It was last Sunday. I was feeling pretty good about all I had accomplished for the week with social media and blog posts for both The Ancestral Pen and the DAR. My book proof had arrived on Saturday and I was pleased, so I hit the publish button on it Sunday morning. I still had a couple more blog posts to write but knew I would be on track, and then all hell broke loose. I'm sitting here in my lounge, a blanket over my legs because it's still a bit cool here on spring mornings. My laptop on my lap and my fingers clicking away making my words come to life. I hear my son fire up his truck to go do a side job with his brother, but otherwise the house is still quiet. It's my quiet writing time, and then it wasn't. I hear a pitiful squawk from a chicken and then I hear it again, only that time I knew by its abrupt end that it wasn't good. I also knew that it was coming from the other side of the yard where there was not supposed to be a chicken. Before I could get my shoes on to check out the carnage, my son comes in. His first response was, "The chicken committed suicide." I knew before he told me which chicken it was too. She had been walking up and down in front of the side yard where the dogs are all week, and she was teasing the dog because she had a ball of feathers on top of her head that would bob with every movement. Apparently, she had stepped between the bars of the gate and hit the hot wire we have on the other side of the gate to prevent the one dog from testing its limits. That shock stunned her, and gave Mocha (a pitbull terrier) the chance to grab at her. That's when I heard the first squawk. Then she took off running and that's when Scout (our very large German Shorthair) grabbed her and finished the job. But the chaos didn't end there. I woke up my daughter and asked her to go get a bag and retrieve the chicken. They are her chickens after all, and I had been telling her she needed to clip their wings so they would stop flying over the fence. I went back to work on my next blog post and our son went to work. All is quiet again, until it wasn't. I hear a ferocious growl and I know instantly that the dogs are fighting over that damn chicken. My daughter had fallen back to sleep, so I pound on her door, explain what is going on. She goes out to the dogs. As she is opening the gate, I'm observing from my office window. I see Scout standing over the chicken and Mocha is in the doggy door with his head peeking out. That wasn't the image I was expecting to see. Scout's a bully, but Mocha is the pitbull terrier with food aggression. As my daughter enters the yard, she distracts Scout long enough that Mocha swooped in, grabbed the chicken, and ran. The chase was on. Scout ran after him around the back of the house. I knew we had an issue. I went to the back door, mad because I couldn't get it open. The dryer door sometimes blocks the back door from opening. I can't wait to get the washroom remodeled, still on the honey-do list, but I digress. Our daughter is trying to break up the dogs. I can hear the commotion and it doesn't sound pretty, but I can't see who has the upper hand. I run out of the washroom screaming to my husband who is still in bed, "We have a problem!" I rush to the back window to see what is going on as my husband goes running out the front door without even bothering to put on shoes. I expected to see Scout down and Mocha trying to kill him from the sounds of it, but no, I saw the opposite. Scout had Mocha by the neck dragging him. My husband climbed over the fence where the dogs were and was able to pull Scout off. Mocha was okay. Our daughter walked him out of the yard. The worst he suffered was a bloody ear that would not stop bleeding. My daughter-in-law pulled in having just got off work, so her, myself, and my daughter took him to the vet just to make sure. They looked him over, but he is fine. On our way home we stopped in at my parents'. We wanted to wish my mom a Happy Mother's Day even though I wasn't feeling the Mother's Day vibe at that point. Us three women along with my mom and dad helped push their van into their shop since it had broken down. Then we headed home. My husband met me at the door. "Shall we go?" he asked. "Go where?" I asked. "Up by Metaline Falls. The trail you wanted to go check out," he answered. "Yes!" And with that we were gone. We enjoyed what was left of the day out on a wilderness trail at Mill Creek Pond where an old dam was removed to restore the beautiful river back to its former glory. Minus the mosquitoes, it was beautiful. My husband knows that nature always restores my peace. What started out as a horrible day ended on a good note with a good man. And on this Sunday morning I'm sitting here watching the rain fall, knowing I probably won't get much done in my garden today, so I'll just write. His Greatest Regret is now available as e-book or paperback, click on image below. Happy Reading, Amy Crooks | 
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