This morning, in the pitch dark, I am woken up by cries.
They are quite feeble and juvenile, but at the same time unmistakable.
I managed to convince myself that this was part of a nightmare and fell asleep again (it was so early that not even the puppy was stiring yet, but snoring softly and twitching her paws in a dream).
Once the sun was up, I remembered and went to investigate.
Here is what happened (seemingly over night) to poor Frida:
Of course, turning her into a Sunday roast is by now out of the question...
As is giving her back to the pet shop. Their surely isn't much of a market for noisy chickens that are full of themselves,
strut around and lay no eggs, so her fate will be sealed there too.
I still harbor a very faint hope that all this is an elaborate april fool's joke...
Have a lovely Sunday, and if anyone is in the market for a rooster, please leave me a comment.