Death of a Chicken

Natasha looked out the window and saw Noodle with his head
to the ground, munching on something. Noodle was a silly dog; he was
always on the lookout for meal supplements. Whenever somebody was in
the kitchen preparing food, Noodle was right there, his large eyes
alert and his black and brown fur quivering with the anticipation of a
dropped morsel. Outside, he would brave the thorns on the raspberry
canes in order to pick off low-hanging fruit. When all else failed,
Noodle would chew grass, as if he were a cow with four stomachs to
fill. The current snack was not a rawhide bone that Noodle had
carried outside. Whatever it was, it was red. Natasha ran out the
back door and off the deck to where Noodle was crouching.

“Come here, boy,” said Natasha. “What are you eating?”

Noodle was also a good dog. He never wandered off, though the
property had no fence, visible or invisible. He stayed off the
furniture—most of the time—and always came when Natasha called him.
Noodle reluctantly lifted his head and trotted to his owner.

Natasha recognized one the hens from next door, though this one had
clucked its last. Something had ripped open its midsection to reveal
a slimy, bloody tangle of insides. Natasha lost her appetite for
lunch.

“Gross! Noodle, get away from that!”

Noodle was already by her side, but now the dog turned his head to
look at her. Natasha knew the expression—it was the look of shame.
Noodle kept his head tilted downward and raised his eyes from beneath
his fuzzy brow. Noodle was a sensitive dog, and Natasha instinctively
reached down to rub his head and reassure him.

That was when she saw the chicken feather dangling from his chin.

Natasha heard herself scream. She had intended just to raise her
voice so that her father would hear her inside the house, but it came
out as a shriek of terror, as if a boogeyman were snatching her.
Natasha’s cries continued as the feather dropped from Noodle’s mouth
and floated to the ground.

Her father sprinted out of the house. “Natty, are you okay?” he
asked. He knelt in front of her, grabbed her arms, and made sure she
was still all there.

“Daddy, look!” Natasha extended a shaking finger and pointed it at the
carcass. “Noodle was eating it!”

Only a slight hint of disgust appeared in her father’s face as he took
in the situation. “Why don’t you take Noodle and sit on the deck.
Keep a hand on his collar. I’m going to call Mr. Walters and we’ll
get this taken care of.”

Natasha led Noodle up the deck stairs and they both sat down on the
wood. Noodle was still traumatized; he kept his lower jaw pressed to
the deck board and shifted his eyes around the scene. Natasha needed
to be strong for him, and she was beginning to calm down now that
Daddy was here. She thought of all the dead animals that had crossed
her path: a squirrel, floating face down in her pool; an opossum,
sprawled in the ditch by the road; a cat, curled up under Daddy’s car.
Natasha did not know what Daddy had done with them, but he had made
them all go away.

Mr. Walters and his daughter Brittany came out of the house next door.
Natasha used to go over to Brittany’s house all the time to play
pretend or practice dance moves. They had planned to go into business
together one day. They would own a dance studio or open a shop where
they sold elegant stationary. Mrs. Walters was so nice, always
offering them lemonade. She even let them eat ice cream for a snack.
Mr. Walters was usually at work during these times, but whenever he
did see Natasha, he gave her a wave and a friendly smile.

Mr. Walters and Brittany walked through a gate that separated the two
properties. Mr. Walters carried a black plastic garbage bag and a
shovel. Natasha raised a hand in greeting, but Brittany had eyes
only for the dead chicken.

“I’m really sorry about this, Brian,” said Natasha’s father. “We’re
not sure what happened. Natty just looked out the window and saw
this.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” said Mr. Walters. “Nobody wants to
find a dead chicken in their yard. We let them out to roam around,
and this one here must have climbed the fence.”

Brittany turned her head and gave Natasha a withering glare. Natasha
felt as if she were looking into a double-barreled shotgun.

“Noodle didn’t kill it,” said Natasha, as she stroked the dog’s head.
Noodle looked at her with his adoring eyes.

“It’s possible,” said her father, “but it would surprise me if he did.
Noodle’s usually scared of the animals that come into our yard. He
doesn’t even like to chase birds.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ed,” said Mr. Walters. “We’ve just got to be
more careful when we let the chickens out of the pen. Hold the bag
for me, Brit.”

Brittany held the garbage bag open but turned her head away from the
opening as Mr. Walters scooped up the dead bird. The chicken’s head
lolled off the end of the shovel as Mr. Walters let the carcass slide
into the plastic bag.

