persona non sequitur

a review of media by a slightly jaded baby boomer.

Sunday, May 18, 2008


Chickens can fly. If they’re motivated.

We had a spunky ball of fur named Constanza. She was a mutant Lhasa Apso, short haired and spent much of her early life in New York City.

On her arrival to the farm, she discovered chickens. Specificly, one hen that was spotted brown and white. She understood that this was what she wanted to do. She chased it. Of the twenty or so chickens , this particular one was the only one she undertook to give chase.

This went on for a few weeks. We had the chickens free ranging, but gave up on it. But the descision to end the free ranging happened a bit later.

And then one weekend morning, We went out to roam around the orchard, check on what was there.
We had the barn door open. The hen was out in the orchard. Constanza recognized the hen. She barked, she ran. The hen squawked, it ran, hopped and then it took off into the air, flying and fluttering about 200 feet and was trying for the barn. She managed to hit the top frame of the door (with a considerable auditory bonk), flopped down onto the ground and Constanza cornered her. The hen was exhausted. It lay down wings out and the dog came closer.

And sat on it. And waited for the humans to praise her catch. The hen wailed softly.

(free ranging chickens didn’t really make the eggs taste better, and they scratched up all the seeds we planted and roamed out into the road to see if they could get to the other side and were hit by trucks. )


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