She is a loner.  She doesn’t hang out with the other girls.  While the other chickens are perched upon the racks, cuddled all together to keep out the chill in the air, she perches above them to sleep.  When we open the chicken door in the morning, we open it, and then hide behind the door because Aretha thinks she is a good flyer.  She will promptly fly into your face, the wall, or a nearby bucket.

She looks so funny with her small stature and her crazy white feather hairdo, that she could be a little mad.  Oh, and now she bites.  Doug says they are love bites, but they kind of blister because she doesn’t just peck.  After Shyanne came over to check on the chickens while we were gone she sent me a ranting text.  Your %$#@ mongrel chicken just %^&* bit me!  Yup, that chicken ain’t right.  Even the rooster doesn’t go near her.

Our friends, Rodney and Pat, that I write about often, have a twelve year old son, Mark.  As soon as he comes over, he heads straight to the chicken coop.  They live in the city.  They have cats and dogs.  As far as I know, this kid has no experience with chickens.  But they love him.  He scoops up his girls, Aretha and Ginger (the Polish Rocks), and with one under each arm, coddles them and walks around the yard.  So, she has her exception of whom she is partial to.

She doesn’t bite me, but when I go to pet her she is often walking around in a daze.  No eggs yet.  Just a crazy teenage girl.  Perhaps she’ll grow out of it.