Chickens are weird.
Granted, so many many species want to eat chickens. If I were a chicken, I would be freaked out all the time too.
I'm not sure how to help them understand that I'm not going to eat them. It would probably help if I kept the dogs from chasing them. Poor Mrs. Weasley lost another mouthful of feathers when Macy Moo slipped by me on Saturday. That fat dog can haul ass when there is a chicken running from her.
But I love the chickens. Even though they are weird. And skiddish. And cause me to have nightmares about finding their poor chicken bodies mauled in the yard by a hawk.
The chickens and I might just be kindred spirits in anxiety.
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| Professor McGonagall definitely does not want a kiss. |
I keep trying though. I'm told that the way to help the chickens get to know you is to keep picking them up. You have to catch them in order to do that though, so I spend great amounts of time bent over, arms outstretched, sneaking around behind chickens.
Bonnie Raitt might have been singing about chickens when she sang, "I can't make you love me."
Only time, and the crick in my back, will tell.
