Free Unusual Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer by Kelly Jones

horrible thing?
    “My mom heard the noise and came running. Rocky was already dead. The raccoon was—like that—and Buffy’s chicks were all staring up at it, so Mom grabbed the shovel and…I’m sorry.” He looked away.
    I felt the goose bumps run all over my skin. “What about the hen?”
    “Buff Orpington, good layer, a little shy, one extra point on the comb but still show-worthy. I was going to show her this year—she’s the only hen I have. We called her Buffy,” he said automatically. Then his face got unhappy. “She wasn’t in with her chicks.… Mom found her dust-bathing under the blueberries. She never did anything like…whatever they did. But Mom shut her in a crate and told Gregory she has to go.”
    Well, I could understand why, if her chicks did that. But she was my responsibility now. I squared my shoulders. “Okay. Can I borrow the crate? You can have mine until I can bring it back.”
    The kid looked at me then, like he was kind of impressed. “Sure,” he said. He led me over to a dog crate that was covered with more burlap. At least this wasn’t bloody. I grabbed my crate out of the wagon and put it down, and the kid put the burlap-covered crate in the wagon. The chicken inside squawked, so I guess she was all right.
    “Does she have water and food?” I asked.
    The boy shrugged. “Mom wouldn’t let me open it,” he said.
    “Well, she has to have water, at least,” I said stubbornly. I know chickens can die fast without water. “Give it to me, and I’ll do it.”
    So he gave me an old yogurt container full of water, and I opened the crate door without lifting the burlap, stuck the water inside, and shut the door again as fast as I could.
    The boy watched all this in silence. Then he looked at me and said, “I’m Chris. See you around sometime.” He went off inside before I thought of anything else to say.
    I know you would never approve of messing with someone else’s property. But, Abuelita, that raccoon statue was so horrible. And it was pretty clear that boy wanted nothing to do with it. And, also, maybe this is selfish of me, but I didn’t want people to come after this new chicken with pitchforks, like they did with Frankenstein. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her fault, whatever happened.
    I pushed the statue in their pond. I’m sure they could get it out again if they really wanted to, but it was heavy and horrible and I can’t think why they’d want to. Don’t worry, I wore my gloves. And I don’t think I messed up the ground too bad pushing it. (It was really heavy.)
    That chicken sure was noisy. I don’t think she liked the wagon. But we made it home. I put her crate in the barn and stuck some food inside, but I latched her door closed again. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want her to turn the other chickens to stone, or me, or my parents. But I can’t leave her in there forever. I hope that Agnes writes back soon.
    Te quiero,
Soficita
    PS I wish I’d told that boy I was sorry about his rooster, and his chicks. I feel bad about that.
    PPS How did Gregory know the chicken was Great-Uncle Jim’s? Why am I not supposed to tell anyone if everyone here already knows about them? Does Gregory know that Chris knows too?

June 23, 2014
    Agnes
    Redwood Farm Supply
    Gravenstein, CA 95472
    Dear Agnes,
    Sorry to bother you, but I really need to know about Great-Uncle Jim’s Buff Orpington hen. There’s a nasty stone raccoon statue at Chris Smith’s farm now, and I don’t have a good feeling about it. Should I ask Gregory to give this one to someone else after all?
    Sincerely,
Sophie
    PS Ms. Smith killed her chicks. I’m sorry.
    PPS I pushed the statue in the pond.
    PPPS Please don’t say I have to kill the hen.
    PPPPS Why do you sell dangerous chickens like that? Someone could get hurt.

    dddear sophie
    buff orpington = cockatrice hatcher, not cockatrice herself. shuldnot turn anyonne to st0one,,. might glare alot,.do not evr ever keep iwth aany rooster.