It was Manslaughter--uh, Moleslaughter, but the Chickens Attacked Me First

Okay, prepare yourselves: I think I accidentally stepped on a baby mole today.
My garden was a huge mess, overgrown with weeds waist high. I am not exaggerating. Ugh. The little paths between the beds are thickly layered with sliced and stamped down weeds, and as I was walking along, I suddenly heard squeaking. Uh oh. The squeaking was definitely coming from the weeds. I looked, but didn't see anything.
I avoided the squeaking area for a while, but eventually got engrossed in my work again, walked around again, and then suddenly saw IT. At the time, I didn't actually know what a mole looked like, but it was my best guess, as it definitely wasn't a rat. Anyway, this tiny furry thing with closed eyes suddenly started waving its hands around. It really freaked me out. I yelled in astonishment, actually.
But then the hand-waving stopped. I avoided the area like the plague, afraid that the little thing was dead, accidentally crushed by the foot of an unknowing human. I called my doctor friend, asking if he could save him, but he hasn't called back yet. I'm betting moles are not high on his priority list.
When I first arrived at the garden, and was changing into my garden shoes, the chickens were on the loose--three of them--and DAMN those are some aggressive chickens. They wouldn't leave me alone. I just wanted to change my shoes, but they started ganging up on me. If I walked away to avoid them, they would follow me, triple-teaming me, clucking and cock-a-doodle-doing (that means one was a rooster?), threatening to peck at me if I made a wrong move. And here I will betray my city-person-ness to the fullest: I was a little bit scared of the chickens.