To channel the Bee Gees, last week was all about ‘Stayin’ Alive’—a theme song for anyone trying to keep chickens intact while Mom and Dave were off channeling their inner Tour de France in the Black Hills. Alec and I were left as the guardians of the Great Chicken Empire: five feathered citizens living on the edge of a forest that’s basically a ‘Critters-R-Us’ store.

Our chicken brigade has the survival instincts of a chocolate teapot. Last time I was on chicken patrol, I swear the headcount dipped to four when one of the Gagas decided to play Houdini for the weekend.

Kick-off was smooth. Saturday morning, I did a roll call, and all five chickens were present, clucking around like they were late for a Black Friday sale. By lunch, my eagle eyes confirmed we were still at full capacity. But then, as if participating in a feathery witness protection program, one of the Gagas vanished by dinnertime.

Losing a Gaga wasn’t exactly a plot twist. These chickens have a knack for getting lost in their own backyard. It’s like they have the directional sense of a drunk compass. So, there I was, down to four chickens and doling out their favorite snack, chicken crack (a gourmet blend of dried corn), like a peace offering.

I left the chicken equivalent of the porch light on for our MIA Gaga, but by nightfall, it was clear: I had officially lost a chicken to the great outdoors, or more likely, to the local wildlife gourmet club.

On day two, my detective work for signs of a Gaga-gone-wild turned up zilch. No feathers, no CSI-worthy evidence—just a sneaking suspicion that a fox or a coyote had a chicken dinner. Meanwhile, my cat was channeling her inner lioness, adding a mouse to the weekend body count and reminding me that nature is one big, happy food chain.

To beef up security, I turned to the ultimate predator deterrent: blasting classical music from MPR through a vintage stereo setup rigged with extension cords. Take that, nature! Who knew Beethoven was the new scarecrow?

I also decided to work outside, thinking my human scent might scare off any would-be chicken snatchers. Apparently, chickens don’t read survival manuals, preferring to hang out in the forest fringe, turning my chicken-sitting gig into a wilderness adventure.

The weekend took a turn for the bizarre when a chicken caught a frog, sparking a feathery frenzy. Add one frog to the body count. And just when I thought I was blending in, a yellow jacket mistook me for an enemy combatant. Body count: one bee, dignity slightly wounded.

Miraculously, by Monday, the prodigal Gaga returned, slightly damp but otherwise unscathed, possibly after a close encounter of the third kind given her mysterious disappearance.

By the time the week wrapped, and Mom and Dave returned, we were back to a full roster of five chickens. Despite the drama, we managed not just to survive but to keep the chicken population steady.

Through it all, we also had a canine visitor, Lily, who decided I was her new best friend. After a short adventure, we reunited her with her family, proving that sometimes, the best part of a chaotic week is the unexpected friendships—both human and animal.

So, despite the odds, we ended on a high note: five chickens, several wildlife encounters, and a newfound appreciation for classical music’s ability to deter forest predators. Not a bad way to spend a week at the edge of the forest.”