I never see it coming.
I’ll be going along minding my business, when out of nowhere I’ll develop a kinship with one of the critters, and it’s always the one I would least expect.
Not the sweet, loving, shy birds that most people would like. Not the cuddly ones that demand attention and follow my every footstep.
The ones that are drawn to me like magnets, and I to them, are the most batshit crazy birds that clearly have some sort of mental illness.
The birds that see me coming with chicken food and jump and flap six feet into the air to peck impatiently at my hands.
The ones that run and fly 25 feet across the yard while screaming and yelling only to land head first in a rusty bucket.
The ones that look down on the option of roosting with their flock mates and instead choose to sleep perched on a two inch corner of a weed whacker hanging on the wall.
These are the animals to which I become attached.
The weirdos. The loners. The outcasts.
We find comfort in each other because they know I’m one of them.
The bizarre chicken lady that will witness all of these oddities and just smile and take a picture.
Here’s to hoping I’m not the only one…
Fantastic Books on Ridiculous Poultry:
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