“The Chicken That Crossed the Road (and My Heart)” Part-1

I’ve never been a fan of chickens. They peck, they squawk, and frankly, they look like dinosaurs in a midlife crisis. But life has a funny way of serving up surprises, and one fine morning, I found myself the accidental owner of a chicken. Her name was Ginger, and she wasn’t just any chicken—oh no. Ginger had the personality of a diva, the audacity of a cat, and the appetite of a teenager at a buffet. She strutted around my backyard like she owned the place, pecking at anything shiny and glaring at me if her food wasn’t served promptly. At first, I hated her. I mean, how do you bond with a bird that poops on your shoes and steals your sandwiches? But slowly, Ginger grew on me. She had a knack for making me laugh, like when she once chased my neighbour’s dog back into their house. (The dog still avoids eye contact with me to this day.)