Stopped by my parents' house tonight & received the news that my beloved Buster, the only chicken I've ever really loved, was killed last night by a $$#%^&*@##$% coyote. They've been HORRIBLE lately (gotten probably 8 chickens in the last month+ ), but somehow I always thought Buster would be OK. Devastated doesn't begin to describe how I feel right now. The only chickens my parents have left are the boring, personality-free ones; Buster used to come when called and followed me around the yard like a puppy. My mom's and my voices sound very much alike, and my mom said that sometimes she'd be talking in the barn and would see Buster come flying around the corner, thinking he heard me. She said he always looked kind of disappointed when he realized it was "only" her.
I'm planning on spending the bulk of the weekend hunting coyotes at my parents' place, and I swear to God, I won't be satisfied until I splatter a bunch of them all over the freaking woods.
Thanks for listening, you guys. Nobody else seems to understand that chickens can be pets, and that their owners can be just as heartbroken when something happens to them as they would be if it were a dog or cat.
I'm planning on spending the bulk of the weekend hunting coyotes at my parents' place, and I swear to God, I won't be satisfied until I splatter a bunch of them all over the freaking woods.
Thanks for listening, you guys. Nobody else seems to understand that chickens can be pets, and that their owners can be just as heartbroken when something happens to them as they would be if it were a dog or cat.