I win, chicken. I WIN!!!
Or at least, I think I do. I hope so. I can’t be sure. She’s beat me before. Many times. Many months. Shoot, who am I kidding. It’s been a year of trying to coop her up. To keep Phoebe – the Houdini of Hens – in her little chicken yard. This great escape artist. The hen who couldn’t be penned.
But I think I’ve got her. I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve won.
Hoorah!
A year back I nicknamed Phoebe the Bomb Crater Chicken because she had a knack for jumping the picket fence to her area, rooting around in my nicely manicured backyard and digging holes like a B-52 had made a bombing run. Pine needles would be strewn about. Plants devoured. And I risked breaking an ankle as I ran about trying to corral her while yelling, “Come back here you dang-blasted Bomb Crater Chicken!” It was quite a sight to see, and some tourist trains considered adding this spectacle to their itinerary.
I began erecting fishing nets that extended higher and higher, making my backyard look like some kind of cross between an Indonesian fishing village and a hobo camp. But no matter what I did, the bird still managed to find a way out. I would stand at the back door for hours watching, waiting, spying in hopes of catching her in the act.
But she was too smart to give up how she was doing it. She would watch me through the pickets with her eagle-like eyes, knowing that once I started dancing around it meant I would soon need a bathroom break. That would be her moment to strike. I would come back and out she would be.
She was also smart because when the door opened and I yelled, “Dang-blasted Bomb Crater Chicken!” she should go quiet, quit her rooting and crouch down low. I don’t know If chickens can smile, but I’m pretty certain there was joy in her little cranium while she watched me stomp around the yard screaming, “Where are you Phoebe? I’ll get the stew pot!”
Then I would catch a glimpse of her and have to chase her around the backyard, usually tripping in one of her bomb craters.
“Mom!” I would hear my daughter at her bedroom window call out. “Dad’s chasing Phoebe again. I think he’s going to need that therapist again.”
Anyone who tells you a chicken isn’t smart never met my bird. A cunning, conniving little hen. But I think I finally beat her. More nets were ordered, and now a green one completely covers the top of the entire chicken yard.
It’s Chicken Alcatraz.
She hasn’t beaten it yet. And I know the keyword is “yet.” I found drawings in the coop. Designs for tunnels with wood braces and exit points. Tiny, chicken-sized shovels and a miner’s helmet. I know she’s plotting. I know she is just biding her time. The Houdini of chickens is up to something, I just know it. It’s personal with her, and she doesn’t like losing. Not this Bomb Crater Chicken.