If you don't follow me on Twitter or Facebook, then you probably missed out on the major event this week.
It was the excitement of a lifetime. Maybe a housefly's lifetime, but a lifetime nonetheless.
It all started when my husband woke up (at the crack of dawn) and went out to feed the chickens. He came back in and said, "Darling, you've got to see this."
Well, I knew it had to be something big for him to rouse me, because before 6am I wake up like the Cave of Wonders in Aladdin. *wild eyes, roaring growl, bilious fumes of morning breath* "Who distuuurbs my sluuuuumber?"
But he was undaunted by my groggy glare, so I knew it must be good. "Coming dearest!"
Well, there in the garage, strutting fat and happy, were 27 chickens. Outside of their coop.
I am thoroughly unhelpful when it comes to the chickens. I love the idea of having them, I don't mind feeding them, and I can't wait for the eggs; but they're dirty... don't make me touch them, please.
So I watched and laughed as Mr. Amazing became a chicken wrangler.
It's so hard to count chickens because they won't stand still for the census. But I tried and I thought I counted 20 somethings back in the coop, so we called it good, ate breakfast, and Mr. Amazing went out to work.
Noon. I'm starving.
*Knock on the door.*
"Is your husband coming home for lunch? There's a chicken in my plum tree."
Sure enough. A chubby biddy was perched high atop our neighbor's plum tree, looking suspiciously like one of ours.
The idea of chicken fricassee for lunch was suddenly very appealing.
Well, my darling came right home and rescued the foul fowl from certain smothering in onions and gravy. In the meantime, we discovered and disbanded four more plump poultry lurking in darker corners of the garage. I'm sure they were planning a coop coup; I could see it in their beady little eyes. I'm watching you, Clucky.
If nothing else came of the chicken escape fiasco, the neighborhood watch was all abuzz. They hadn't been so excited and aflutter since the day after they missed our burglar.