his creation turned on him (here). Ochoa strapped a knife blade to the leg of a rooster and was then killed by said rooster. If Ochoa wanted to be a rooster fighter he should have come prepared to fight. How many high fours do you think that bird got when he got back to the locker room? And talk about street cred! I can just hear it now back at the barnyard: "I heard he killed 4 Dominikers, 3 Rhode Island Reds and a Mexican!" That bird's probably got a teardrop tattoo under his eye. Even the fox won't go in the henhouse when he's in there!
In similar but different news, my dogs and I have found some really good hiking trails not far from our house. Used mostly by off-road bikers, these trails are perfect for the four of us to get outside and get some exercise. According to the tracks we see, deer, possums, coons, coyotes and buzzards all hang out in this woody area. But never until last week have we ever seen a chicken. I have no idea where this thing came from but it couldn't have been there long because there are too many wild critters that would love yardbird for dinner.
This is where my sweet little Dori-belle comes in. Now as I said I have three dogs: Bo is the big agressive male, Sara is the medium-sized but fast and sneaky one and Dori is the little bitty class clown of the group. She loves everybody and everything and loves to play with me by grabbing my pants leg and pulling on it. She found out though that chickens don't wear pants. I looked up to see that big red chicken hopping on one leg, flapping it's wings and squalling bloody murder with a definitely smiling 12 pound mix breed running behind it with a chicken leg in her mouth.
When I quit laughing I called to Dori to leave that chicken alone and I swear that dog looked over at me as if to say, "Hang on! I'm playing with my new friend!" It looked like a cartoon with feathers flying and dirt getting kicked up by one chicken leg and two flapping wings. Dori just squinted her eyes every time the wings popped her in the face but she was still smiling. In fact she was still smiling when I finally made my way through the brush and got over to where I am pretty sure that bird had just died of a heart attack! No kidding! My sweet little Pookie Bear is a genuine chicken killer. Not a mark on it. Even the leg looked normal. Oh, well. Circle of life. Some days you're the Mexican. Some days you're the chicken.