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The Newsletter >
Ploodle the Chicken Hawk
June 30, 2009
Santa Claus lost his mind at our house last Christmas. Santa Claus asked one little green-eyed girl what she thought Santa would be bringing her for Christmas.
She said, green eyes soft and glistening and with the complete faith and certainty of the completely adorable, “A puppy and a kitten.”
An audible snap was heard when Santa’s mind gave way. Santa began to shop for a puppy. He found one. He found a perky, excited example of one brand of canine at a puppy store, and he bought it—with actual Santa dollars.
Upon seeing Santa’s puppy poke his alert, frisky head out of the Christmas gift bag, the little green-eyed girl said, “His name is Ploodle—a perfect name for a perfect dog.” There was an audible snapping sound in the chambers of the little green-eyed girl’s father’s head, and so Ploodle came to live at my house, with me and CoCo Chanel, my free dog.
Ploodle is a Yorkshire Terrier and a Chicken Hawk. He feels that it is his personal responsibility to protect our property from cats, bats, sheep, cows, turtles, birds, moles, earthworms, and the two homeless chickens living under the horse trailer. Taking Ploodle and CoCo for one of their multitudinous walks, I quickly steered them away from the picnic table where I spotted a feral cat crouching in terror, unwittingly pointing them in the direction of the two homeless chickens lurking under the horse trailer. Ploodle was on it. Ripping the leash from my arthritic hand and resembling a possessed oven mitt with dread locks, Ploodle propelled himself in pursuit of the homeless chickens.
CoCo wanted to propel herself in pursuit of the homeless chickens, but she’s a good dog. Ploodle is bad. Ploodle chased the chickens, cornered one, and bit it on the neck. It died. Ploodle weighs 5.0 pounds.
“Hey, do you know how they used to cure dogs from being chicken killers?” I asked my husband. Looking a lot like Santa, he shook his head.
“Well I’ll tell you. They used to tie the dead chicken to the neck of the dog and make the dog drag it around for a while.”
“Did it work?” he asked.
“Who knows? But it won’t work for Ploodle, because the chicken outweighs him. We’d have to tie the dog to the chicken’s neck.”
“How about we put a bell on his neck?”
“I would, but it might tip him over.”
Ploodle does not know that he weighs five pounds and cannot possibly herd sheep, round up horses, drive cattle, or fend off killer chickens, and I’m not telling him. There’s an old saying about “it’s not the dog in the fight; it’s the fight in the dog.” I believe it, and I espouse it as a personal motto. Like Ploodle, I’m small, but I’m feisty, and feisty is hard to outrun.
Linda (Chicken Hawk) Zern
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