My critter has a critter problem.

My critter is a geriatric 11-year-old chicken name Ruby. I think that’s 275 in people years, and sometimes she walks with a cane. She is a buff Orpington – picture what a basketball would look like if a kid glued feathers to it and stuck a beak and red comb on top.

She is the last of her brood – outliving all of her original sisters, and even a second round of poultry – to become the queen of her house: House Pollo.

Her egg-laying days are long over. She never really cared for all the work it required to provide us with something we would scramble or add to cakes. She saw her purpose as more of “house chicken.” A pet. A bird who preferred to be given the attention she deserved. She demanded to be carried around like a football, tucked snug under your armpit. There she cooed, watched the world and told you where to go.

Now, my critter has developed a critter problem. A vermin. A rat. From House Rattus. Infiltrating our chicken run, which has stood nearly impenetrable for all these years. It is wringed with thick wire mesh, locks, sturdy doors and even used to house a chicken who could dispatch invaders with a merciless strike. Not a chicken to be trifled with.