Barbara Wood's On the Home Front: The strange case of the chicken in the shrubbery Barbara Wood's On the Home Front: The strange case of the chicken in the shrubbery (May 19, 2004)

I had just returned from a trip to Yosemite, which had immediately followed a week working on a school fundraising auction, which had immediately followed a week in Oregon, so when friends asked if their dog, who had been lonely, could join the two dogs already at my house, I, of course, immediately said "yes."

When the three Labrador retrievers and I came into the garden the chickens clamored to be set free. I usually let the four hens roam the yard and although I can't ever find their eggs, they are doing an excellent job of snail, slug and bug control. Besides, they're cute.

I debated letting them out with the dogs, and decided to try it. Harley, the visiting dog, lit out after them, but once punished by exile to the house for a few minutes, he desisted.

All was calm when I noticed a swarm of bees on the wall of the chicken coop.

I called and left a message at the house where the bees were supposed to be living and ignored them. When a dog wandered by and got stung, however, I decided I'd better check to make sure I shouldn't be hiding in the house. (I sort of thought being in the house with three Labs was worse than being outside with hundreds of bees.)

I reached the beekeeper at his other job, and he said that although the bees were less likely to sting when swarming, he'd come home and deal with them. I stuck the dogs inside and continued gardening.

After the bees were convinced to move into a hive, I let the dogs out. Then I decided to check my e-mail. Ten minutes later I came back to find only two dogs.

Frantic that I had lost my friends' beloved dog, I searched the yard. Finally, Harley slunk out of a flower bed. I looked and there on the ground was a chicken -- on her side, legs straight out, neck at an angle. Obviously dead.

I was, to put it mildly, upset. I was mad at myself for not watching the dogs more closely, and for letting the chickens loose.

I herded the dogs in the house, and sobbing, crawled into the flower bed to take out the dead chicken. "You poor, poor thing," I cried as I cradled her in my arms, when suddenly she gave a weak cackle. Overjoyed that she wasn't dead, yet, I gently laid her inside the coop and went searching for the other chickens.

I found one backed up against a wall, frozen in fear. I carried her to the coop and continued searching. When a third chicken wandered up, I tried to herd her into the coop. When I opened the gate, the other two chickens walked out as if nothing had happened and resumed foraging for food. Apparently chickens are hard to kill.

But I have learned my lesson. No chickens out when dogs come to play.

Barbara Wood lives and works in Woodside in an 1889 farmhouse with three teenagers, a husband and a bunch of animals. Her column runs the third week of the month.

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