From Chicken Coop Chaos to Pig Pen Ponderings: My Unexpected Titanic Moment
Life on Boggs Funny Farm has taught me a lot of things—like how goats can open latches, pigs can outsmart you when food’s involved, and chickens will always, always find new ways to make your day more complicated. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the day I found myself in the middle of what I now call my Titanic moment. And no, it didn’t involve an iceberg—but it sure felt just as dramatic.
It all began with the chickens. Their coop door had somehow swung open, and in seconds, they scattered like feathered confetti across the yard. I was in hot pursuit, waving my arms like a windmill, trying to round up a dozen renegade hens who thought this was their golden opportunity to live free. Meanwhile, the rooster strutted around like he’d masterminded the jailbreak.
As I lunged to scoop up one particularly slippery hen, my boot caught on a feed bucket. Down I went, arms flailing, chicken squawking in my grip. If there had been background music, it would’ve been dramatic violins—the kind that foreshadow disaster. By the time I scrambled up, the goats had joined the chaos, thinking this was some sort of Olympic relay race.
Just when I thought I had things under control, I made the fateful decision to cut through the pig pen with an armful of wayward hens. Big mistake. Pigs don’t like being left out of the action, and mine decided to greet me by charging forward, snorting like steam engines. I panicked, stepped back, and landed squarely in a mud puddle the size of a small pond.
And that’s when it happened—my Titanic moment.
I tried to regain my balance, slipping and sliding like I was on an ice rink. One arm flew out dramatically, chickens flapping around me like frantic backup dancers. I swear I could hear Celine Dion belting in the background as I sank—slowly, dramatically—into the pig pen muck. My “unsinkable” dignity went under first. Then my boots. Then, as if choreographed by the universe itself, one pig planted his muddy snout against my back and gave me the final shove.
If there had been a camera rolling, it would’ve gone viral instantly. There I was, arms outstretched like Jack Dawson, sinking into the mud while the chickens squawked overhead and the pigs rooted around like they were hosting a victory party. Somewhere in the distance, Henry the donkey let out a bray that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
By the time I dragged myself out, I was coated head to toe in mud, feathers, and regret. The chickens were back in their coop, smug as ever. The pigs had returned to their trough, looking satisfied with their contribution to the drama. And me? I stood there, dripping, and muttered the words, “I’ll never let go…” as if I really had just survived a shipwreck.
Farm life has a way of humbling you daily, but this one took the cake—or the carrot, if you ask Henry. From chicken coop chaos to pig pen ponderings, I discovered that the farm may not have an iceberg, but it definitely knows how to sink your pride in one muddy, hilarious moment.
