It would be a stretch to find theological magic in this next thought: I have a chicken. Well, I don't personally have a chicken in that a chicken does not live with me. No. I have a chicken that lives on One Hundred Oaks Farm (or Rodent Ridge Ranch - same place, different moods) who is named after me. It is the cute blonder one on the right, whispering to Chick Kim (the darker top) on the left.
I even bought a pair of boots, Chicken Boost, for when I go to the ranch to visit my namesake.
It feels neat to have something named after me, even if it is a chicken.
I woke up my Beloved last night at 1:30 a.m. to ask him if chickens can form friendships with humans -- the answer was not intelligible, or if it was, it is not repeatable here. I wondered this, because in planning for my trip to the ranch, in my Chicken Boots, I wondered if I should bring presents to my chicken; whether presents would enhance a friendship between me and my chick, or if my chicken would just blow it off as one more nutty human bearing gifts. Rodent Ridge Ranch is a magnet for nutty humans bearing gifts (no offense -- but the owner was indeed raised on a nut farm; although she reminds us, "nuts, as in almonds....")
Try to make a moral out of this story -- I dare you.
Suffice it to say, I am just proud to share my name with Chick Ann and look forward to our formal meeting. I like having a chicken. And Chicken Boots.