An excerpt from a tender little article in the NY Times, "Chicken Vanishes, Heartbreak Ensues":
And what’s not to love? There’s something intrinsically happy about a chicken. The name: a little hiccup in the mouth. The shape: a jaunty upswing of feathers, a grin. The ceaseless bobbing, scratching, pecking. It’s nearly impossible to feel melancholy in the company of chickens. They are a balm for the weary urban soul.
True, very true.
I had a friend in high school who had 13! pet chickens in her backyard. They lived in a wall of roomy cages built into a sort of shed by the pool. Her favorite chicken was missing a toe because she accidentally dropped a flashlight onto its foot one unfortunate night. They were let out to roam the backyard regularly and loved to jump into the pool, which was custom-lined with smooth black rocks. I used to have a sweet little chick myself. I was alone in my AP Bio classroom when it hatched, so I was its mother. It would run across the living room to me cheeping madly and flapping its tiny wings. I took it for walks to Van Ness park, and sometimes it fell into the play pit sand. Eventually I had to give him away to a lady with a farm, but I still remember the way he would nestle down into my palm until his neck disappeared and fall asleep. He looked just like a Peep. I miss you, little chick.
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