During the pandemic, around the same time I pivoted into HVAC, I was desperate to find something—anything—to do with my kids. Something to bring a little joy, routine, and hope back into our lives. In a world gone sideways, I needed something that felt like forward motion: something to care about, something to look forward to, something to give us purpose.
While other people were making sourdough bread, I found fertilized eggs on Craigslist and decided we’d hatch them ourselves. I built a homemade incubator and started a daily Facebook livestream we called The Chicken Check-In. It became a ritual—a reason to wake up, something to nurture.
But the incubator failed. It got too hot—someone had thrown a blanket over it because the light was bothering them. We tried again. That time it got too cold—someone had unplugged it for the same reason. The Chicken Check-In was becoming both boring and vaguely catastrophic, like a chicken egg murder house. My kids were losing interest.
So I masked up and went to the local chicken shop with the kids (yes, that’s a thing here in the Hudson Valley). We stood on line, socially distanced, and came home with a box of day-old chicks. We set them up in a Pack ’n Play in the living room and watched them grow. While they peeped and flapped, I was outside feverishly building a coop. My husband didn’t help—told me to hire someone instead. Said he wasn’t built for that kind of work. He didn’t want me to involve the kids, either. He wanted them to relax.
But I built it anyway.
We named them all—Goldie, Skunkie, Alice, a few others whose names I now forget—and Chipmunk. They were awesome. We fell in love. And before long, we were up to our elbows in eggs.
Then one morning, I walked outside and found feathers and bodies everywhere. Something had gotten into the coop. It hadn’t killed for food. It had killed for fun. All of them were gone—except Chipmunk. I found her cowering behind some planters. Alive. Shaking.
We got more chickens, fortified the run, and reinforced the coop. Thought we were safe. But another time, my husband went out to chaos. A raccoon had gotten into the run and was on top of Chipmunk. He pulled it off her by the scruff of its neck and chased it away. It never came back.
Chipmunk survived. Again.
She was hurt—her eye was damaged, her comb torn, and she walked with a limp. I got medicine from the vet and nursed her back to health. We kept upgrading: an electric fence, a solar door that opened and closed automatically. She healed. She ruled. One-eyed and limping, Chipmunk remained the sweetest bird in the flock. She’d hop over for treats, crouch so you could pick her up, and snuggle right in. Even the new chickens respected her. She was the grand dame. The matriarch. The queen.
This spring, we got more chicks. A fox had been picking off our flock one by one—we’d gotten too comfortable, letting them wander in and out of the protected zone. Chipmunk watched over the new babies like they were hers. She’d sleep at night with her wing draped over her favorite, its little head poking out. She still laid eggs—light brown, almost pink. Tiny, perfect gifts.
Last night, I came home and gave them a leftover sandwich, which they gobbled up eagerly. Then I went inside. My husband was unraveling—upset I’d made a video of myself drilling a four-inch hole through a cinder block wall. Upset the bathroom tile project isn’t done. Upset the AC is still not fixed (it was 50 degrees out yesterday). Upset I was out fixing someone else’s house while ours still feels broken. I slept on the couch.
I forgot to check on the chickens.
I forgot to close the door.
At 4 am, I woke to a sound and went outside barefoot, into the cold, wet grass. The door was open. The fence was still on. Inside: feathers. Just feathers. No Chipmunk. No babies.
When I was building that coop, I cut my hand with a shingle hatchet. Seven stitches across the palm of my left hand. It still itches—a dull, persistent reminder of how much it hurt, how much I cared, the support I didn’t have, and how much safety matters.
The coop is covered with cedar shakes, nailed on by hand, one shingle at a time. One side remained unfinished for years. “It’s done enough,” I always said. It faces a neighbor I don’t care for that much. The side that faces the neighbor I like looks glorious.
But today, for the first time in a long time, I want to finish it. The bathroom and the AC can wait.
I am sorry, Chipmunk. You deserved better.
And as if that weren’t enough—my Facebook account, the one where we streamed The Chicken Check-In every day, was hacked. Shut down. All the footage—gone. The peeps. The flapping. The chaos. The joy. Erased.
But I remember.
And now, so will you.
This article appears in May 2025.