With Natasha’s hand still on his collar, Noodle perked up and wagged
his tail. Natasha willed Brittany to look at Noodle’s precious face,
to realize that he wanted only love and affection from this life, but
Brittany did not look up. Holding the trash bag in her outstretched
arm, she walked back to her house with her father beside her. Mr.
Walters took the bag from Brittany, tied a double knot in it, and
sealed it tightly in a metal garbage can.

The next day in school, Mrs. Jamison gave them some free time to do
their fractions homework and even allowed them to work in groups.
Natasha and her friend Rosette worked side by side, conferring
occasionally but for the most part remaining quiet. Behind her,
though, came an unceasing stream of murmurs and whispers. Natasha
glanced in that direction while she stretched and saw Brittany in
close communication with her friends Alicia and Felicia. All three of
their worksheets were bare of pencil marks. Natasha tried to focus on
her fractions, but she strained to hear the conversation behind her.

“Nasty, what did you get for number three?”

Natasha turned around to find Alicia looking at her. “What did you say?”

Alicia raised her eyebrows as if shocked by Natasha’s hostile tone.
“I was just asking what you got for number three, Natty.”
“Well, if you actually did some of your work,” said
Natasha, “you might be able to figure it out.”

“Somebody’s a little rude today,” said Felicia.

“No, she’s right,” said Alicia. “We should get to work on our
fractions. Okay, Brit. What is three-quarters of a chicken plus
seven-sixteenths of a chicken?”
“Well, let’s see,” said Brittany. “That would be two dead
chickens and one vicious dog.”

“He’s not vicious!” said Natasha in a whisper-yell.

“Natasha,” said Mrs. Jamison from her desk, “you need to use your
inside voice. If everybody can’t do that, then you’re just going to
have to do the worksheet at home.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Jamison,” replied Natasha. She composed
herself and read the next math problem.

“He’s a killer,” hissed Felicia.

Natasha turned around in her seat and forced herself to remain calm.
“Stop saying that. Brittany, you know Noodle is afraid of his own
shadow.”

“I raised Maisy from a chick,” said Brittany, not a hint of teasing in
her voice now. “She was perfectly fine that morning. A few hours
later, she was dead in your yard. How else did she get like that?”

Natasha had considered this mystery last night and come up with a
reasonable theory. “It was a cat,” she said. “Loose cats are coming
into our yard all the time. I’ve seen them chase birds. And Maisy
shouldn’t have been in our yard anyway. If you’d have just watched
your animals, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Brittany did not respond, but she was clearly not convinced.

“He’s a murderer,” said Alicia.

“Think whatever you need to think,” said Natasha, looking
straight at Brittany, “but you know Noodle didn’t do this.” Natasha
turned around and ignored the sounds behind her until the end of free
time.

When Natasha got home from school, Noodle was just inside the door,
waiting to greet her as always. Dogs were so much more welcoming than
humans. If Daddy was home from work early, he would give her a “Hey,
kiddo,” but he would not look up from cooking dinner, or reading the
newspaper, or whatever he might be doing. Sometimes Grandpa would
pick her up and twirl her around if he had not seen her for a couple
months. With Noodle, every time she walked in the house, it was like
a treasured reunion of intertwined souls. Natasha could hear his
barks of excitement through the door as she approached the house.
Noodle practically leapt into her arms when she crossed the threshold.
His tail wagged like a seismograph during an earthquake. If people
could achieve this constant level of enthusiasm for their loved ones,
war would be a thing of the past.

After the requisite embrace and kisses, Natasha led Noodle
out into the back yard. Noodle did not play with toys or fetch
sticks, but he did like to luxuriate in his domain. Noodle ran to a
sunny part of the yard and started rolling. He wriggled from side to
side on his back, his white underbelly exposed to the sky. When
Noodle had covered himself in grass clippings, Natasha started a game
of hide and seek. She would sprint from tree to tree, with Noodle not
far behind, and after a couple minutes they would reverse roles.
Right out in the open, Noodle would stop and crouch down as if he were
behind a bush. Natasha would “find” him, Noodle would yip with
delight, and the pattern would start again.

