She cocks her head up, staggering her crown as she stares, unabashed at me through the window.
As if to grind my nerves even further, she scratches at the ground with her demonic talons, further tearing apart the head of lettuce she has currently torn to smithereens.
Suddenly she flaps her wings widely, wildly, ruffling her grey speckled white feathers and releasing a wail to summon her brethren to the slaughter of my garden.
Clenching my jaw as my assumption proves correct with the horde of beady-eyed devils that cluck maniacally as they clamber towards the hole in my garden fence, I turn away from the window with intent set into my mind.
"He loves chickens. What man has a chicken obsession!"
I clutter the kitchen in my search for the biggest cleaver in the house, and when I find it, tucked safely in its matching block behind the canola oil and flour, I come to terms that this winter, we won't have any canned vegetables.
That's fine. It looks like this year we'll just have to live off meat.