Weapons of Mass Destruction
As told by Warrior Chicken: Minerva Louise
I'll tell you how it went down. Ever since the warmer weather hit, the captor has been digging in the dirt and has had us on lockdown. In the winter, we were allowed free access to the yard for hours on end. Now, the run door is locked except when she opens it to toss in scraps, weeds or to refill the water. The tightened restrictions have severely hampered my abilities to escape.
Then it happened. It was a warm spring day. The sun out. The breeze blowing. I could smell freedom wafting just over the fence! Metal Wing, my destined mate, was out there, somewhere, waiting to lead a chicken rebellion with me. To free chickens from the confines of cages and coops across the land.
The captor and her two little helpers were upon the hill. She unlocked the bars of the dank red cage and let us out, ordering the sidekicks to keep an eye on us. "Keep them out of the pumpkins," she directed.
Puff, bird brain that she is, didn't even bother to come out of the henhouse but stayed in the nesting box, waiting for babies that would never come. Fluff, as bright as her cochin cohort, was off chasing a dragonfly or something.
Ginger, Serena and I made for the sunny patch by the apple tree. I'd been sewing seeds of revolution with those two for six months now. Ginger, the flighty blond thing, is fairly malleable. Serena, fancies herself top hen but spends an inordinate amount of time begging for treats from the captor. She's always talking about catching more worms with honey than vinegar or such. With lockdown in effect for a month, though, Serena's talk has changed. She sees that we need to get the worms ourselves. We cannot wait for the jailor to bring them to us.
The captor was by the wood boxes filled with plants. Her lackeys were chasing each other with hefty wood sticks. "Now or never," I clucked. "To higher ground!!"
Ginger, Serena and I launched ourselves at the soft, warm hills of dirt, kicking soil and the squash seedlings across the yard. We dug up sunflower sprouts, knocked over cosmos and calendula starts, and dragged the captor's precious pumpkin babies across the beds.
I heard a shout, clapping hands and then felt a cold shot of water hammer my fine-boned Welsummer body. Dearest reader, I admit it. I ran. So did Ginger. But our hearts swelled at the sight of Serena, never yielding. She knocked over the last of the winter squash hills even as our jailor blasted her with water. Serena kept kicking and clawing until the human clamped her hands across Serena's wings and tossed her into the henhouse with the rest of us chickens. Top hen after all!
The captor replanted the pumpkins, forming larger, softer hills for her seedlings. We may have lost the battle but at least she now knows what she was dealing with. We are not mere chickens. Not egg laying machines or garbage disposals. Not mealy beaked hens for cuddling and coaxing with worms.
Oh no. Now she knows the truth. We are natural born killers. Look out seedlings. We're coming for you.