Chicken run?

Footprints on the damp deck

When I got home from work last night, I noticed one of the chickens was missing. Oh no, I thought: I had been an idiot yesterday and had left their coop's door open all night. So I called out to Tom, and he hadn't remembered seeing her...but I had a vague recollection of Phyllis following me in to my garden shed. Maybe she is still in there, I thought.

I also noticed the garage door was closed.

Yep; poor Phyl was trapped in the garage since Tom went to pick M up from school at noon. She's fine.

But I was so sad there for about 20 minutes. Poor Phyllis! And just when she started laying, too. For it was she who was producing those beautiful blue-green eggs, not the fluffy hypersexualized Maude. I even started looking at Maude during those long minutes thinking, girl, if you were laying, I wouldn't feel so bad about losing your sister.

But then I thought again. Who is Maude most like, in the human female world? She's kind of a Dolly Parton or a Marilyn Monroe type. And then I remembered that neither of those fabulous, fluffy, hypersexualized women were mothers. And we all like them just fine.