The Chronicle of the Missing Chicken

Esme Gordon-Craig

So today my little sister’s chicken almost died, a morbid start to the day but I promise there’s a happy ending.

I was sitting at my desk, scrolling through LinkedIn, applying for jobs that I’ll soon be rejected from, when, out of my window, I saw my little sister come running back to the house from the chicken coop in floods of tears. Shit, I thought, Bootsy’s dead.

Bootsy, if you’re unaware, is one of the three chickens my parents recently purchased for my 11-year-old sister in the hope that animal-linked responsibilities plus outdoor time will equal emotional maturity and far less screen time. Immediately after spotting my sister in hysterics I ran down the stairs and asked my parents what had happened to the chickens. Next, my sister ran in screaming ‘Bootsy’s dead!’ leaving my parents looking both shocked and bewildered, assuming I had picked up some form of psychic chicken-related powers overnight.

My sister informed us Bootsy was in fact just missing. She therefore hadn’t been in her coop overnight, which prompted all of us to conclude that she was most likely, at this very moment, passing through the digestive system of the local fox.

Accompanied by my parents and sobbing sister, I went on the hunt to find Bootsy, checking every shed and bush, and carefully rummaging through piles of orange leaves that would provide an ideal spot for our missing ginger feathered friend to camouflage in overnight. Luckily, Bootsy was found, meaning my sister could go to school and I could return to my job applications, with the new idea of adding chicken rescuer to my CV.

As expected, after a night out fending for herself, Bootsy was a little shook up. Because of this my sister has made the executive decision - with the help and advice from Chat GPT - that tomorrow night we must all bathe her (I intend to observe and record this activity, not take part).  

So, despite the drama that started the day, it ended up being relatively successful – Bootsy’s still alive and I didn’t receive any rejections from the dreaded HR departments that stand in between me and a disposable income. As supper time came around, we toasted to Bootsy’s health, in the most appropriate of ways – with a tasty chicken burger and chips, it was finger licking good!