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Grey stepped out of the trailer door, letting it bang shut behind him. Mom was inside making bread with Ash, and Grey’s tummy growled. He was ready for lunch. He ignored the tiny gnats flickering around his head and reached for his whacking-stick, resting against the trailer. Grey was proud of his whacking-stick. It had a smooth handle and was as tall as he was. A knot protruded in just the right place to make a trigger, for when they played a game that required a rifle. He had scraped the point of his whacking-stick on a rock, and it was sharp enough to stab down into a gopher’s dirt mound.

He looked up at the autumn sun, which drifted high in a sea of white puffy clouds. A scrabbling rattle to his right alerted him to the fact that there were chickens getting at the dog food again. Taking his whacking-stick in his hand, Grey shooed the chickens away, making the stick whoosh above their heads. Grey enjoyed the whoosh, and the chickens scattered. But Blondie did not run – she liked Grey and was not afraid of the whacking stick.

Blondie was the family’s favorite hen. She was lighter in color than the other hens, like creamy golden coffee. She was smaller too, and had a much nicer personality. Practically tame from birth, she came when she was called, bravely pecking seeds from outstretched hands. The other hens picked on her a good deal, pecking her back as hens do; so Blondie learned to be friends with humans instead.

The dog, Caleb, found Blondie and her hen sisters to be interesting in a delicious way – it took a good deal of scolding before he learned to quit trying to taste them. He was simply too rough. Dogs were natural predators, and chickens were natural prey.

For awhile there, it seemed like Dad would come home with a new animal every day. It was a great thing to experience as a boy, and they enjoyed the new animals immensely. The goat was fun to pet and scratch around the horns, the rabbits would eat things out of the boys’ hands, and the sheep were woolly and fun to ride. Grey always fell off the sheep, but that didn’t stop him from riding them. Mom wouldn’t let Ash ride the sheep at all – he wasn’t big enough – but he tried to do it anyway, when she wasn’t looking. There were five sheep now; and they were each named for the color of the collars they wore. Bluebell, Clover, Scarlet, Space, and Violet ate mountain grass in large circles, tethered to a strong wood stake in the center. Bluebell was the smallest and gentlest sheep, so she was ridden the most by the boys. She did not appreciate being ridden – and became less approachable over time, to the boys’ disappointment.

It was Grey’s job to feed the sheep, all of the hens including Blondie, and the rest of the animals as well. He would lug water from the spring to the sheep’s watering buckets, carefully pour dog food into the dog’s bowl, and make sure the chickens had grain in their feed-bin. The chickens also learned to eat the dog food. Mom and Dad often complained about this, so Grey took it upon himself to guard the dog bowl whenever he was nearby.

The little egg trailer had a sheet of plywood lying next to it on the ground, so that when one stepped out the door, they would be standing on it. It was the “porch,” and it was covered in chicken poop. Underneath the poop the words “North Pacific” were barely visible, stamped onto the plywood in fading green ink. The white enamel dog bowl sat on the porch, next to the trailer’s metal door.

“Blondie, get off the porch!” Grey ordered.

Blondie never stopped pecking at the dog food. Grey knew that she was happy to be on the porch with him, and happy to be eating without the harassment from her sisters, who scattered before his aggressive stick.

Grey took his stick and whooshed it over Blondie. His aim was true, but in that moment Blondie stopped pecking and looked up. Grey could not read the mind of the little hen, perhaps she saw a grasshopper she could eat, or perhaps she was just going to look up at Grey, or perhaps she had no thoughts at all. This was the most likely possibility.

The THWACK he heard made his heart sink. Blondie thumped down onto the hard plywood porch, and Grey stood stock-still. The pounding in his heart filled his veins with dread. He was scared of getting a spanking, scared that Blondie was dead, and most of all, sure that Dad would find out. He would be so mad!

The birds still sang and the insects kept up their incessant buzzing in the mountain grass as Grey stood, frozen and unable to decide what to do. Grey could not hear the birds and the insects, he could only hear the roar of blood in his ears as his heart pounded. The blue sky overhead seemed to be dimmer, and the wind sent chills down his arms. He could hear Mom and Ash moving about in the trailer behind him.

I have to tell Mom. He didn’t think there was a way to get out of trouble this time.

Turning around, he slowly and quietly slipped into the trailer, closing the door softly behind him. Mom was looking at him strangely, while Ash pounded the ball of dough with his fists. Grey could never hide anything from Mom.

“Grey, what’s the matter?” Mom asked.

The knot in Grey’s stomach tightened. “Mom,” he breathed. “I killed Blondie!”

The last part came out in a rush, and tears flooded his eyes. Mom followed him out onto the porch, and Grey’s eyes watered as Mom picked up Blondie’s lifeless little body. Her head hung limp, and her soft, smooth neck flopped as Mom examined her. Grey guessed that Mom was mad. Would he get a spanking? He was sure that she would tell Dad when he got home from work. He wanted Mom to spank him, not Dad.

Mom looked hard at him. “Grey, what happened exactly?”

Grey could see that Mom was not going to yell at him, maybe she was not as angry as he thought she would be. Grey told the story, about the chickens, and the shooing, and Mom seemed to understand that he did not mean to kill the poor hen.

She listened to him as he completed the sad tale, then she walked around behind the trailer, holding Blondie’s lifeless body. Grey followed. His eyes widened as Mom picked up Dad’s ax. Mom took Blondie back to the woodpile and laid her, small neck outstretched, on top of the chopping stump. The mountainside held its breath as she slowly lifted the ax, its double-blades hovering sharp against the sky.

Grey grit his teeth at the suspense, and he could not look away. Despite the knot in his belly, this was interesting. He knew that they must not waste poor Blondie, she’d have to be eaten just like all chickens would, eventually.

Mom looked down at Grey with an odd expression on her face – one he couldn’t quite identify. The sharp ax wanted to fall. Adjusting her grip, Mom seemed to mentally prepare herself for the unpleasant, but necessary action.

Perhaps she was wondering why she left her predictable life back in southern California. Here she was, alone in the middle of nowhere; no running water, no electricity, and no company but the the boys. And she was beheading their pet chicken.

The ax seemed to linger, but the dreaded deed could not be postponed forever. It was time.

With a sigh, Mom swung the ax.

An unexpected squeak-squawk of alarm broke the stillness. Blondie sprung up to her feet!

Grey’s heart soared and utter confusion washed away the dread he felt. Surely his eyes were lying to him. He heard another weak bawk, and Blondie jumped down from the stump; the place where she nearly met the dinner pot. She sped away, zigzagging to and fro, filled with unexpected life and vigor. She ran back to the pen like the hounds of hell itself were after her.

“What on earth!” Mom exclaimed.

Grey was overjoyed, and jumped up and down. She’s alive! Grey figured they wouldn’t have to tell Dad now, and he hoped upon hope that Mom would not. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t… would she?

Mom gave him a relieved smile. The sun brightened, the colors seemed to grow more vibrant, and the mountain sighed a grassy sigh of relief. Even the sheep on their picket lines up the north slope seemed to be more frolicsome. Everything was going to be all right.

Night fell, and Grey went to bed, thinking about Blondie. He could scarcely believe she survived, and he promised God in his prayers that he would never even pretend to whack a chicken with a stick ever again.