The Dead Chicken

(guest post by mommy)
Connor is, to quote his dear grandmother, a compulsive liar. I was driving him home from school today and asking questions about his day. Which apparently wasn't good; everyone was mad at him all day long. I asked him if he had a chance to feed the chickens. He had described this activity to me earlier in the week, telling me how he feeds them mud and it's disgusting. And he never never wanted to do it again. But now he's used to it so he'll do it again.

But today, he says, he did not feed the chickens, because a meteorite hit a plane then hit a chicken. And the chicken is dead. I burst out laughing, at which he reprimanded me, telling me that it's serious, the chicken is really dead. But don't worry, because the other class has chickens too, and in a couple of days, the chickens that were with the dead chicken will forget about it, and they'll put in a chicken from the other class. So the chickens won't be sad.

I didn't ask anymore questions about his day. I figured that was probably the big event.