Two nights ago, Owen and I could not find Rhoda, one of our favorite chicks. She's perky, smart, and rust-colored. We searched the yard with a flashlight, then hoped she'd turn up in the morning. She didn't.
We mourned the loss, Owen especially. Even Isabel, who finds our poultry operation eccentric and embarrassing, was sad. Rhoda is an unusually sweet pullet.
Another night passed.
This morning my husband was straightening up the chicken run and picked up an overturned litter box that had been used for food at some point. Underneath, was Rhoda, alive, 2 feet from the coop.
1. deep gratitude that Owen did not pick up that litter box three days from now
2. I need to keep a tidier chicken run
That's Alberta Einstein after a few minutes in the rain. You should see her after a few hours -- the fluffy head of feathers turns stringy and muddy and droops around her face like a greasy pageboy haircut.