“Which chicken?”
The characteristic I-swallowed-a-trombone-for-my-breakfast voice of Pete rumbled down the line.
This was in response to the frantic “I killed a chicken and I am so sorry” message that I left earlier in the day.
To be absolutely honest, that was not my message.
My message went more like this:
“Pete, it’s Jane here. Great news – the three kittens are still alive and the chickens laid three eggs and there are still three live chickens. Ha Ha! Isn’t that great? Cosmic balance…”
It was said in a hopeful manner, at least.
“The red one,” I responded, thinking please don’t let her have a name, please don’t let her have a name…”
“Oh,” Pete said, “She was an interloper; flew in when we built the coop and never laid a single egg anyway. No matter.”
(phew)
“A handsome young farmer called Tom took her away after conducting a CSI inspection to determine cause of death was old age,” I woffled grateful to be out of the fray.
“Ha HA! I will have to roast Tom about having to rescue you…”
Now, how about them kittens, sleeping by the travelling bread oven…
