The other day, I was walking from Rruga Kavajes to Rruga Myslym Shyri through the backstreets. I love to walk down these roads as they are full of colourful street art, beautiful buildings, interesting people, nice shops, and opportunities to pick up odds and ends that you don’t find in the shops of Blloku.
As I walked through the area where many of the vegetable sellers are, a small bundle of feathers caught my eye. I looked down and my eyes traced the blue cord that was fastened around it, all the way back to a steel loop that was concreted into the floor. It took me a few seconds to realise that I was looking at a chicken.
I figured it must be dead as the bundle of feathers did not move, and it appeared not to have a head.
As I moved closer, I saw this bundle of feathers was quivering and shaking, and in fact, it did have a head, but its head was buried so far inside its chest that it looked as if it did not have one. This little bundle of feathers was absolutely petrified. Its whole body was trembling and it was doing everything in its possible power to make itself look as small as possible. Trying to hide in plain sight, I guess this little bundle of feathers thought, “if I pretend they cannot see me, maybe I will be ok”.
Realising that this little bundle of feathers was actually a living creature with a little soul and some very visible emotions, I crouched down next to it and stretched out my hand. Touching the feathers on the back of her neck, I gently stroked her, spreading my palm flat across her back. As she felt my touch she stiffened as if she was anticipating her demise, but as she realised it was a friendly touch, she relaxed.
Letting out a sort of chicken-purring noise, she clucked each time my hand touched her. She relaxed completely and her little head started to emerge from her little body. I could see a tiny glimpse of an eye as she peered up at me through a half-closed lid, and for a second, a short second in her short life, I think she was happy.
Her feathers were the softest things I ever felt- smooth, warm, and delicate to the touch, and the noise she uttered at each touch of my hand was the sweetest little noise I could imagine.
I felt such a sadness come over me when I realised what her purpose was and that I was powerless to do anything. At the behest of my friend, I reluctantly said goodbye to Patrice (yes, I named her) and continued on my way.
But I didn’t stop thinking about her- before I went to sleep I couldn’t help but wonder what the fate of this sweet little clucking soul was, and if she was still alive. The next day, I had to head to immigration and I decided to walk back so I could pass by the street where I found her the day before. Sadly Patrice was not to be seen and the man who had been selling her kept making throttling motions with his hands.
I know some of you may think this is stupid and that I am making a big deal out of nothing, but at that moment when I stroked her and she looked up slightly, I felt a little bond between me and this little bundle of feathers. What I would have done with a living, rescue chicken I am not quite sure, but it made me fully understand that this was a little soul that could feel terror, fear, contentment, and safety…and because of that, I am not eating chicken any more.
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