It was chilling December morning and the red (actually I think she’s brown) chicken finally gave birth or, should I say, a chick finally came out of its egg after the mother laid on it for quite some time. There were about five eggs on her bin and sadly she already left the other four after the first chick jumped out of her basket. Would there still be some chance to see a glimpse of the world for the four eggs left? I don’t know.
But the gleaming reality may answer more than my ignorance with the subject of chicken breeding. My instinct said otherwise if we, you know with Mc and Rap, can do something and act something right here, right now.
So after some council deliberation with my brothers, we acted fast and tried to drive the mother chicken back to her old basket. Of course it was not easy as shooing Bokboks (our pet dog) out of the picture with a resounding “Hey!”. Since the red hen (I think I just said it is brown, yes I did) would not end up without a fight. As she perceived that we are to take her little chick away, she would defend and by appearing with her feather in a strangled look that showed like she was threatening me. Then it hit me! Holy S#@t!, she darted fast in rage towards me like a baby rocket, zoom!
Ok, ok, I admit I dashed away from her with my heart nearly jumped out of the confines of my chest until I realized why I am running away from a “chicken” to our maximum-secured house! It does made me chicken dance like coward being pursued by a raging bull in a short dead-end. So, as if my rationality came home from Christmas, I went out and summoned all my courage then run towards the flashy hen whom at first posed her threats once more thinking I’ll be fooled again but realizing that I was all in full 95 kilogram furious mass of bewildering force, she gave in and run away for her dear life. I quickly grabbed the little chick and left. Well, maybe like having to raise a boxing alphabet belt, I am sure, I won.
Thinking of the possibility she would return to her basket, I was wrong. She is now out like a Sisa looking for Crispin whenever she sees me. She makes funny (should I say scary?) noises as if I am rooting for her again and she’s got to defend…again. But the sad thing is, the chick we called “Joy” (as in Chicken Joy since she was living inside a Jollibee Chicken Joy bucket) died a week after my encounter with her mom. It was a pity. We learned a lesson that relationship between family members must always be abound. So, our resolution says, “Never put a chick in a Jollibee Bucket ever again”. Try KFC next time, you know!
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