chicken chasing and one-track minds

I know, I know--I already posted this as my facebook status so this post might be a little redundant. But I want to examine the scene of Carson's attempted killing in closer detail. (Not like GRAPHIC GORY BLOODY detail, though. Don't worry. You can keep eating.)

All right. There we were. By the sheep pen. A small flock of chickens was in front of us. (By "us" I refer to myself, Sandy the Intelligent, Thoughtful, Pacifist Dog, and Carson the Idiot Puppy.) We continued in relative peace as I reached the sheep pen and cooed at the widdle lambkins. Goochie goochie goo.

And then Carson saw the chickens in a new, predatory light. "It's prey, you fool," I'm sure her survival instincts were screaming at her.

She listened to the instincts.

One minute there we are, calm and collected and playing with the lambkins, and then

WHOOSH

she's off like a rocket after those chickens.

"CARSON!" I'm screaming, flying after her. She is quite a bit in front of me, and gaining distance. "CARSON! NOOOOOO! NO! STOP!"

She does not hear me. (Quote-unquote. I think she didn't hear me like I don't hear my mother when she tells me to do some cleaning.)

I run after her for several minutes, screeching at the top of my lungs as she chomps down on what I keep thinking is the chicken but is apparently only chicken feathers. (The poor thing's probably bald by this point--kinda like the picture.)

Finally, the chickens manage to escape and Carson bolts over to the barn, where I follow her and berate her heavily.

And we go home.

I am tired.

That is all.