You probably don't know this about me, but I keep chickens in our bathroom. As this affliction, I mean collection, has grown, so has the need to find places for them. I was terribly afraid of chickens when I growing up. I went to collect the eggs when I was about five, and my father's rooster was waiting for me inside the hutch. I stepped inside and he flew at me from above, where he had apparently been waiting. He became stew.
About five years later, I went out to collect the eggs and ran afoul (pun intended) of another rotten rooster. My 70-year-old grandmother came out of the house and beat that bird off of me wth a broom. More stew.
I didn't set out to collect chickens, but they really are pretty and I loved watching them running free at my brother's house. One collected chicken became a whole flock before I knew it.
Ian started hanging my fair ribbons in with the chickens. More irony, I'm thinking, since my chances of a chicken ribbon are nonexistent.
Recently I was at a neighbor's house for an association committee meeting. Afterwards she brought out her clown parrot, Kisgus, whom everyone enjoyed and now it was my turn to put out a finger. I realized I wasn't ready and told her so. Poor Kisgus kept bobbing his head and saying, "Come here to me." I'm working up to it, Kisgus. It's nothing personal.
This is the latest chicken. Amy found it at the UNR bookstore, and at the rate I'm getting dishtowels finished, this may well be worn out. It's handwoven in India and makes me appreciate those indigenous weavers. My new hen has plenty of company here. It's all chicken scratch.
7 hours ago