So, picture this: there we were, shuffling between the old house and the new place, constantly packing, unpacking, or driving back and forth. The new house came with a bit of a catch—farm animals. You know, the type that needs locking up at sunset, or they might stage some poultry rebellion.
We had 16 chickens fall on us all at once. I had crammed my brain with two encyclopedias, four vet manuals, and a crash course in animal anatomy. The result? I became a certified hypochondriac—no, scratch that, a chicken-goat-cat-pohondriac. It’s a thing, trust me.
Fast forward to one late evening. My son Mike (who’s into weightlifting and has become the unofficial heavy-lifting department in this move) and I were on our way back to the old house. Meanwhile, my husband was at the new place, holding down the fort.
Now, I had noticed earlier that one chicken, let’s call her “The Hot Chick,” had been glued to her nest for three days straight. Not a good sign. I made the diagnosis on the spot, thanks to my fresh encyclopedic knowledge. When I finally moved her, she felt like a furnace and, lo and behold, there was an egg stuck at her rear end. Classic case of low-calcium-diet-egg-constipation, I thought grimly.
We were in a rush to return the U-Haul, but I gave my husband a very urgent, very specific set of instructions: “Look, we could lose her if you don’t do this. Get the Lowe’s blue bucket, fill it with warm water, put the chicken in, and give her belly a good massage until the egg comes out.” Simple, right?
Well, here’s where things went off-script. First mistake: I didn’t realize it was already dark, so we had no clue whether she’d laid the egg before we left. But we were committed, so off we went with the U-Haul.
Cut to an hour later, we’re still driving, and my husband calls, saying, “I’ve given her the full spa treatment. Warm bath, belly massage—she loved it. But… no egg.” He repeated the process. Twice. The Hot Chick apparently has no complaint about long SPA treatment.
By this point, I had a sudden thought—“Did you check the coop?” I asked. “Y’know, her actual nest?”
Cue dramatic pause. Then, the truth came out: the egg had been sitting there the whole time, neatly laid in the nest. My husband’s response? “She didn’t make a sound during the entire spa session. Seemed pretty disappointed it wasn’t the full hour.”
Moral of the story: chickens appreciate a good massage, but maybe check the nest first.
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