Our neighbors have chickens now. About a month or so ago, a strange structure went up in their backyard. We can kind of see it from our deck. We figured either a rabbit hutch or a chicken coop, and sort of hoped if it was rabbits they'd keep that locked up, as two of our three animals think it's their calling and their duty to bring us dead rabbits whenever possible.
Everyone's in luck! Especially rabbits!
It's a chicken coop.
They have fluffy, pretty lady chickens strutting around like they own the place back there. Our neighbors' dog is perfectly content to coexist with them. Our dog wants over there.
He wants over there badly.
Because he is a good dog, he only dug a hole deep enough to look under. This is what he does, whenever we let him out into the backyard. He sticks his head into one of the three spaced-apart under-the-fence viewing windows he has dug for himself, and he just watches them.
He wants those chickens, people.
He wants them.
He hasn't even tried to dig a hole he can actually get through. He just watches them, the way I watch reruns of Iron Chef America on Netflix or the way I watched Frasier three times in one year; with an abject fascination and entertainment coupled with shame that he just can't go do something useful.
I'm kidding. He probably doesn't feel any shame. That's me.
I feel that. When hitting the play button to start the seventh episode today.
Getting him inside at this point has become more and more difficult. He's just too busy to hear us calling, or so he pretends. We don't worry too much about it - it keeps him out enjoying our big backyard, frees us up time to deal with the other needy creatures constantly begging for food in our house.
I mean... he still begs for food.
He just does it on the porch now, instead of in the kitchen.
I'm okay with that.