At roughly 3:50 this morning, Paul came into our bedroom and said "What's going on with the chickens? They're making a bunch of noise." Of course I thought: "raccoons!" Since I fell asleep still dressed (I was exhausted!), I jumped out of bed and ran as fast as I could (which was pretty impressive, since my ankle still ain't right). The girls were clucking and I could hear a lot of rushing and thumping going on inside. The door to the coop was ajar by less than 2 inches (that's what I get for trusting the boys to close up), so I wrestled it open and immediately two chickens ran out. I was armed with an old, dried out palm frond I had scooped up off the ground, so when a small light-colored cat darted out, my swing at him/her had no effect. If I didn't know better, I'd be suspicious that it was Blondie in there, although I haven't seen how fast he can move with that paralyzed arm (he can still get over the walls and onto the roof). It was too dark and too fast to know for sure.
Six of the girls escaped while I was futilely running after the would-be assassin, and Dan came out with a flashlight and we hunted them down in the backyard. Poor baby girls - they laid seven eggs yesterday, but I wouldn't be surprised if we get nothing tomorrow (no, wait, today). They took a while to calm down. We'll check for injuries when the sun comes up, but they all seemed whole when we did cursory exams by flashlight.
This is a lesson to us that we have become too casual about closing the girls up for the night. And that the door to the coop kinda sucks. Another project. Sigh.