chickens do not make good pets.

On Sunday afternoon, we met with some women in a rural village nearby. The women were lovely—they were so welcoming, danced some traditional dances (more on that later) just for us, and promised to teach us to dance the next time we come.

Before we left, they wanted to bestow us with a welcome gift. The group chairperson came from the back of the group, walking purposefully towards us with a chicken in hand. Jenny and I looked at each other with dread and I whispered, "I hope that's not for us." 

But it was. We knew that this must have been a large sacrifice on their part and we were honored. But now we had our very own chicken. What to do?

  -->

I held him in my arms as we rode on the back of a boda boda all the way home. The chicken behaved very well, I have to give him credit. He hung out in the yard at our apartment complex for a day or so, and all the neighbors were getting quite attached. We even named him "Kitgum."

As I sat outside reading one afternoon, Kitgum kept hanging out by me. All the while, I told him, “I don't want to eat you. I really don’t want to eat you.”

Sadly, I shouldn’t have become so attached. We knew that we couldn't dodge this bullet--no matter what creative schemes we created to give the chicken away or accidentally let it "run away", we had to eat him. Furthermore, the groundskeeper (Bonny) at our apartment said that the chicken would ruin the flowerbeds and plants if it stayed for more than a day or two, so the chicken had to go. Bonny said he would help kill the chicken so we could cook it.

I felt pretty sick about the imminent death of Kitgum. Around 4 PM on Monday, I heard him making a bit of a fuss out back. I looked out the window and saw Bonny back behind the apartments with Kitgum in hand. I was traumatized, and ran to the other room so I couldn’t hear anything. Poor Kitgum!

About a half hour later, Bonny came back with the following:

Jenny and I tried to prep ourselves to cut the chicken for cooking. I worked up the nerve to pick up the chicken and transport it to the cutting board, but as I picked up the body, it SQUAWKED at me!!! I kid you not. The body literally squawked at me.

Jenny heard it too, and I dropped the chicken in the pan and backed away. I don’t know what the heck happened, but all I know is that my food screamed at me not to touch it.

I squealed uncontrollably, and then my squeals turned to laughter, and before I knew it I had tears streaming down my face.  Don't ask me why. I can't say whether or not they were tears of sadness or panic.

Jenny took the bull by the horns (or the chicken by the legs, as it were) and plucked off the remaining feathers. She skinned it, and I carried my weight in the matter by pointing out where we should make incisions and lacerations and trim the remaining fat. This was the dismembered product of our hard work:

We tried to recreate a chicken recipe I like to make at home. The store didn't have everything we needed, but we threw together what we did have, and invited Bonny to eat the chicken with us. 

 It was a team effort.

I can't say I enjoyed dinner much that night, but it was an experience we won't soon forget.

Bottom line: Chickens do not make good pets.