I don’t talk much about our birds on here. I think a person gets so used to their own routine that it just doesn’t seem all that interesting – here is a chicken and here is a duck. We feed them and clean up their poop.
As much as I hate to talk about sad things or serious things on this little corner of the interwebs, (especially when I can talk about cake instead) sometimes things just need to be said.
Things like ‘Bobcats can go suck a bag of dicks.’
When you have livestock-type animals, I don’t think you expect to get quite as attached to them as you do. But you do. When your duck does her little butt-shake every morning as she waddles from the food bowl to the water bowl. Or when she’s so damned impatient for a bath that she sits inside the water dish and won’t get out, so you have to pour the water over her head. Which she loved, by the way.
On Monday afternoon a bobcat got into our chicken coop and killed our duck. Not to eat it, but just to kill her. Hence the ‘go suck a bag of dicks’ comment.
Somehow our chicken survived until we could, ahem, take care of the bobcat.
These things happen when you have animals. It’s a fact that I hate and generally refuse to accept, but there it is. This is the 3rd time, and it never gets easier. The bobcat did what bobcats do, but acknowledging that it was just doing what came naturally to it doesn’t make me feel any better.
There is good to be found in every shitstorm, and in this case it’s our chicken. How in the world she evaded a bobcat inside a coop, I have no idea. So far she has survived an owl, a raccoon, and now a bobcat. She’s Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All. And currently living in a dog crate in our guest bedroom until the coop thaws out enough for me clean it.
So. This is for you, ducky girl, whose every butt shake brought joy to our hearts. And whose eggs brought fluffiness to every cake.