Based on the blog name, you might think that as an outsider, I am making fun of the rural South. But here’s the truth:
I grew up in California, but in the part that nobody knows about: central California. During my teen years, my family lived in a single-wide mobile home – with the wheels still on – on one dusty acre behind my parents’ junk store.
Yes. Junk store.
Surrounded by cotton fields and dairies, our household consisted of four people, five dogs, one horse, and anywhere from five to twenty chickens.
One of our dogs was named Buffalo, and he had issues with cats. He hated them. When we moved to the country, he quickly transferred this animosity to the chickens. In fact, Buffalo made it his mission to purge our property of poultry.
I heart alliteration.
My dad built a Buffalo-proof pen, so the dog spent most of the day glaring through the wire at his feathered enemies. He was biding his time, because he had learned that my little sister wasn’t consistent at latching the chicken gate. She forgot about once every three months.
Chickens being, well, chickens, an open gate drew them out into the yard. And to their demise. It never happened when we were home, so here’s what we gathered from forensic evidence:
Buffalo waited until all the chickens left the pen. Then he systematically killed them. And stacked them in a neat pile against the fence. Obsessive-compulsive? We never knew for sure.
My parents tried every solution, but Buffalo could not be broken of his chicken habit. As a last resort my dad tried something that the old-timers swore by: letting the animal live with the consequences of his actions – literally.
So, after the next killing spree, my dad chose a dead chicken – our biggest rooster, as it happened – and tied the carcass to Buffalo’s collar. The idea was to leave it there until your dog grew to hate chickens, and then he’d never go near them again.
So hanging from our Doberman’s neck, tied by the feet and dragging on the ground, was a chicken pendant. A chicken necklace. A chicken choker.
This training method did not have the desired effect. Buffalo soon adjusted to the weight and awkwardness of his new accessory. And apparently the smell. In fact, I think he kind of forgot it was there.
Days passed, and the rooster rotted in the 100-degree heat. We girls spent our time dodging a 90-pound dog as he dragged around what looked like a large feather duster. A large smelly feather duster that kept shedding body parts all over the yard.
Even my dad questioned his plan when he realized that he’d lost his junk store dog. He couldn’t really lock Buffalo and a dead chicken in the store every night.
So eventually Dad decided to remove the carcass, and there was much rejoicing in the land. But when Buffalo greeted us that morning, something was missing. At first it looked like the chicken had finally disintegrated.
But then we saw it: Buffalo had removed the chicken himself, by chewing it off at the feet.
The only thing hanging from his collar now, like the necklace of a voodoo queen, was a pair of large bright-yellow chicken feet.
See? Rednecks = my people. The soil may be red here instead of brown, but it feels like home to me.
In your FACE, Jeff Foxworthy!
14 responses so far ↓
1 Suzy // Sep 3, 2008 at 10:38 pm
I am crying. This is the most entertaining piece you have written.
p.s.
I forgot about the feet necklace!
2 Steph // Sep 3, 2008 at 11:23 pm
Thank you Sister-who-got-the-chickens-killed! I’m glad I did the story justice.
3 HW // Sep 4, 2008 at 12:13 pm
Great story!! Some dogs just don’t want to give up.
Thanks for stopping by my blog. I look forward to getting to know you through your posts.
4 mama // Sep 4, 2008 at 12:46 pm
I am still laughing. However, “second hand store” would
have made us sound less like rednecks.
Also, we had lots of green grass. I dragged the hose around that huge yard every hour all summer long to get that grass! I demand credit for it
5 Gaylee Rubin // Sep 4, 2008 at 2:29 pm
I am so glad I stumbled onto your blog. This is drop dead funny.
Can’t wait to read more.
6 Steph // Sep 4, 2008 at 3:16 pm
Thanks for the comments!
@HW,
I’m glad I followed some links to your site. I love it and will be back. Thanks for coming for a visit. I hope you do enjoy it.
@mama,
And I never said we had NO grass, just that it was dusty. which it was. don’t worry; we won’t ever forget all the watering you did (and had US do!) on that lawn.
junk store. junk store. junk store.
@gaylee,
thank you so much for the positive feedback. i’m glad you stumbled upon us here. feel free to comment anytime!
7 Heidi // Sep 4, 2008 at 8:03 pm
This is HILARIOUS! Loved it, loved it, loved it! Thanks for stopping by my site and leaving your link…this was awesome! I’m going to check out your site now….
8 Pat Colucci // Sep 5, 2008 at 7:53 am
Steph – what a great “story” – sure rings true to what I remember, excepting there was grass (part of the time in some places, and it was a second hand store that had a lot of junk in it.) Poor Buffalo – he was a good neighbor until the chickens. Thanx for the laugh. Pat in central California
9 ronniedigital // Sep 5, 2008 at 9:28 pm
Wow, that was a funny story. Thanks for the read! It’s always a pleasure to stumble upon something so funny. (even if it is written by a redneck)
10 Aunt Sharon // Sep 7, 2008 at 2:56 am
Hilarious! I remember Buffalo but you didn’t bring any chickens to Riverside, to their great joy, I am sure.
11 Musings of a Housewife // Oct 17, 2008 at 9:57 pm
THAT is hilarious. Consider yourself stumbled!
12 the domestic fringe // Jun 7, 2009 at 9:20 pm
Oh My Goodness!!!
This post was hysterical. I can’t believe your dad actually tied the dead chicken to your dogs collar. That’s just unreal.
Thanks for linking up!
-FringeGirl
13 Jen // Jun 8, 2009 at 4:48 am
That is too funny! It’s funny to see some animals have such a personality!
Jen’s last blog post..Jellies And Tats
14 chrissy // Jun 13, 2009 at 1:23 am
Wow…that’s some story. Pretty gross. Kinda funny. Surprised your dog didn’t get really sick from the chicken death on his neck. yeah, definitely gross
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