Chick magnet

Who knew I was a chick magnet? Harried hen chased by a very jr. rooster, sought refuge by me and perched on my shin—while I dozed on the couch swing. I screamed. Hellbent Jr. Roo charged after her, hoping to get lucky. She knew the score. They used my leg as a launch pad. I braced for scratches. None. Strange cold reptilian feet wrapped around my ankles. Nothing like a clammy chicken foot on your bare leg. A bit like dead man’s fingers. They seem to be aware that human flesh might be wounded by their claws. But they were actually being careful. I should charge a toll fee.