chickens
My feathery little murder machines adore me for some reason
My feathery little murder machines adore me for some reason, and honestly? I'm not sure whether to be flattered or terrified. There's something deeply unsettling about being the object of affection for a flock of tiny dinosaurs with sharp beaks and zero respect for personal space. Yet here we are, they follow me around like I'm the bringer of all good things, which I suppose I am, considering I'm the one with the snack bucket. It's a cluck-tastic bond built on equal parts fear and treats. If you think your chickens are plotting something, check out "Why my rooster turned the dinner pecking order into fowl play" for proof that fowl politics are real.
