I hear barking in the backyard and look out the window. Fleegle chases the neighbor’s cat across the lawn, over the old wood fence and out of the yard, then trots back to his chicken.

I step outside. “You got it covered?”

Fleegle lifts his leg on a bush in a macho pose, making a statement after a win. “Yep, that cat is getting slower.”

“You think you’ll catch it?”

“I will if it keeps trying for Georgina.”

“Is that what you’ve decided to name your chicken?”

He nuzzles the chick with his snout. “Yes, doesn’t she seem like a Georgina to you?”

“How do you know she is a she and not a he?”

“She looks like a she to me.”

“It’s time for us to go to work and her to go inside to her pen.”

He picks her up in his mouth and carries her through his dog door into what was once my den and office but has now become Fleegle’s chicken room.

*   *   *

As we drive to our first appointment, I notice Fleegle sitting unusually still in the passenger seat and glance over at him. Georgina is nesting on the top of his head. I’m about to say something about the car not being a chicken coop and her needing to stay at the house, but he speaks first.

“It’s career day at chicken school. Maybe Georgina wants to follow us into the dog business.”

Bird poop rolls to a stop between his eyes. I wipe it off with a tissue. “More likely we’ll follow her into the fertilizer business.”

 

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