I am sad. I am sad and angry because I have to share my yard with chickens.
I know that if I kill chickens, I will suffer irreparable shame (despite the fact that I am a bird dog and this kind of behavior should be expected).
So instead, I will kill pigeons. And bring them inside.
I will not do you the favor of delivering the corpses intact. No. I will scatter them bit by grizzly bit all over the house, hoping for surprise encounters like the one this morning, when you were wandering around sans glasses and picked up this foot-leg with your bare, trusting hands because you thought it was a twig (the hissing and flapping up and down like you were on fire was magnificent). I stuck a chicken feather to the foot so that you might imagine, if only for one cold, desperate moment, that it belonged to a chicken. I feel no remorse for this but believe things are just as they should be.
P.S. Remember, I know how to get into your made-up bed when you’re not home. And I’ve seen The Godfather.