Funerals, Thresholds & One Very Opinionated Hen

Today I went to a funeral. A normal human activity.

Quiet. Respectful.

Full of family, sandwiches, sticky chicken drumsticks and awkward small talk.

I got home, put the shopping away, made a cup of tea…and out of the corner of my eye I saw movement.

On. The. Garden. Wall.

HOUDINI.

My tiny, ageing chicken. The feathery escape artist who clearly moonlights as a psychic medium.

Just perched there like:

“You went to a funeral?

I, too, have news.”

I stared at her. She stared back. We had a moment.

I texted my mum:

“WHAT IS IT WITH MY BLOODY CHICKEN AND FUNERALS??”

Because you see…

this isn’t the first time.

Last month I went to a funeral and Houdini escaped then too — wandered off and was found under the sodding CHRISTMAS TREE on the village green like a mystical oracle with a death wish.

My mum rang me immediately, shrieking, “You’re JOKING.”

No, Mother.

No, I am not.

My chicken apparently has a funeral calendar. We then had a full conversation about my “weird animals,”

to which I replied:

“No, I have animals with attitude .”

Because Houdini doesn’t just escape. She chooses her moments.

Birthdays? No.

Shopping trips? No.

Christmas? Not even slightly.

Funerals?

Absolutely yes.

Twice.

At this point I half expect her to demand a tiny black veil and her own order of service.

Anyway. I’ve put her back in her pen.

Again.

Where she is surely plotting her next dramatic reappearance.