I wonder how many confessions

I've made in this column over the past 14 years.

It's cheap therapy, this space.

Today, it's time to come clean again.

It all started when my neighbor,

just down the way, who lived in the middle of a pasture, about a quarter

of a mile off the road, was preparing to move to Texas. She called me

to ask if I knew who might adopt her chickens.

No, not right off the top of

my head, I said. Lying. I just needed time to work on Daniel. He's a good

sport and the most tolerant husband that ever lived. But the chickens

were gonna take some persuasion.

"Honey, you're crazy,"

he said. "We've had this conversation before. We've had it ever since

we bought the property. We've had it enough. I'm not going to have chickens

roaming around my yard. There will be chicken _____ everywhere you step.

Chickens are nasty and they stink."

It took me a week. I knew I

could pull it off. Of course, Guthrie had to give up his dog pen, but

we fixed him a nice house under the back porch and he has adapted quite

well to his leash. Jack Russells are smart. They know when they've been

had. Like husbands.

A week to the day after I had

set out to convince Daniel he would love fresh eggs, my neighbor brought

over Honey and Beauregard. Honey, named for her color, was beautiful and

faithfully delivered the daily egg for months. Beauregard was downright

striking. I don't know much about roosters, but his primary color is white

with black tail feathers and his head and wings are multicolored. A real

beauty.

For months, we all enjoyed

Honey and Beauregard. I say "all"... all, that is, except Guthrie.

Guthrie was jealous. He ran circles around that 8 X 10 chicken pen, barking

and yelping and telling those birds just what he thought of them. Daniel,

however, was sold after the first egg. I'm always right.

Then, a month ago, I went out

one morning to feed my pets and found Beauregard pacing up and down. Didn't

see Honey at first. When I drew close to the pen and caught sight of what

was left of her, I disintegrated. Just a feather-covered shell of bones

lay there. Of course, feathers were all over the pen too. Beauregard had

lost a few as well. Daniel figures it was probably a mink. We've spotted

a couple down by the creek. There was no way a bobcat, raccoon or coyote

could have gotten into the pen.

I cried a lot and couldn't

eat for two days. Neither could Beauregard. He was quite tore up emotionally.

He crowed more often and paced a lot. I watched for a month. During that

time I talked with Daniel repeatedly about giving Beau the run of the

place. "He's so lonely now and the pen that once was a love nest

has become a prison. He needs to be free."

We discussed our options. We

both were concerned about Guthrie's reaction. But we thought the two just

might become buddies. So after much deliberation, we decided to free Beauregard.

We are more than 800 feet off the road so traffic would not be a problem.

And he had stood his ground against whatever critter had devoured Honey.

Maybe he was a survivor. We'd see. We agreed last Sunday that I would

let Beauregard out on Monday morning when I went out to feed him.

On Monday around 10 a.m., I

called Daniel at Delta. I needed to be assured I could do this thing.

Freedom could mean death and I would be a murderer.

Daniel had known I couldn't

do it. He had let the bird out at 5:15 that morning before he left for

work. "Just go out and see if he's still alive," he said. "And

if he isn't, you're not the killer." Like that was going to comfort

me. I was just as guilty.

Beauregard was alive and strutting

like he was king of the hill. Guthrie, on the other hand, was not a happy

camper. Five days have passed now and he's adjusting, though. Will they

ever be buddies? Not hardly, but they are co-existing quite nicely.

I don't know if Beau knows

how, in setting him free, Daniel and I made him much more accessible to

the prowling varmints of the night. All I know is freedom looks mighty

good on that bird. And every time I go out the door, he proudly fluffs

up his feathers two or three times in a row and makes this strange, soft,

guttural noise that sounds like "thaaaaank youuuu."

And the chicken ______? Well,

watch your step if you stop by.