Daddy always had a garden and chickens. I was fortunate to grow up eating fresh vegetables and eggs. A chicken hatched some eggs and then killed all of the baby chicks but two. One was black and one pale yellow. Not being all that original, my brother and I named them Blackie and Whitey. We brought them into the house and took care of them, but only Whitey lived.
The surviving chicken we saved from its mental mother became a pet. We kept her in a box but took her out and played with her pretty often. She would follow us when we walked. The sound her little chicken claws made on the hardwood floor were similar to that brush thing drummers use or maybe a rain stick. Very cute running behind each foot. Then she'd get on my shoulder when I talked on the phone. I'd pick her up, and she would climb to my shoulder and walk around while I talked. Sometimes she just perched there and other times I had to change clothes.
Later on she was assimilated back into the chicken pen and lived among her own kind. She grew up to be light brown which made her name sort of odd. We could go out and pick her up and pet her, and she would come running to us when we went out there. Later when she had baby chicks (which she did not kill but took care of - glad that wasn't hereditary), she let my brother and me pick them up. Mother hens don't ordinarily do that, either. They will flog you and peck your eyes out. Not brown Whitey though! We bonded.
Consider the Cane by Ann Burack-Weiss
1 hour ago