murder – Jenmenke

I needn’t belabor nature’s harsh pecking order. You know it, I know it. We can choose to close our eyes to the gore, to the unflinching honesty of it all. We can TURN THE CHANNEL. QUICK. TURN THE CHANNEL, dammit!

Why men love to linger, while surfing channels to utter distraction, on the bucolic scene of baby quail bobbing along behind their mother, is beyond me. YOU KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE! TURN THE CHANNEL!

And yet.

They don’t.

So, we are forced to either watch or get up and leave.

Recently, I’ve noticed that Dave isn’t even accidentally watching nature shows – he is actively seeking them out on YouTube. He even laughs sometimes and says, “Here, you gotta watch this.” And I’m like, “No, I don’t. I don’t need to.”

“It’s funny. Watch it.”

And I proceed to watch a Rhino peacefully grazing alongside a couple of wild boars, suddenly scoop one of the boars up with his tusk, goring him. He flies high, high into the air and lands on flat his back from a height of about 15 feet. And the movie cuts out.

“What happened? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. It’s that funny? Rhinos are tough.”

And I’m left to wonder: is he dead? Is he suffering? Why did the Rhino do that? Why did the movie cut out? That poor wild boar…

It affects the rest of my day. Or the rest of my night. I have thought of that wild boar often since then…

Until I had something new to consume that space in my brain. If there was ever a misguided thought that cats are adorable, cuddly pets to be simply loved and protected, think again. They are the domesticated animal equivalent of the homicidal sociopath. The killer no one ever suspects. “He was always our nicest neighbor. Always helpful and kind.” …while he quietly racked up heads in his basement.

Cats are like that. You lull yourself into thinking, “not my cat” only to walk into a scene like this:

A murder scene.

For, no other description fits.

This wasn’t a cat eating a bird.

This was a death scene. This blood spattered high on the wall, the victim clearly pleading for his life.

I ask you: What in the Sam Hill was going on here?

Terror. Carnage. A miniature CSI scene.

What poor little — or not so little — animal met it’s end on Dave’s beautiful new garage floor?!

I think this one know’s and he isn’t talking.

So you all know about my rooster woes, right? The fact that I have five chickens crowded into a small fenced area, due to the existence of a single, renegade rooster living on the outside?

I’ve had about my fill of roosters fighting to the death, so these guys will remain separated until I can solve the problem. The solution, naturally, is that I plan to kill the crazy rooster and have him stuffed. Of course. Who wouldn’t, right?

Apparently no one would.

But that’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.

The only problem right now is that we just can’t come to a clear agreement on how to actually go about the killing of him. I suspect that is our lame excuse for avoiding it all together. I mean, really. Who wants to kill anything in cold blood?

Not me.

And also, apparently, not Dave.

Hunting is far more sporting. It’s another thing entirely to walk out there with sole the intention of catching him and killing him. Just like that. No sporting chance.

I know, because I have tried. And, I’ve always ended up watering the sunflowers instead.

Go figure. I must like the guy on some level.

Did I tell you he flew off the roof and tried to get me in the face the other day?

Well he did. And I’m still somewhat amused by him.

Oh, we’ve talked and talked the killing to death (get it? to death?) and we’re no where nearer to an answer than we were a month ago. It has to be as quick as possible. No suffering:

death by drowning
death by carbon monoxide
death by wringing of neck
death by .22
death by slitting of throat
death by Lola

OK, Lola is out. That would definitely involve terror and therefore suffering.

Anyway. We were out of town for the last several days (hence no updates in the last week) and I hadn’t checked on the chickens since I got back. I had Charlie run out there last night to ascertain that all was well. Why I would trust either of my kids to such a task, I have no idea. Remember, these are the same kids that didn’t notice a dead hen, despite their assurance to me that they had counted them, for over a week. When I went out there, all I found were some ribs and a wing.

However, since I could hear both the loud and shrill crazy crow of The Chieftain, and the gargled, strangling sound of the immature Chicken Little rooster, I figured Charlie was right.

That was last night.

This morning, as I was laying in bed, I heard a disturbing sound. It was a distinct bird like call, chicken in nature, that was neither the young rooster or the crazy rooster’s crow.

It chilled me to the very bone.

A third rooster? Surely not!

After dropping the kids off, I went out back to check things out. What I found was very disturbing indeed:

Murder in the Hen House.

Now, at first glance, this was maybe not such a bad thing, since it brought me down to one rooster, albeit a very mean and flight-aided one. I wondered, “Did these four hens rise up against the rooster and kill him? Was that what I heard this morning? His death throes?” I mean, you should see these hens. They are HUGE! It is certainly possible that one of them could have over-powered their oppressor.

Could it have been Miss Scarlet, in the Chicken Run, with the Watermelon Rind?

Or maybe Mrs. Peacock, in the Coop, with the Wooden Perch.

Who could it be.

Who could it be…

And then, I started really looking at these hens. And I’m like “that is one big, effin’ hen.”

Wait a minute… Could that one be a rooster? Nooooo. Please no!

Yes!

No!

YES!

I know the answer, because two hours later, with one of two known roosters dead, I heard a new crow. I think it’s this one:

Oh my GOSH! Is that BLOOD on his neck?

I think it IS! This is just like CSI! If I could just zoom in and enhance it a bit, using thermal imagery technology…

I don’t think that’s barbecue sauce. But it’s odd, because I did not see any blood on Chicken Little. So I went back to check him over again. I still didn’t see any blood, but I did see this

Could it be a clue? A post-mortem fingerprint? Hidden away under his wing awaiting my detection?

It will have to be sent out for DNA analysis, of course. Until then, the two striped suspects are under surveillance. At this point in the investigation, the evidence is inconclusive, but off the record, I think we have our killer. One of these days he’ll make a mistake and I’ll be there with the cuffs.

And now, this afternoon, after studying them a bit more, I’m actually thinking that BOTH the barred rocks (the striped ones) might be fricken’ roosters! They are both ridiculously large. And upon further inspection, I notice both of them have ever-so-slight knobs where spurs should be.

Seriously. This is truly insane. Hatcheries are between 90 and 95 percent accurate at sexing chicks. And I get three roosters out five “sexed pullets” in random assorted batch?

After that epiphany, I opened the door between the two coops and figured, “go ahead, fight to the death. I care not.”

That was six hours ago and they are still voluntarily segregated. I think it is worth noting that I still haven’t gotten a single egg from these “hens.” So it would be premature to say I have — not counting the recently departed white rooster — three roosters and two hens –because who’s to say they aren’t ALL roosters? Time will tell.

Is this God’s way of telling me I should give up on raising chickens? In the last 2 years, I have had no less than NINE roosters, when my intention was to have ZERO.

How’m I doing so far?

Murder at the Menke’s. A Cat-astrophe!

Murder at the Menkes: A Henhouse Whodunit.