Leif has a brush with mortal terror

There has been a storm rolling in, so it was dark and drizzly when we got home from work yesterday. Leif dumped his bag, ran outside, and went down into the basement to look for eggs while I checked the pot roast in the slow cooker. A moment later he screamed that hoarse, high-pitched seriously-wrong scream that means your child has encountered a bear or broken a limb. "SHE'S DEAD." I ran out onto the porch as he came sobbing up the stairs and threw himself into my chest, "SIRIUS IS DEAD. SHE'S LAYING ON HER SIDE AND HER EYES ARE OPEN AND THERE ARE FEATHERS ALL OVER." Holy shit. A stray cat? Was she egg bound and we didn't notice? What a nightmare, going down into a dark basement and finding the murdered body of a beloved pet. I pulled the boy inside while Mike went pelting down to the basement. All the kids crowded around while Leif cried. Gavin started to cry. Zenny started to cry. We were all standing in a trembly hug in the kitchen when Mike came back up with the chicken cradled like a football.

"Well, she's not dead."
"Is she badly hurt?"
"No, she's fine. She did look kind of dead, and it was really dark, but she was just sitting on eggs."

AGAIN.

The relief. We laughed and cried and passed the fat little chicken around for kisses. She clucked, confused. Then we stole all her eggs and shoved her back in her coop.

So the chickens are locked up until they get their broody shit together and lay eggs in the nesting boxes like they're supposed to. Our hearts can't take this much excitement.

proof of life

Also I would like some stories that are not chicken-related for a change.

Oh no.