Part XI - The insanity continues

Overtaken by joy and in a hurry to leave for the symphony, I failed to retrieve the easel and at least edit the announcement.  So, when the children walked in from the evening's activities, the colorful letters flew at them with a gust that sent at least one whaling down the stairs.

At first, I wondered what might be the cause for such drama, but on my way to rescue the forsaken teenager, I bumped right into my artful proclamation and immediately realized what had triggered such a reaction.  All I could do was rush in after my daughter to deliver the great news that "We got Teri back", which did little to improve her emotional state.

My husband whisked me away to the symphony and we agreed not to concern ourselves with Clio's survival or lack thereof until morning.

Of course, I managed a call to the police department to ask what one does in the case of a missing chicken. The officer could hardly maintain his composure, but I appreciated the painstaking effort he put into answering all of my questions with all the sincerity he could muster.  I told him it was OK to laugh, and he did, heartily, as he instructed me to take up my matter with the local SPCA.

The morning brought a flurry of activity with farmer's market, board meetings and preparations for the dinner party we were to host that evening.  I spent the early parts of the morning questioning neighbors and knocking on doors.  Most folks were entertained by my story, but nobody had any information.

I fidgeted my way through my board meeting and rushed down to the SPCA to post my missing chicken.  Half the day had passed and left me with little hope of finding Clio.  Discouraged, I turned the key to the front door.  The moment I stepped inside, the children were simultaneously and incoherently attempting to reach me with the news.

As it turned out, one of our neighbors was walking her dogs when she ran into another neighbor with a dog.  The lady mentioned that she had found a chicken in her yard the previous evening, only after her dog had a bark-off with a l i t t l e  w h i t e  b a l l   o f  f l u f f .  A child had come around looking for the dog, but did not claim the chicken.  Little, white and fluffy sure did sound familiar!

Tilly.

The Chicken or the Blog? Part X

Take me away [insert name of favorite bubble bath or bath salts here]!

 

Yes, it was one of those moments, although the Napoleon XIV song of the 1960s more closely conjures my mood.  When I pulled myself together, I made it up to my kitchen to prepare dinner for the kids and continue with perpetual cleaning and tidying.  I clearly recall scrubbing pots and pans and taking a moment to look out the window over the sink in hopes that taking in the natural border of cypress trees, the redwoods clumped on the neighboring hills, the giant eucalyptus that brought welcome shade to our garden and the flittering blue jays might calm my nerves. 

Only, as my eyes soaked up the landscape, something odd caught my attention in the meticulously pruned citrus grove of the property below.  It was as though viewing a diorama of a cow grazing in a pasture among the oak trees, only the oaks had been replaced by an orchard of dwarf fruit trees and the cow by something white and feathered, yet grazing.

“Teri!  Teri” I screamed and rushed downstairs.  In no time, I was at the bottom of the property climbing the fence and calling to my neighbor below (I learned then that his command of English is… poor).  “My chicken!  You have my chicken”!  He nodded but looked at me baffled.  I think he was trying to ask if chickens respond to hearing their names, much like dogs, because he doubted whether he could catch her.  At least, I think that was the cause of his concern, so I explained that he need only stay behind the chicken and cajole while I did the calling.  I only needed his help in getting her over the fence.  How she ever got past two wooden fences I could not figure.

The scene was between ridiculous and hilarious.  Once Teri got close to the fence line, I saw the old man open a little door on his side.  She slid into the space between the fences and flapped her way up to my fence.  The secret doorway remains a mystery.

To have retrieved one of our flock seemed a significant victory.  But what of Clio*?  Could I leave my girl aimlessly roaming the streets at night with predators lurking?  

 

*Clio is the chicken.  She is not my teenage daughter.

Visitors in the Garden

This weekend I read an article about a squirrel that got fat on bird feed.  I couldn’t help but laugh, as I know first hand what it’s like to have the unwelcome gluttonous guest in my garden. 

Cute as they may be, the squirrels in our part of town will stop at nothing.  They dig out bulbs, tear down unripe fruit (sometimes they manage to pick off an entire persimmon or fig tree in a matter of a couple of hours) and eat their way through plastic bins we use for storing chicken feed.  Once, they even tore into my son’s backpack, pulled out his lunchbox, tore open the zipper and made their way through the food pyramid!

Fortunately, my husband is the founder of the Squirrel Relocation Program.  He traps them, holds them in their cell overnight and transports them to a new location very far away the following morning.  I only worry they might confuse the trunk for the…  facilities.