Okay. So we lost* a chicken. In what I would like to think is the most traumatic way possible outside of her dying in my arms after being riddled with gunshot wounds while begging me to tell her loved ones she will miss them.
Normally when a chicken meets it's untimely end we come up short on the head count and the next day we find either nothing at all whatsoever anywhere, or a big pile of feathers.
This time was radically different.
Notably, I was asleep.
Now, Miss Chicken had failed to show up for head count, so I kinda assumed those asshole hawks had been at it again, briefly morned the loss, and then went back inside. I also had to get up at 3am because I had to be at work at stupid early the next morning. So I pretty much shut up the chickens, came inside and went to the sweet soft land that was bed.
Except I couldn't sleep because it was shitballs hot outside so I ended up roaming around looking for the fan I always put in the window. And something to put the fan on. And somewhere to plug the fan in. Look I am poor at getting to fucking sleep in the summer time alright?
So needless to say I was awake for a tad longer then I should have been if we all believe that eight hour sleep rule thing. But in the end there was something so wonderful about the drone of the fan, the cooling mountain air that is clean and clear and fresh blowing over me, and the heavy feel of Scott's arm around me, that I at last fell into a deep and restful sleep.
That was promptly shattered at about 12:35am by the frantic sounds of a chicken screaming.
My first instinct was to jump up and flip off the fan. Which of course made the screaming Hi Def. I don't speak chicken very well, if at all, but I think she was saying:
OH GOD OH GOD OH NO OH NOOOOOO AUUUGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!
The screaming reached a fevered pitch that had me on feet and groping around for my pants** before being cut off abruptly.
And that was followed by dead silence.
From the sound of it, she must have been almost under the goddamned bedroom window. Which is a lot closer then I feel comfortable having screaming.
I looked at the clock. I had two hours with which to get some sleep.
I looked back outside, into the deep dark Appalachian night. And I said, “Fuck it, I can buy another chicken. ” And then I went back to sleep.
Which would have been a great plan if it wasn't for the fact that I had a horrible fucking nightmare in which I was staggering through the woods and the waist high meadows armed only with only a flashlight while finding every dead pet I had ever owned was there. Alive. Watching me. But none of them would come up to me and I could never to get all the way to them and OH GOD I AM SORRY ALREADY.
Is it possible to be haunted by a chicken?
Like a chicken resentful that it was screaming out for your help and you couldn't even be bothered to avenge it's death because you wanted to go back to bed even though you don't blame the raccoon that did it because it was only doing what comes natural and you would have totally eaten that dumbass stray chicken too?
Like that can't happen, right?
* Lost being a euphemism for she is really, really dead.
** Holly's rule of any disaster scenario: Whatever it is, you will be better off fighting it wearing pants. Not pajama pants, not shorts, not boxers. Pants.