The Chicken Caper

About thirty some years ago my sister-in-law  and I loaded up a bushel or two of apples and took them to Sioux City, Iowa to my mother's house. Why? You guessed it. For an extra pair of hands, of course. Also for some expert advice.

My mom made pies that looked nicer than those you would win in a blue ribbon contest. She did so effortlessly. When the pies were done, they were not baked, but made of raw dough and piled high with raw apples.
My father made shelves of wood for us to put the pies on in the backseat. He was always so creative that way.
All went well until I got home.
We lived on an acerage with cats, dogs, chickens, oops chickens did I say?  Yup the chickens were so spoiled they followed us every where like a dog.
I didn't pay attention to them when I drove into the driveway. They did as they always did; ran to the car 100mph.
I opened up the back door of the car and they swarmed in to attack the pies. You never heard such screaming and squawking in your life. I was so angry and so were they. I was not about to let them have the pies we had  worked so hard to make.
I salvaged the majority of the pies. In fact all, but one. We had that one for supper that night.
I felt like the chickens had this all planned ahead of time, just waiting to attack when I got home it was so perfectly executed!