by Shira Musicant
Thelma glares at me, laser-light little eyes. She is a movie reference—my husband thought of that. The other chicken, Louise, had died in the night. It seems Thelma blames me.
“Hey, I’m doing this for you,” I say, when I change her water. But she pecks my hand, drawing blood, taking little morsels of skin and flesh. Chickens should have warning labels attached.
“Thelma misses Louise.” Husband excuses Thelma’s behavior. “Just be her friend.”
“Her friend,” I say, as he pats my shoulder, leaving for work. Our marriage is brand-spanking new, and I already see problems.
Thelma is guarding the yard, chicken-walking back and forth in front of the gate, red wattles wobbling.
Animals have never liked me. I have pheromones, or something. Thelma never pecks Husband. The cat never bites him. Yes. We now have a black cat he adopted so I would not be lonely while he works his long hours. Obi-Wan treats my fingers like tuna flavored crunchies.
“A cat bite is dangerous,” Husband informs me when I show him my hands. “And chicken bites cause cancer. Wash with soap.” He is not a doctor but fancies himself knowing a lot about a lot of things. When my hands swell, he says, “Hives. Get antihistamines or something. It’s a mind-body thing. Try thinking positive thoughts.”
I smear antibiotic ointment on the wounds and bandage them. My thoughts are not positive.
I add long sleeves and jeans to my protective repertoire. And sunglasses. I see Thelma eyeing my eyes with her beady little orb.
Obi studies Thelma in her fenced yard, his eyes tracking her jerky little struts. He could probably climb the nearby oak tree, get over the fence, but so far he hasn’t. I fantasize putting him in the chicken yard and letting them have a go at each other.
The next morning, I see that Obi has mastered the climb up the oak and into the yard. He is drinking from the chicken water next to Thelma. They are bonding. They lift their heads in unison and look at me.