The panic was real today. I was in the chicken run working on setting up some temporary outside nesting boxes as back-up, when Bree, our Buff Orpington, made it very clear that she needed to get to her favorite box inside the chicken house to lay. It’s amazing how much an angry hen can sound like some ancient creature out of Jurassic Park.
I have some trauma about being left alone. It's too long of a story for now and perhaps too deep and sad for me to graze over, but suffice it to say that I should have probably spent some of the last 4 decades of my life in therapy to get a handle on it.