(Linking up with yeahwrite!)
Not really ha-ha funny, though. Unless of course you’re the type of person that would LOL at a bloody crime scene, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I had just snuggled up on the couch with my deadlines and a glass of wine. It was around 10pm, I had caught my second wind, and I was feeling pretty “I got this” about it all. Totally set to show my to-do list who’s boss.
What happened next was a twisted mix of The Prom Scene from Carrie Meets “American Gothic”, except replace the pitchfork with a shovel and switch out the pink taffeta for my pajamas and slippers.
You may recall from my About section that we are the proud owners of
eight seven let’s call it six chickens. We sort of epitomize City Slickers in this department, but we are hell-bent on doing right by these birds despite what you may read below.
Here’s how it played out:
Me: La-de-da, I heart Photoshop! Pretty pictures! Unicorns! Rainbows!
John: Yeah, I’m really happy with their latest upgra…. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? DID YOU HEAR THAT? (leaps from couch and flies onto the deck, down the stairs, into the pitch black night).
Me (to no one in particular): I can tell already these slippers will never be the same, but there’s no time to change! I’ll burn them later! Where’s the damn flashlight?!?!
I shuffled my way out to the
crime scene chicken coop (yes, shuffled. Have you ever tried to run in slippers?). I wasn’t sure if I wanted to turn the flashlight on or remain in the dark (literally and figuratively).
At the risk of getting hate mail from PETA, I can’t think of a better way to describe this: those ladies were carrying on like – well – chickens with their heads cut off. Only it was chicken singular, and, unfortunately, not a metaphor. Really, her head was cut off. Not so much cut off as bit off. And not so much her head as the entire right side of her body. I feel like a train wreck right now and I want to stop describing this but the words are already barreling down the hill and the brakes have gone out.
cut get to the chase:
John: THERE IS A RACCOON IN THE HEN HOUSE!
Me: Crap! WTF!
(Meanwhile, an opportunistic chicken saunters as if in slow motion out of the coop, wandering off into the yard (no need to ponder why THIS chicken would cross the road – to get away from these negligent, psychotic chicken owners, obviously!).
Me: Crap! We lost one!
John: Yeah, we lost one back here too! There’s a dead chicken!
By this time, the raccoon has slipped off into the dead of night. We get the Lonesome Wanderer back into the hen house (chickens are tougher than they look. Srappy things, they are). We latch the door. We take a deep breath. We stare at the bloody carcass and give our courage a pep talk while debating our next move.
Me: DO YOU HEAR THAT? What is that God-awful noise the chickens are making? Is there a raccoon still stuck IN the hen house?!?
This is going from bad to worse, quick-like.
John: Yes, there is definitely something up there. What the… IT’S ON THE ROOF! IT’S ON THE ROOF! (expletive, expletive)
What happened next would have been a lot more fun as a cartoon, but all I remember is John swinging the shovel above our heads, scraping it across the top of the hen house roof and – WHACK! PLOP! – down falls what looks like a giant fuzzy Pillow Pet on wheels if you squint your right eye and close your left eye and look past the beady eyes, sharp claws and rabies. (Have you ever seen a raccoon run? SO. DISTURBING.)
Have you ever seen my husband run? He is fast. Even while wielding a shovel in one hand and a flashlight in the other. And wearing flip flops.
Alas, the raccoon eludes us and now we have nothing to distract us from You Know What.
Please don’t make me say bloody carcass again.
The last chapter of this horror story is rather anti-climactic and one that probably shouldn’t be retold. Suffice it to say that the “Raccoon Survival Kit” was carefully disposed of and I have added yet another reason to the growing list of Why My Husband Rocks.
In conclusion, I am definitely going to tackle my to-do list tomorrow. Right after therapy.
P.S. Here’s a photo of our
seven six chickens, sunbathing and contemplating their Happy Place.
P.P.S. It’s not good parenting to play favorites, so I’ll just casually mention in passing that only one chicken has an actual name. She is Goldie Hen. I’m not going to point her out, though. That wouldn’t be fair to the others.