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Fluff knew he was there, and seemed to want me to know.

She attacked him, pecking and beating with her
wings, but he was huge, and every swipe of his claw sent

feathers flying. I was furious. I grabbed a nearby shovel
and raced toward the cat. He saw me and ran for the door.
I threw the shovel, and nicked him, sending him rolling

before he fled into the nearby field. Fluff lay there
motionless and bleeding. As I came closer, she tried to

move to her babies, but her leg was broken. Afraid the cat
would return, I got a box and put her in it. I found her
babies in the nest where she had tried to conceal them. I

then moved them all to the stallion’s barn and put them in
one end of his manger. The only way in was through the

door to his pen, and the stallion hated cats. I knew they
would be safe there.

I got her a little pan of water, and some grain. She
clucked to me as if asking me to take care of her babies.

“We’ll get you better, Fluff, and you can take care of them
yourself,” I said, but the next morning found me digging
her grave by the barn she had defended as home.

My little girls and my wife helped me, and I felt
stupid crying over a chicken. But the way she had trusted

me to help her and had given her life for her children had
made her seem almost human.
I became mother hen to her little brood, who would

often follow me around, and I endured a lot of teasing from
some of the old-timers. When the chicks were nearly

grown, I found a home with a chicken farmer for them for

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