Our Binghamton backyard. Not in Gilbertsville, where there's poultry a-plenty, but in urban, residential West Side Binghamton. In the snow.
And being the irrepressible animal-lover that he is, he caught it. He walked around the block. He asked the mailman if anyone around here kept chickens. (They're actually legal in Binghamton; we have a neighbor down the street with hens.) Negative.
I grew up with a flock of barnyard chickens, and so there's a soft spot in my heart. I've been planning on someday having a flock in Gilbertsville (someday being the operative word) once we've endeared ourselves to our neighbors enough that they won't come over to bludgeon us when our rooster starts crowing at 4:30am. But that was going to be someday. Not now. Not here. Not sitting in a cat carrier on the kitchen table.
But there she is, peering out skeptically at us. There she is, gobbling up the rolled oats and kale I fed her, and sleeping with her head tucked under her wing. In the cat carrier. Oh dear.
Last night, the subjects of our spoken sentences were things like "chicken wire panels," "heat lamp," and "pecking order." We named her, too, and that's never a good sign. Oh dear. I think she may be staying. Though she fits with no plans, she has made her agenda clear. When something feathered shows up in your life in mid-December, you make due. You give it the best home you can.