Winston saved the hens today. I was writing on the porch when I heard a frenzied and furious clucking and squawking and I looked out to see Winston, ruff up and feathers out, charging down the driveway towards a stray dog who was coming after Meg, the Rhode Island Red. Winston was shrieking so loud the dog paused, growling, and then Frieda, who was napping outside in the sun, came roaring over the fence and landed right in front of the dog, who confronted with the flapping and charging rooster and the onrushing Frieda, turned tail and fled back down the road.

Winston got some extra corn mash, above, and Frieda is dozing at my feet. Winston looks better by the day.

I’m glad I didn’t shoot  him.