“I want us to raise chickens for meat,” CJ said. “Like proper farmers.”
“Seriously?” I said. “When you wanted to breed pigs for meat you fell in love with the pigs and ended up screaming, ‘I will never eat their babies!’ Remember?”
“I count just four chickens,” CJ says. “There should be five.”
We start looking around. There’s no doubt about it. One of our hens has disappeared.
“It’s Henrietta,” I say. “She’s gone.”
Old Man Henry is our geriatric rooster. He is mangy and decrepit. The feathers on his head are just quill stubble. He’s half blind, bow-legged, and he pauses strangely after every step. On certain misty mornings, when the light is right, he looks as though he’s stepped out of some twisted chicken fancier’s version of Dawn of the Dead.
