A journalist observes life in the far north.
When Alec told me something had killed the hens, decapitated them, the image that came to my mind was a massacre. Blood splattered on the walls. Bits of flesh scattered about. A pink tint in the water bowl.
“It’s nothing like that,” laughed my friend, Jennifer, today.
She stood in the doorway of the bathroom. I was sitting on a stool with my back leaning against the washing machine. Jade sat on the toilet, pretending to pee so I’d give her a piece of candy.
Jennifer had peeked in the hen house after going outside to start her minivan. She brought her youngest daughter to Murphy Dome for a play date, and it was time for them to leave.
My friend started to describe the scene in the hen house but I stopped her, covering my ears.
“I don’t want to know. I don’t want the image in my mind.”
Relief was what I felt after Alec told me last night the hens were dead. Relief because I wasn’t the one who found them. It’s December with subzero temperatures, I am eight months pregnant, short on sleep and bent on avoiding drama.
Actually, I thought Alec was kidding at first and then I felt relief.
He said an animal was apparently stuck under the hen house, grabbed his rifle and returned outside. I heard four shots.
It’s not clear what kind of animal killed our hens. Probably a marten. I’m told they have beautiful fur.