I've never ever been extraordinarily fond of chickens.
It could be the memories of those headless ones running around with blood spurting everywhere while my grandmother cleaned off the little hatchet in the weeds.
It could be all the memories of the pecks at my fingers and arms when I reached beneath them to gather eggs.
It could be the memories of those who perched in the rafters flopping down to land in my hair. Nothing worse than to find a chicken perched on top of your head, wings flapping and toenails gripping in long curly white hair.
It could be.
I think I'll stay with goats.