You raised her. You’ve given her the tastiest treats she’s ever known. You’ve cuddled her. She’s six months old. She’s starting to lay eggs. LAY EGGS. She’s emotionally needy. She wants to fly up on your arm and have you pet her feathers. She wants you to cradle her under your arm, casually, as you survey the yard. You’ll idly stroke her under the beak, along the wattle. She’ll make little sounds.
You provide them with a lush dense garden and they make a royal Wallow out of it. They go all Serengeti and shit. All tender green growing things disrespected. Everything pecked and tasted and/or scratched up.
Running (“pell-mell”) across the yard with her head down, looking like a serious little quarterbacker.
Ferociously wagging her tail because a bug is itching her bum.
Fighting over a slug. Tigra steals it from Bunny and Bunny back again and so forth nine or ten times in five seconds.
Falling asleep in your lap.
Falling asleep on the fence.
Reaching down down with her long stretchy neck between her legs to snag her brand new egg with her beak and move it up to her warm warm breast feathers.
Being shy when there’s guests around, and hiding in the quince thicket.
You are gentle and all-powerful.
You are her rooster, approaching from above.
She hunkers down in her breeding posture when you advance.
You’re the bringer of treats.
You make her come to you. You never chase. She knows the treat-whistle.