Medieval Punishments

My mom, out on the farm, has resurrected an ancient form of punishment to present to her dogs. One of her dogs, a young Great Pyrenees, has learned to kill the chickens. This is generally an unforgivable act, but one that she feels is accounted for by her rambunctious youth. However, the puppy has recently taught momma-dog the fruits of this labor and now they’re both killing chickens. Time to get medieval on their asses. So she has now tied – actually had John tie – the chicken to the adult Pyrenees’ collar in an attempt to disgust her with the rotting carcass upon her inescapable neck. It’s said that the dog will eventually become repulsed with this treatment and will no longer find killing chickens a favorable activity. It has only been a day and the feather bulk at her neck is now attracting the attention of some rather large flies. It is also, apparently, eminating a stench that voids her of getting any human attention at the moment. I’m guessing…hoping…she gets a good disinfecting bath when this is over.


  1. Well every night I pluck the feathers from my shoes
    And sing a little bit of these chicken stompin’ blues
    They call me Wreckin’ Ball, ’cause I’m the baddest of ’em all

    The Knitters

    Sorry, every time I think of killing chickens I think of this song. Not that I think about killing chickens often… so many feathers… I have to go now….

  2. In my defense. The dog is killing my source of great farm eggs. She MUST be stopped. I don’t know if the treatment will work as I picked up one of the hens this morning (roosting in a less than optimal place) and Alice (the dog) came running when she heard the chicken squawking and flapping. She (Alice) was sternly scolded and retreated, head hanging, chicken bits dangling. Both she and the chicken seem to have about the same amount of brain. (not very much)

  3. 4/2/2009
    The treatment worked! It took several weeks for the chicken to rot off completely, but Alice only eats dead chickens now. Dead, as in already dead, not killed by her “hand”. She, the goats and the chickens live together in easy comaraderie. Wayne, the Anatolian shephard pup was the killer. We sold Wayne to someone without chickens. Everyone is living happily ever after.

    And, Joshua, I have wonderful dogs. It is a compliment to be named as no better than them. I strive to be the person my dog thinks I am.

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