I worry that these stints of chicken-sitting for J's advisor are going to turn me, slowly but surely, into a crazy chicken lady. That I'll wake up at age 63 with 20+ chickens, all named. That this urge I have to pick them up and pet their fluffy feathers while they make tentative "brrruuuuuck" sounds is not normal. Is it?
Please, friends. Let me know if I need a chicken intervention before it's too late and our kitchen is all done up in chicken motif.