This is a gruesome tale so stop reading now if you’re the sensitive type. If you like to harbour delusions about the glamour of inner-city life best you too go; maybe order another vodka martini and come back later when we’ve finished.
Boef-the-bad
Yesterday, Boef, (henceforth to be known as Boef-the-bad) killed the last of our poor little chooks. We do have plans to dog-proof the chook run next week but time-ran out for Ollie as it had for her sisters before her. There were no excuses this time for Boef. He had had a long walk and a rather nice brunch which included scraps from the weekend’s organic lamb roast and home-made gravy. And yet I came home after only a short outing to discover him standing over an inert Ollie with a “she-just-fell-into-my-mouth” expression on his face. Bad Boy Boef!
As if this wasn’t bad enough I later discovered the deceased had vanished. Boef has never ‘partaken’ of his victims before so I wasn’t sure whether she’d been eaten or interred. I was soon to find out.
Later that afternoon, as we all sat around the lounge room, Boef draped elegantly across the sofa, he started heaving. Before we could get him outside he had thrown up several bits of disgusting. It was immediately and painfully clear these bits were feathers and chook. Identifiable pieces of my favourite chook, whats more.
Our spiraling descent into a special sort of farm-yard hell continued hours later when the same thing occurred as the Flipster was having his bedtime story read. Boef, curled in his basket next to the Flipster’s bed, threw up a very particular sort of fur-ball; chook-feathers held together with dog poo.
The utter and complete horror of the evening has left me kinda numb. It’s Breugel meets Tom Waits and David Lynch in the farm-yard eerily lit by inner-city neon. A deserted chook house hauntingly silent against a backdrop of distant police sirens and the squeal of tyres.
Ollie r.i.p.
postcards from the north 
Well that is a gory tale!
It reminds me of many years ago when my first entrepreneurial venture into chook ownership went bad. A fox got into the run and bit the heads off all the chooks. He only ate one, but had to kill all 12 of them.
It was indeed a gory scene, but at least he didn’t throw them up in my living room.
Poor you. Poor chooks.
Yes, the throwing up bit was the extra touch. But thats Boef, always going the extra mile for you. 😉
Dogs and chooks don’t mix. It must be apartheid as how can a dog resist a yummy chicken. I won’t let my dogs anywhere near our chickens. Good luck next time.
BOEF!!!!!!!!!!!! Naughty!
A horrible story, but well told (my favourite kind!). Poor Ollie though. As the owner of three ex-chickens I feel your pain… and a hefty dose of guilt, since it was decidedly owner-neglect rather than doggie-hunger which saw our chickens to the grave…
Bad dog! Oh you poor thing having to deal with that. Bleah.
I’m shuddering over here. Bad, bad dog!
And yet so devilishly handsome. Bad boys huh? 😉
Our dog was so decrepit when we started keeping chooks it wasn’t really a problem – and apparently once they “get the taste” it’s really hard to stop them. So yep, good dog proofing.
On a lighter, if no less disgusting note, your story reminded me of the dog leaning over the couch to vomit – then immediately lunging to scoff it all up. Dogs are gross.
Gruesome tale but gorgeous photos…
Awesome and tragic! Who needs Hollywood? We got Brunswick.
Gives John Clarke’s graveyard scene in “Death in Brunswick” a run for its money 😉