The Chicken Ate My Website

I Only Wanted a Website.

I was trying to build Rejuva Sole.

That was it.

A useful website. Clear information. Shoes. Buttons. Menus. Pages that stayed where I put them.

I was not attempting to split the atom.

I wanted a homepage.

Scout sat nearby with his clipboard and coffee, pretending this was still a reasonable project.

“Okay,” I said. “I think I’ve got the button where I want it.”

Scout looked at the screen.

“Looks good.”

I smiled.

Then the button disappeared.

Silence.

I clicked around.

Nothing.

“Scout.”

“I see it.”

“Where did my button go?”

From behind the laptop came a small crunch.

Scout slowly looked down.

I slowly looked down.

The Chicken was standing beside the desk.

A rounded purple rectangle was sticking out of his beak.

I stared at him.

“Is that my button?”

He swallowed.

“What button?”

Scout put his coffee down.

That should have been my warning.

Then Things Started Moving.

At first it was small stuff.

A photo stretched sideways until the shoe looked like it had been run over by a Buick.

A heading grew so large that the word WELCOME arrived one letter at a time.

The footer vanished.

“Scroll down,” Scout said.

“I am down.”

“Farther.”

I scrolled.

And scrolled.

And scrolled.

“Scout, I’m approaching groundwater.”

Something rustled under the desk.

Scout froze.

I froze.

An Egg rolled out carrying a tiny screwdriver.

Another Egg followed with what appeared to be a piece of my menu.

Then a third one waddled past wearing a lanyard.

I pointed.

“Why does that Egg have administrator access?”

Scout looked at the Chicken.

The Chicken looked at the ceiling.

“Chicken.”

Nothing.

“Did you give the Eggs administrator access?”

He adjusted his reading glasses.

“Temporary contractors.”

Scout stared at him.

“They’re eggs.”

“Diverse hiring initiative.”

One of the Eggs smacked the keyboard.

My menu shot to the center of the page.

“WHY IS THE MENU IN MY FACE?”

The Egg raised one tiny wing.

“Increased visibility.”

Wonderful.

Now visitors could get lost more efficiently.

Desktop Was Fine. My Phone Required Clergy.

Eventually, somehow, we got the page looking good on the laptop.

I sat back.

“There.”

Scout immediately looked nervous.

“Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“The thing.”

“What thing?”

“I think we fixed it.”

I laughed.

“Scout, I think we fixed it.”

Scout closed his eyes.

I opened the website on my phone.

The title occupied the entire screen.

The photograph had escaped its container.

The button was hiding behind the photograph, presumably under witness protection.

I stared at my phone.

“It looked fine ten seconds ago.”

“That was desktop.”

“Is my phone in a different religion?”

An Egg peered over the edge of the desk.

“Have you tried making your phone wider?”

I looked at Scout.

Scout looked at me.

The Egg slowly backed away.

There are moments when you understand why people move to the woods.

Unfortunately, I would still need Wi-Fi to find the woods.

And Then Everything Went Quiet.

Late that afternoon, something miraculous happened.

The website worked.

The menu opened.

The photos fit.

The footer had returned from wherever the hell it had been.

Even the phone looked normal.

I did not celebrate.

I barely breathed.

Scout raised his coffee very slowly.

“Nobody touch anything.”

Every Egg stopped moving.

The Chicken stopped chewing.

For one glorious moment, the entire room was still.

CLICK.

Scout lowered his cup.

I turned.

The Chicken was standing on the desk.

One wing rested on the mouse.

In the other wing was a screwdriver.

I stared at him.

“What did you touch?”

“Nothing.”

The homepage disappeared.

“Chicken.”

“Could be caching.”

The menu vanished.

“WHAT DID YOU TOUCH?”

He held up the screwdriver.

“Something small.”

Scout stood.

“Put the screwdriver down.”

The Chicken looked at the screwdriver.

Then at Scout.

Then back at the screwdriver.

“It said advanced.”

Of course it did.

Advanced is internet language for we are about to learn something expensive.

The Chicken Ate My Website.

The screen flickered.

Once.

Twice.

The Chicken leaned toward it.

Scout pointed.

“Don’t.”

The Chicken opened his beak.

“CHICKEN, DON’T YOU—”

FWOOOOOMP.

The entire website folded inward.

Homepage.

Menu.

Pictures.

Buttons.

Footer.

Every carefully placed piece of it twisted itself into one long glowing strip and disappeared directly into the Chicken.

I stopped breathing.

Scout stopped moving.

The Eggs scattered.

One tiny loading wheel remained floating above the Chicken’s head.

It spun.

Once.

Twice.

Then the Chicken burped.

BUUUUURP.

A tiny piece of CSS fluttered out of his mouth and landed on the floor.

I pointed at him.

“You ate my website.”

The Chicken adjusted his glasses.

“Migration.”

Scout stared at him.

“You swallowed the entire site.”

“Cloud transfer.”

He patted his stomach.

“Private hosting.”

I looked at Scout.

Scout looked at me.

Then we both looked at the Chicken.

My business was now apparently being hosted somewhere near his gizzard.

That Was the Beginning.

Underneath all the imaginary poultry, I was exhausted.

I live with disability and chronic pain. My useful hours matter. Spending them fixing something I had already fixed could make me want to give up completely.

That part was real.

The Chicken gave the frustration somewhere ridiculous to go.

Instead of sitting there feeling beaten by a screen, I could blame a feathered criminal with no qualifications, a suspicious lanyard, and absolutely no remorse.

And somehow that made it easier to keep going.

Scout picked up his clipboard.

“We rebuild?”

I looked at the blank screen.

Then at the Chicken.

“We rebuild.”

The Chicken cleared his throat.

“I have some suggestions.”

I pointed toward the door.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

An Egg rolled past carrying the screwdriver.

Scout lunged for it.

“OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE.”

Welcome to the Scene of the Crime.

Rejuva Sole is the thing I’m trying to build.

The Chicken Ate My Website is what happens while I’m building it.

Real technology disasters become stories.

Small problems become Eggs.

Big disasters belong to the Chicken.

Scout keeps the clipboard.

I keep trying.

And somewhere nearby, something is probably being held together with a password nobody remembers.

If you have ever pressed Save and immediately regretted your entire life, pull up a chair.

Just check underneath it first.

The Eggs have tools.

— Tammy