Chicken Chit

A chit is a short official note. This began as one such post but has been fleshed out just a tad in self-defense. 

The sixteen year-old next door kicked in fence slats, yanked slats out, and in general made ways for his poultry to gain access to our yard after theirs was denuded and they have nothing to peck, scratch and eat. But I wasn’t having it and asked that he repair the damages. He is destructive. His pets die mysteriously, including a beautiful iguana, guinea pigs, a beautiful parrot . . .

I’ll share the cat story for another day. Maybe not. But the son, he who assured me he will kill the red tail hawk that circles overhead because it sees chicken on the menu, swears his cats do not chase and kill birds or squirrels because squirrels are too large. This cat makes a liar of him.

Nothing was done for weeks. I became irate and desperate enough to call Animal Control after two dogs joined the mix. One has a severe case of mange. A few years ago a different dog had it so bad it bled. I caved and had an adjacent neighbor drive Fatima to our vet, with the dog in her lap—no way would I transport an animal with mange. I paid for the treatment which was less than two hundred dollars. A week later the older daughter and mother paid me back. This time around the neighbor on the opposite side called Animal Control. The came, picked up the dog, treated and returned it. 

Our HOA never does anything. I learned the hard way when they had eight dogs that barked all day and howled all night. Abandoned pit bulls terrorized school children until I threatened to call a local news channel. 

Good fences make good neighbors. Until the next crisis that arises from ignorance. HOA says they cannot do anything about what goes on in a homeowner’s or renter’s back yard. Our neighbor is the only one around us who has no grass but too many cats, dogs, and chickens. The house reflects the owner and residents. How their back door still stands upright defies explanation. We still have not figured out how they manage to close it. The Venetian blinds . . . How can people destroy a home and not care? How can they justify six or eight vehicles in a driveway meant for two? Why can’t they park against the curb instead of parking halfway in the street? 

The father came home the day I shooed five chickens from our back yard and out through the gate. I’d thought of doing it once before but the thought of the birds being hurt or killed kept me from actually doing it. I was fed up though. Then Juan saw the state of the fence. I bought all the materials as he asked. He said they would do the work and reimburse me for half. I have to deal with them because JC is at work. I always look like the bad guy but our home is our haven and someone has to do the dirty work.

The father is simply the best. He’s affable, hard-working, and takes good care of his family. He comes home on Sundays and deserves to relax after a full day of Sunday school and church in a town that’s half-way to Galveston. Their pastor must be a miracle worker to justify a trip that takes over an hour each way.

So. He came home, saw the son had not hammered in the slats and he took command. He patiently showed him what to do, how to do it and before I could have baked a cake, it was done. In the middle of getting it done the little mangey dog came into our yard, immediately peed on my prize lily, sat and commenced to scratching as if its life depended on it. I went out, asked Juan to keep the dog out. He had son take the dogs inside. He smiled before, when, and after I asked. 

Oh! And the phone rang. Expecting another problem from next door, I answered reluctantly but cheerfully. The boy said his father had something for me. Eggs! And they were, as he said, “Still warm.”

I will bake gingerbread just for him as a thank-you. I know he is partial to it because I treated him to a still-warm bake over a year ago and his son went out of his way to tell me just how much he enjoyed it. Son initially suggested cookies. So cookies for him and gingerbread for his father, Don Juan.