On Thursday, Manijeh and Orin stumbled across a cougar in the act of killing two chickens. It slunk away, leaving one dead bird, one wounded bird, and one very distressed wife.
Finding no sign of the cat, Dianna scooped up the dead bird while I tracked down the wounded one. She was pretty badly torn, so I wrung her neck a little more vigorously than necessary, popping the head off and sending the headless bird literally flying. Or at least flapping erratically as she careened through the air, sprinkling me liberally with bright red droplets .
We plucked and gutted the birds. One for the freezer and one for the cook pot. I like the thought that we’ll be eating meals prepared by a mountain lion. I’d like to see what that’d cost in a high end restaurant. “Locally grown, free range, organically fed, hens. Freshly killed by local cougar. $75 per plate.”
Orin excitedly retells his version of the encounter at every opportunity. What he lacks in accurate details he makes up for in enthusiasm and large hand gestures.
Don’t mistake amusement for lack of fear. There’s plenty of room for both.