Resting after the game, Natasha detected motion on the far
side of the yard. The chicken was strutting around, bobbing for bugs
and worms, oblivious to having wandered from its yard. Natasha also
noticed a gray cat perched on a fence post. She did not know who the
cat belonged to, but she had seen it in the yard before, stalking
birds and taunting Noodle. Its head rotated on its neck in perfect
synchronicity with the roaming chicken. Natasha was tempted to let
the scenario play out, to sit back and watch as the sly feline stalked
and killed its unknowing prey. She could then announce to Brittany
that she had witnessed the event, that her sweet Noodle was innocent
of all charges.

Noodle stretched on the grass and soaked up warm sunbeams.

The chicken wandered farther from its safe haven.

The gray cat crouched and prepared to pounce.

Waving her arms and shooing the bird, Natasha ran toward
the chicken. She did not want the chicken to die. The cat’s crafty
intelligence outmatched the bird’s simple mind. The chicken did not
realize that it had strayed into a potential death trap. Natasha also
reminded herself that she was trying to live by the Golden Rule. If
one of her animals had strayed onto a neighbor’s property, she would
want that neighbor to help. More than anything, though, Natasha did
not want to witness death again. She remembered the limp neck, the
red, slippery mess underneath chewed flesh. She had no doubt that she
would relive the scene in her nightmares.

As Natasha closed in on the chicken, the cat remained on
the post, but it appeared poised for flight instead of fight. No
chicken would die on her watch.

A brown and black blur flashed by Natasha. The chicken
accelerated like a drag racer and ran for its life. Natasha had never
seen Noodle, a little thick around the middle, run so fast. Daddy
would joke that “fat boy” needed to go on a diet while Natasha
protested that he was big boned. Noodle’s run was usually more of a
galumph. Now, though, Noodle’s stride resembled the smooth gait of an
Olympic sprinter. Noodle’s goofiness had evaporated, replaced by a
serious, determined expression that Natasha had only seen on nature
shows where cheetahs chased antelope. Natasha tried to command Noodle
to stop, but she was so shocked that no sound came out of her mouth.

In a test of pure speed, Noodle would have bested the
chicken, but the bird moved in a serpentine motion that forced the dog
to slow and change direction. When the chicken sensed that it had a
sufficient lead, it headed for the fence and safety. Close to the
border, it flapped its wings furiously and made it to the top of the
barrier. As the bird hopped over into its own yard, Noodle hit the
wood like a battering ram. A loud crack reverberated through the air.

“Noodle!” cried Natasha as she ran to him. On the other side of the
fence, the chicken slowed to a walk and began bobbing for bugs again.
Natasha had almost reached Noodle when the dog’s demeanor brought her
up short. Noodle’s bared teeth seemed sharper than they had when
Natasha had last brushed them. His growl had none of the playfulness
in it as it did when he wanted a rawhide. When Noodle came home from
the SPCA, he was so timid that he did not make a sound for two weeks.
Daddy had even taken him to the vet to check whether he had been
debarked. Now, it was as if a rabid bat had bitten Noodle and
injected into him a lust for raw flesh.

After fifteen seconds of ferocity, Noodle stepped back from the fence,
chuffed, shook his head, and then his entire body. Both his tail and
his tongue wagged as he recovered from his failed pursuit. Natasha
knelt beside Noodle, threw her arms around him and buried her face in
his fur. She carefully checked his head and face for open wounds and
found none.

One end of a middle fence board was hanging loose. The
impact of Noodle’s skull had knocked the nails right out of their
holes. Natasha watched Brittany’s house, waiting for either her
former friend or Mr. Walters to come out of the house to investigate
the commotion. Natasha hoped it would be Brittany herself so that
they could talk one on one without the commentary of her annoying
school friends. Natasha could apologize in private, and maybe
Brittany would remember the friendship they used to have. If Mr.
Walters came out, he would be nice about it, Natasha was sure, but he
would tell Brittany, and Natasha would get an earful in school the
next day. Natasha stroked Noodle while she waited, but nobody
ventured forth from next door.

Natasha felt something soft and moist nudge her cheek.
She pulled away from Noodle’s nose and looked into the large, brown
eyes that were incapable of sinister expression. Noodle pressed his
head into her hand, forcing Natasha to pet him, and then he rolled
onto his back so that she could run his belly. Instead of granting
her dog his most fervent wish, Natasha stood up and headed for the
garage. She would get a hammer and try to repair the damaged board

before anybody else came home.

Tom W. Miller lives an ordinary life yet finds insight and entertainment from his everyday experiences. He lives in Virginia’s
Shenandoah Valley with his family.