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A trip into town for wood, a new roller assembly, and paint is next on the list, but I’m satisfied with the progress I’ve made.
“Shit.” My ankle joint screams when I attempt to stretch it.
Jango ambles over to sniff my boot.
“Pen’s going to be pissed, isn’t she?”
He answers me by hanging his head and half-covering his snout with a paw.
“Great. She and Heather can join forces with the psychos online who are busy plotting my murder.”
After rinsing my hair, face, and arms with cold water at the utility sink, I pull on my shirt and grab a clean towel from my workbench.
I’m examining the busted window above it when, on the other side of the lawn, I see Heather dragging two buckets of feed toward the chicken coop.
Her boots are caked with a questionable brown mixture, patches of skin are visible through the various tears in her leggings, and half of her tightly bound bun now lies over her right shoulder in a tangled mess.
“She’s fine.” Swiping the towel over my ears and neck, I double down. “She doesn’t want my help.”
But am I really going to stand here and watch her struggle?
I’ll call it ‘morbid curiosity’ which has my throbbing ankle forgotten as I hurry outside.
Jango trots toward Heather, circling her with his whole ass swinging happily.
Even clearly exhausted, she spares the mutt a thoughtful smile. “Hi, handsome.”
“Here, let me get those,” I offer, bending for the feed. “These ladies tend to be a handful.”
The buckets drop between her feet, missing my hands by no more than an inch.
“I think I can handle a few flightless birds.”
That sweet, mocking tone grates my nerves as crosseyed, I glare at the finger jabbing the center of my forehead. Maintaining pressure, she waits for me to stand before giving me a push.
“You little—”
Reaching for the latch to the run, Heather scurries to unlock it before slipping inside. Buckets in hand, she sticks her tongue out just as the screen door slams shut.
“Fine, have at it if you think you’re so tough.” Palm twitching, I watch her fumble over empty bowls as the chickens swarm. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They peck at the pellet mix spilling around her boots, clucking excitedly.
“I don’t know what you’re going on about. They’re kind of cute.” A nervous laugh shakes her voice when she gets ready to pour. “Easy beasties.”
What a black hen, double the size of the others, bobs her way down the small wooden ladder, the smirk on my face plummets.
Highest in the pecking order, Svetlana has a reputation for being a mean bitch. She knows better than to try her shit with me and Pen, but Heather?
She’s fresh meat.
“Slayer,” I warn.
“I can’t hear you,” she singsongs, but by theclinkof the first pellet dropping, Svetlana’s wings are flapping, her claws are out, and all hell breaks loose.
With a screech, Heather ditches the buckets, pitching them into the air and showering the coop with feed. Through a flurry of feathered bodies, I hear more than see her struggle with the vicious chicken.
“Just had to do it your way, didn’t you,” I mutter, debating whether she needs rescuing or not.
