We Thought It Was

By BA Cullen

We thought it was a fox. But it wasn’t.

Mum was upstairs—watchtower; Dad patrolled, jaw hardened, eyes searching, with a hosepipe and oven mitt. He tested the hosepipe’s range against the hedge.

The chickens relaxed: dusting amongst daffodils and puffing feathers in twilight’s last rays.

But the dripping hosepipe aggravated Dad’s bladder, so he was inside when Mum screamed. Buttoning jeans, mitt and hosepipe lying on the patio, he ran to the flapping and cracking.

Too late. One chicken eyeballed Dad, a gob of yolk clinging to its beak, then rejoined the frenzy.

Deranged or jealous, we doubled the guards.