So, we all know that I’m down to two chickens from thirty-five, thanks to Ranger Rick and his buddies—god rest their heathen souls. At first, I wasn’t too worried about the whole deal. Pissed maybe, but not worried. I mean, I still had a rooster and a hen, right? Adam and Eve. I figured next spring I’d throw a couple eggs off in the incubator and be knee deep in birds by June—lineage intact. I forget though, this is Elsewhere, land of weirdness.
My hen—Eve—is... Oh, how do you say it? Different.
I have Rocks. Had Rocks. Speckled Rocks. Normally the hens of this breed are heavy and low to the ground—squat. Eve, on the other hand, is tall. If chickens played professional women’s basketball, Eve would be a starting forward. She looks forever like a rooster, only without a crown. She hasn’t laid egg one and wants nothing to do with Adam.
I’m thinking Eve is either lesbian, or gay, or bisexual, or transgender, or questioning, or intersexual, or asexual.
Which ever, I’m fucked… chicken-wise
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.