I've retold the Shirley-getting-her-ass-beat-by-the-raccoon story about 50 times by now, reliving each horrible detail as I go. I decided to call my mom and tell her over the phone last night, so as to avoid having to discuss bloody hamburger neck over Sunday dinner.
After arriving at my folks' house, my mom proceeded to tell me that my Aunt Shirley (all the chickens are named after my great aunts: Shirley, Sandy, Angie, Millie, Judy, and Greta), a farmer in rural Pennsylvania, used to sit on her porch with a shot gun shooting any predators that threatened her chickens. Although she's not dead, there's an eerie kernel of karma somewhere in there.
That being said, I resisted the urge to run over a raccoon I saw on the drive home from work tonight, for fear of becoming its dinner in the next life.
P.S.--though I don't want to jinx it, it looks like the little lady's gonna make it.