Chicky Alert

The Hillbilly household was in a bit of a turmoil yesterday evening when Chicken H couldn't find Chicky. Chicky is the adolescent chicken that we have raised from an egg. Our ONLY fowl offspring. Chicky has a habit of squeezing through his pen and pecking to and fro in the goat pen. Sometimes, he will re-enter the chicken condo through the main chicken pen. He rarely roosts in the main chicken house. As Chicken H says, "Those other chickens don't like Chicky." Go figure. Isn't that the way of the world? The unwashed chickens envy Chicky for being hatched with a silver spoon in his beak. They shun him.

Chicken H relayed this fact to me as I was driving The Pony home from school. Little Ponies have big ears. He heard my half of the conversation:

Look in the goat pen.
I did. Chicky is not there.
Maybe he's in the yard.
No. He's not in his old pen with the turkey, either.
Last night, when I was out on the porch on the phone with The Veteran, I saw Ann eating something in the yard. It crunched like chicken bones.
Chicky was here last night after I got home from bowling.
OK. Then it wasn't him.
He's not on that roosting bar.
Look in the house.
I did. He's not there. They don't like him.
Maybe he's on his way up from the woods.
I did hear something in the woods.
Let me know if you find him.

The Pony was nervous. "What happened? Did one of the animals die?"
Your dad can't find one.
Which one?
Guess.
No. Tell me.
Chicky.
I was afraid of that.

The Pony sat quietly. Every couple of minutes, he said something about Chicky. It was hard for me to listen to him being so optimistic. That's because I am just the opposite.

Thank the Gummi Mary, Chicken H called back about 15 minutes later. "I found Chicky. You'll never guess where. I opened up the wooden box where I keep the goat food, and something flew out. It was Chicky. I don't know how he got up in there."

The Pony was relieved. Chicky is like his baby.