Opened the chicken coop door this morning, as I always do, expecting the usual feathery stampede toward freedom. Normally, it looks like a cattle drive gone sideways—150 chickens all trying to funnel through an 18-inch wide opening that’s maybe 8 inches high. It's a miracle of physics, poultry determination, and questionable decision-making.
But this morning... oh, this morning was different.
The first brave souls bolted for the exit like it was the Oklahoma Land Rush—until they hit it. Snow. That cold, white betrayal covering their precious dirt.
They came to a screeching halt. Beaks down, wings flared, feet locked. Unfortunately, the 145 chickens behind them did not get the memo. What followed was less like a graceful farm moment and more like a 150-car pileup on the feathered freeway.
The front-liners were stuck. Couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back. The ones in the rear just kept pushing like, “Move it, lady! I’ve got scratching to do!” Total chaos. Squawking. Wing flapping. A whole lot of side-eye. It was like watching a badly choreographed flash mob where nobody knew the dance. Or the reason they were dancing in the first place.
Eventually, one hen—possibly Henrietta the Bold—tiptoed out onto the snow, realized she hated it, then turned and tried to climb back in. That didn’t help. Now we had a two-way traffic jam and rising levels of chicken indignation.
And that, folks, is how Black Monday dawned on the Davis farm.
Moral of the story? Snow is a conspiracy. Chickens are dramatic. And doors, no matter what size, are not meant for mass poultry evacuations.
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