshine had risen about the copse at the back of her property, and its golden warmth welcomed the day. Raising the mug to her mouth, Anne took a much-needed sip of the hot morning brew.

“Stop! Stop!” A woman’s voice carried over from the other yard.

Anne sloshed coffee onto her chambray shirt. “Shoot!” She set her cup down on the railing, and the cold liquid seeped through to her skin.

“Stop!” The piercing scream came again. This was no couple’s tiff or “you forgot your lunch” yell. Anne lurched down the steps and across the yard, striding over to the stand of lilacs which separated the two yards. As she drew closer, a woman’s high-pitched voice could be heard pleading. A much deeper voice—a man’s—was muffled in contrast.

Last night’s rain made her flip-flops slip on the spongy ground. She cautiously rounded the stand of lilacs and stared at the scene before her.

A petite young woman with fiery red hair stood facing a much taller older gentleman. She held something red in her hands. It moved.

A chicken.

The man gripped an axe with his right hand. With his left, he reached out and took hold of the chicken’s neck. As Anne watched, open-mouthed, the woman reached up and grabbed the axe handle. The ruddy-faced man stood unyielding, his left hand wrapped securely around the chicken’s neck.

The chicken didn’t look happy either.

“Let go, Kandi, before someone gets hurt.”

The young woman released the axe. “Fine, but you let go of Rusty.”

Rusty must be the Rhode Island Red Kandi clutched in her left hand.

“Kandi, I’ve had it. I told you the last time to keep your cotton-picking chickens out of my garden. Now look at what she’s done.” The man released the chicken’s neck and pointed.

Anne took a few steps into the yard to see where he pointed.

The torn remains of a gorgeous heirloom Brandywine tomato left no doubt about the culprit.

Anne took a few more steps into the yard to signal her presence. The scene made it clear that no one was in danger except the chicken.

“Please, Ralph,” Kandi whimpered, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t get out of the run again.”

The chicken squawked and struggled to break free from Kandi’s tight grip.