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“True.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Let’s pretend for a second I don’t think they’re ridiculous. If it helps, you can just assume that I’m asking just to keep you from bursting into tears again.”
I tip my head to the side to study him and bury my fingers deeper into my hen’s feathers. Yes, that makes more sense. Even in the therapy world, men don’t like crying women. Of course he would rather listen to me ramble about my chickens than have another fit of tears. “You don’t have to worry. I am clean and fed. Unlikely to burst into tears again.”
“You didn’t answer my question though.”
“Which question?”
“Why chickens? Why not dogs or cats? Something that doesn’t need a diaper?”
“Believe it or not, chickens are more hypo-allergenic than dogs or cats. Fewer people have allergies to them.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That can’t be true.”
“And yet it is. More importantly, fewer people have phobias about chickens. And in a setting like a memory care center, dealing with patients with dementia and Alzheimer’s, you often can’t ask whether or not they’re afraid of cats or dogs. Sometimes they don’t remember. At least not until they’re faced with the actual animal. Almost no one is afraid of chickens.” I wince, remembering one particularly embarrassing incident. “It’s not zero. But it’s close.”
“That sounds like an interesting story.”
I shrug. “Not as amusing as the one today. Besides, as you know, Precious Meadows has their own therapy dog, Ambrosia. But dogs can be tricky. Small dogs tend to be anxious and have higher energy levels. Big dogs are often very calm but can be more intimidating. When you’re dealing with an elderly population, the physics are just not on our side. I keep trying to explain this to Stacy, but she doesn’t listen to me. Ambrosia wouldn’t hurt a fly, but she’s eighty pounds and has a lower center of gravity than any human.”
Martin, nodding, adds, “She could decimate those walker exercise classes they have.”
I pause for a second, wondering how a man who never visits his grandmother knows about the activities she attends, but I push the thought aside. I’m sure Precious Meadows keeps him informed and I don’t like to think about the fact that I know how much it hurts her that he doesn’t visit.
So instead, I say, “Exactly. That’s a problem you don’t have with a three-pound bird. Besides, hens are relatively quiet. When they’re happy, they make a noise that’s almost like purring. And my Silkies… Well, you saw Princess Lay-ah. They look silly, like Muppets or something. They make everyone smile. You’d have to be dead inside not to grin when you see a Silkie.” I’m struck with the memory of the first time I met Martin and the scowl he wore on his face when I held Princess Lay-ah in my hands. I clear my throat. “Or at least surprised”
His lips work like he’s remembering the same moment and trying not to laugh, but his tone is serious when he says, “You don’t have to make excuses for me being a grumpy asshole.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Yes. You were. Trust me. I know that I come off as unapproachable.”
“Unapproachable, maybe.” I consider him. Trying to put together the puzzle pieces of Martin Harris that I’ve slowly been collecting over the past several months. “But not dead inside.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No. Not at all. As you keep saying, you’re going to a lot of trouble to keep me from bursting into tears. If you were dead inside, you wouldn’t care one way or the other.”
He dips his head in acknowledgment and takes another sip of his gin and tonic. “Okay, I can admit the chickens are fun, but I’m going to call bullshit on the purring. Chickens don’t purr.”
“I said it was like purring.” I wave him over. “Come feel.”
“What?”
“She’s doing it now.” I squint into the pen to figure out who I’m petting. “This is Hen Solo, and she’s starting to relax. Come over and feel if you don’t believe me.”
He gives me a steely-eyed, doubtful look.
“What are you?” I taunt.
“Oh you wouldn’t…”
“Chicken?”
Clearly still trying to hide his laughter, he gets on his knees and crawls closer, until he’s right in front of me.
I take his hand in mine and guide it to the back of the hen. I bury both our fingers into her feathers and give her skin a gentle scratch. I can feel the rumble in her chest before we hear it. And then a soft trilling noise emerges from the pen.
His eyes dart to mine. “What the?—”
