We lock the Adventure Chickens in their coop at night. A few nights ago, my nightly count came up two chickens short. The two missing chickens were found, caught and placed in their rightful spots on the roost. However, in all the confusion, I forgot to close their door.
I found this mistake the next morning, but thought it a bit odd that with the door already open that no chickens were outside yet. However, it was a cold morning (heavy frost) and I chalked it up to "cold feet".
That night I was two chickens short. Again. This time I couldn't find them. I looked in all their normal hideouts. I tried to think like a chicken (shut up!) and look for a new hideout. Nothing. I finally gave up and shut the coop door with the hope that they'd be there in the morning.
The next morning, no chickens. And again the rest of the flock did not want to come out. It was not nearly so cold and I could find no reason for their behavior except for thinking the worst. They had been scared by something that had come in and probably grabbed their two missing buddies. Most likely the fox we occasionally see passing through.
I was crushed. I'd left the door open and now two chickens were dead. One of which was one of my favorites, a white hen who's been here for years and has to be at least seven years old. The other, one of the "red" chickens.
That night though, when I did my count, I again had nine chickens (should be ten). I was pretty confident that I had not been miscounting all along, so felt a glimmer of hope that maybe the white hen - the one still missing - might still come home. The next morning? Nothing. I had to admit she was gone.
As I continued with my morning chores, I headed over to the sheep run-in to see if it was needed cleaning. Look what I found!
"I don't have a clue where I am!"
To get over here she had to go down the hill to the creek, crawl under the fence, come back up the hill, past the end of the barn and into the sheep paddock. There is a reason they are called the Adventure Chickens. She's just a little directionally challenged.
She was so hungry she had resorted to eating bits of hay. Doesn't it look like that piece of hay is twisted into a heart? As always, click to biggify.
Happily back with her girlfriends and a full bowl of food.
And water.
And all the crazy chicken ladies (and gentlemen ;-) can rest easy.
So why am I now calling her the Magoo Chicken? Magoo is the name we gave our GPS unit. Now I'll give Magoo credit for getting me a lot of places (I too am directionally challenged), but for some reason Magoo frequently finds himself on I-275, the bypass around Cincinnati, about an hour or so from our house. It's his favorite place in the whole world.
Magoo can be so convinced he's on (or should be) I-275 that we are frequently asked to make a "legal u-turn" to get him back there. When we are in New York. Or Chicago. Green Bay. Or Lexington. We try not to think too hard about it.
The fortune cookie message taped to the top is Magoo's highest achievement. For some unknown reason he took us on a particularly funny detour around and around a cemetery in a small town in New York. We had to actually resort to the old fashion method of calling (with a cell phone ;-) the farm we were (supposed to be) headed to. That fortune cookie message was from the dinner we had that night.
Only Magoo.
Only the Magoo Chicken.
I'm glad you are home safe.
