Not really, I'll give you the details now. It's been quite the quiet evening at home. My sweet patootie got home after six so I stopped working and met him at the door. OK, OK, I am that sort of woman. When I'm home that is.
He's beat -working on a big job, far away and on rocky difficult land. All that to say, I made dinner. He makes the most divine fish soup ever and I am loath to compete but he encouraged me. 'It'll be different from mine and that's good.' So, I got to work, sauteing onions and garlic, opening a tin of diced tomatoes, getting out some cumin, rosemary and fennel. I diced some of my basil from the plants that didn't get planted today (I did plant about thirty plants). SP dozed on the couch.
The dog growled and the doorbell rang. I don't know about you guys but we hardly ever have anyone ring our doorbell. We went to the door - there were a couple of highly agitated neighborhood women.
"The rotty down below got your rooster. He got 'im good. His tail feathers are gone. I don't know if he's alive!" says one. The other nods furiously. More details of who's dog and it shouldn't have been off its leash. We are philosophical. We knew when we decided to let our brood range free that the cost might be deadly by times. We still believe that it is a better life than penned up would be.
SP gets his boots on and heads out. I continue sauteing. Once I have everything in the pot but the fish (the last to go in), I get my boots on and go out back to find the man and the roo and the hens. Our house sits on a couple of acres of brush and cliff. We are the disorderly lot in a very sedate subdivision. Finally through the trees that still litter the landscape from Hurricane Juan, I hear him.
SP that is, not the roo. He is without roo. I ask him, voice quavering just a little, "is he, uh, gone?" "Nah, he's OK, he's lost all his tail feathers and has a hunk of skin missing but he's just embarrassed. He's up on a rock. He'll come home in a bit, I imagine."
And so he did. He looks like half a rooster. Terrible. But he is hunting and pecking and otherwise acting like he can't quite remember that he went to bat for his gals. Against a rottweiler.
Oh, yes, and the owner of the rotty came by. Young fellow with a friend in a big black truck. Oh yes, all this is done except by us, in vehicles. This would be someone less than half a block away mind. He was dear and worried and he'd been yelled at by a number of neighbors by then. I told him not to worry, that it could happen to anyone - and our dog would do the same if he got the chance. We knew what the dangers were. One of the neighbors told him he was going to phone the SPCA. I'm sure he meant the bylaw guy but oh well. A few minutes ago, just as Jackmo showed up, two more ladies came by to see if it was all OK. In their car. SP gave them a dozen eggs.
Poor Jackmo. More later.
Weird I took that photo of him today. He won't have his glorious tail-feathers back for a long time if ever. A warrior.
the soup - wonderful! Glad it wasn't chicken...