It was two weeks ago when the hubby and I discovered the pile of red feathers near the pig pen. I didn't need anyone to explain what this meant. I'd recognize those feathers anywhere, the color was so distinctive. It was dear Lucy. She was one of the chicks born here on the farm back in January, and as I stared down at what was undoubtedly the only parts of her left, I felt like crying. I'd grown quite attached these chickens, and to see one of them taken by a rogue garden gnome or fox was disheartening.

It wasn't until the next day when we discovered poor Lucy--still very much alive, but clearly injured--laying in the yard. I insisted we nurse her back to health, and immediately made a home for her from an old dog crate, keeping her safe on the front porch. She couldn't fly, and even walking was difficult, but she was content to sit in her bed of hay, snacking on her food and water. As the days passed, my little chicken developed an attachment to me. She now follows me around the porch as if I'm her mother, hopping onto my lap if I stop to sit down. If the front door is left open, she wanders inside to hang out. I've even found her sitting on the couch, watching TV. But the truth is she'd rather climb up and sit on my shoulder while I work on my laptop.

I know it's not normal, but at the same time I find it a bit strange that this doesn't seem so strange to me. In fact, the other chickens have decided they should hang out closer to the house too. They now perch just outside the kitchen windows, watching us as we eat dinner, wondering why they don't rate a spot inside with dear Lucy.

I guess that's what happens when you live on a farm. Just promise me you'll tell me I'm crazy if I start talking about the pigs hanging out with the family.

Until the next time...I'll be booting the chickens outside.