As I've mentioned before in this space, our three hens love to be hand-fed. In the morning, they have to settle for pecking their way through the feed that I place in their bowl and scatter in their pen. But late every afternoon, I bring them a couple handfuls of feed, so they can gather around my palm and chow down.
Snow, Nellie and Hope love this ritual so much that I even went through with it on Monday, when I had to stand around in the rain while "the girls," who were shielded by a tarp, gleefully snacked.
I know. You're right. I see it clearly now. There's no hope for me. I have been transported through time or space to a world in which the "lowly" chicken, described by scientists as the closest living relative of the mighty T. rex, has asserted its dominance. The hens have succeeded in taking me captive, but instead of treating me as food, they have enslaved me.
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