Alas, a Chicken Must Die.

Actually, I'm not sad about it at all, since I don't have to do it. Homero is the designated chicken assassin around here. 

The big fat hen, a Light Brahma with feathers on her feet and the mother of the brood of famous escape artists of last summer, is an egg-eater. We caught her in the act. We were all in the barn admiring the baby goats (yup, still cute) when she hopped up into the nest boxes. A pergectly normal thing to do, I didn't even notice it, until I heard "pock, pock, pock, pock," the sound of four eggs being broken in rapid succession. She broke all of them before she even began to eat any of them, the greedy thing. 

We couldn't apply the recommended treatment (Hchckthsst - imagine a finger being drawn across a feathered throat here) instantly because we had guests there in the barn with us, and we didn't want to traumatize them. And Homero went to work at 5 am this morning, so it has to wait until wednesday, his next day off. 

I'd been wondering where the heck all my eggs were. This last week or so I've only gotten an average of five a day, which is crazy. Most likely, this hen isn't the only one eating eggs. Dammit. But she's the only one we've seen doing it.

I just realized, of the seven chickens that we got together last summer, there will be only two survivors after wednesday. That was an unruly bunch.