Loud and About Column by Heija Nunn | Photo by Jackson Buck

My 7-year-old daughter, Sistafoo, loves animals.  To hear her tell it – this is why we don’t have any pets.  However, we do facilitate frequent animal encounters by giving her permission to pet strange dogs and generously funding a pricey annual pilgrimage to a local farm camp where she can get her fur-on.

Sistafoo loves every little thing about farm camp; the animals, the dirt, the swamp, the gossip; (did you hear that Buttercup might be pregnant? ).  She is even at peace with her horseshoe framed photograph from last year in which she sports a face so distorted by a spider bite that she looks like an Avatar.  I thought we would have a similar memento from camp this year, given that on her first day she came home with her face swollen with hives, and eyes so itchy and puffy that she could barely stop scratching long enough to ask for a play date!  We later discovered that her allergen radar had been tricked into allowing her to play with a long-haired bunny … one that had been carefully shaved and disguised to look like innocent short-haired bunny to which she is not crazy allergic.  She had a play date that day alright; with Children’s Benadryl.

Camp week continued uneventfully, or so I thought, until Friday night as I rubbed Sistafoo’s back in our bedtime ritual, she happily chatted about camp news; “No one likes to ride Silk except me. Thunder broke a chicken’s claw and now she can’t have babies,” etc.

Then she casually revealed a murder, most fowl.

“I feel so sorry for Mrs. McFluffypants.” she said. “She was looking high and low and just peck-peck-pecking around looking for Mr. McFluffypants.”

“What happened to Mr. McFluffypants. “ I asked.

With all of the emotion and tone you might expect from a serial killer testifying in his own trial, Sistafoo said, “Mr. McFluffypants is dead.” I couldn’t believe it! Contrary to what I have been trying to teach her, my daughter buries the lead, plus she’s a murderer.  OK, maybe not murderer, but at least an accessory to involuntary chickenslaughter.  Without consulting C.S.I., (Chicken Special Investigations, not to be confused with the Chicken Special) my in-depth investigation involving Facebook posts, curbside chatter and reports from pint-sized detectives revealed the following facts:

Mr. McFluffypants lived on the farm with his wife Mrs. McFluffypants, no kids as far as any campers know.  He was a good chicken, a little lazy, easy-going, and fun to hold, unless he was eating.  On the day in question he was last spotted doing what he normally does, leisurely pecking in and around one spot while the camp was abuzz with news of a pending birthday celebration.  Then a camp leader announced:

Caaake Time!

Mr. McFluffypants was lost in a tragic birthday cake stampede. Nobody saw anything.  But word on the street is that Mr. McFluffypants broke his neck and now the Widow McFluffypants has to go live with her sister.  In an instant, happy campers had become happy tramplers.

I could not believe that my daughter sat on the news for nearly 48 hours before hatching it.  She told me all about the sweet send-off ceremony and later I saw Facebook photo proof of a proper burial and headstone.  I lay next to her imagining the farm owner mournfully flipping a chart on a wall to read “0 days Incident-Free” and then scandalously giggled as the words ‘Rest In Peep” crossed my mind.

When I shared the shame of Sistafoo’s blood-covered feet (metaphorically of course) with the rest of the family they responded by writing a song about it called “Sometimes Chickens Die.” (Lyrics will be online soon)

While I was still reeling from the loss of Mr. McFluffypants, Sistafoo laid another one on me:  a second chicken life was lost the very next day in an unrelated accident.  I felt so sorry for the camp owners whose record had been spotless for three years prior.  But I am OK with Sistafoo returning: She had nothing to do with the second one – she’s no re-PETA-fender.

Wanna say Hiya to Heija? Follow her on Twitter  (@Heija) Friend her on Facebook or relax, sit back, and silently judge her life in the flickering glow of your computer screen at her blog The Worst Mother in the World (www.Heija.com).