I love chickens.
There, I said it. I absolutely adore them. I love their fluffy bums and their crowing and their shiny feathers, and they are the epitome of hilarity when they run. They are a total delight. I have tried in vain to get my flatmates to adopt one. They are not keen. I don’t understand it.
We had an extremely miserly bantam called Miss Chook when I was growing up, who features frequently in my grandmother’s poems. Miss Chook loved lettuce, seeds, and pecking the cats’ tails, and hated humans. I carried her everywhere. She used to bounce on the trampoline with me. She had personality, that chook.
I bought my dad this book for Christmas last year. He is a fowl fancier too.
Mum used to have Gold and Silver Wayandottes. So cool!
I wonder if my new flatmates will let me have a chicken in Canada…