Pimpin’ out the hens…
Another weekend, another church fête. This one is small but good; we went for the first time last year.
In attendance was a chicken rescue – the kind that rehabilitates battery hens.
I’ve got to do this some day. If you ever need a pick-me-up, go to YouTube and search “battery hens first” – you’ll get videos of the first time a rescue hen sees the sun or walks on grass or has a dust bath. It’s so inspirational.
In fairness to the farmers, they sell of rescue hens at the time of their first molt. Every chicken in the world – even the most cherished family pet – looks like shit during a molt. Half naked, grumpy and depressed.
Anyway, they were offering chicken cuddles in return for a donation. I didn’t want a cuddle – who wants to hold a common old ISA brown when I have exotic chickens I can hold for free? – but I did want to give them some money. Just as I did, a little boy walked by with his mom and lit up like a Christmas tree, so I said he could have my chicken cuddle. Pictured above.
Chicken keepers reproduce like drag queens – by drawing the young into our squalid fetishes.
It was only later I realized the lady at the rescue thought I was trying to foist my roosters off on her, when I complained about my cockerel flock.
July 31, 2023 — 7:11 pm
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