Our formerly peaceful garden has been invaded by a rooster and his harem of chickens. Each morning they gather to eat the tasty insects found in the well-cultivated soil.
They chatter and cluck and drive Roscoe mad as he paces the deck, trapped, unable to hunt them down, ferret them out, get them out of the garden. Thankfully, touch wood, the rooster does not seem especially inclined to crowing, but the fear is in me nonetheless.
As I left the house this morning only to see six or seven chickens scatter at my step, I vowed to become their bane ... or perhaps to just let Roscoe loose in the garden the next few mornings.