Evgeny Kiselev

 

 

I have a chicken in my bathroom. No, not the same as the chickens in the breezeway. Those ones are um . . . sort of pets. No, this one was the lowest one in the pecking order out in the chicken shack. She was booted out from the toasty glow of the heat lamps when it was -40°C the other day. We call her Margaret (don’t ask). So she’s happily eating out of a cat dish and pooping up the place (like that hasn’t happened before). Whenever I go in there to brush my teeth or wash my hands, she tries to sit on my foot. I think she’s got a Jack-and-the-Beanstalk complex. Whatever that is. I just made it up. Anyway, she’s one of the Australorp chicks we hatched in September. Cute as anything and no doubt utterly confused as to why she gets to stay in the centrally-heated Ritz while her ‘superiors’ have to duke it out in Light Bulb Ghetto.

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