Down on the farm

Yesterday I was talking with a friend who is way more outdoorsy than me. By which I mean she is outdoorsy at all, and if I see more than eight trees in one place I assume that they are hiding a bear. Despite this fundamental difference, we do share one future goal: we want to own chickens. I've been giving it some thought, and chickens are, in fact, the best pet a person can have.
Check it out:

• You can name a chicken "Edna" or "Eunice" or some other name that hasn't been used since aught-three.
• Chickens, unlike dogs, do not have teeth with which they can rip your face off.
• Chickens, unlike cats, do not have claws with which they can rip your face off.
• Unlike dogs and cats, I do not have an all-encompassing fear of chickens.
• What other pet periodically gives you breakfast?
• When you have to muck out the coop, you can make it slightly better by playing the farm music from Looney Tunes cartoons in your head.
• Asking someone to take care of your dog while you're away means feeding them, giving them water, walking them, scooping the poop from that walk, throwing it out somewhere other than in your house, cleaning up the revenge poop the dog left on you dining room chair, cleaning up the fear-of-abandonment poop the dog left in the kitchen, looking at the dog's sad face when he realizes you're leaving.
• Asking someone to take care of your chickens means filling a water bowl and tossing some feed in the coop, then grabbing a few eggs to take home.
• In what other pet-sitting job does the pet pay you?

The only slight problem is that I cannot kill a chicken. Or eat anything I've named. I have a solution though: I'll somehow magically find some friendly, small-scale poultry farmer who will let me trade Old Edna for two new chicks.

And then I'll perform an interpretive dance to "Circle of Life" and start the whole process over.