At first, I thought it was just a phase.
Every few days, I’d find Clove—the neighbor’s plump, bossy hen—in our backyard coop, even though we didn’t own any chickens. My daughter Junie was always nearby, holding Clove gently like a cherished toy, whispering secrets into her feathers.
I’d walk Clove back to old Miss Dottie’s place next door and apologize every time. Dottie would just laugh and say, “That girl of yours loves deep. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
But one afternoon, I caught Junie sneaking Clove out again. This time, she had a blanket and a juice box packed in her little wagon, like she was preparing for a road trip.
I crouched down and asked, “Junie, why do you keep taking Clove home?”
She looked up, eyes wide, and whispered, “Because Miss Dottie said she’s going to put her down. Like we did with Grandpa. And Clove didn’t even do anything wrong.”
My heart sank.
I didn’t know what to say, so I walked her over. Miss Dottie was pruning by the fence and saw us. Before I could speak, Junie blurted out, “You can’t take her away! I already promised Clove she’s safe.”
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