My Neighbor’s Chicken Thinks I’m Its Father

Genre: Comedy / Family / Small-Town Chaos

The strangest thing about my new house wasn’t the leaking roof.

It wasn’t the broken fence.

It wasn’t even the bathroom door that refused to open unless you kicked it twice.

It was the chicken.

Her name was apparently Susan.

I didn’t name her.

My neighbor did.

And according to my neighbor, Susan believed I was her father.

I discovered this on my third morning in the neighborhood.

I had just stepped outside with a cup of coffee when I heard someone shouting.

“KEVIN!”

I looked around.

Nobody.

Then I heard it again.

“KEVIN!”

This time, I looked over the fence.

My neighbor, Mr. Jenkins, was standing in his backyard wearing pajamas, slippers, and an expression of absolute panic.

“What happened?”

He pointed at my feet.

I looked down.

A chicken was sitting on my shoe.

“That’s Susan,” he said.

I stared at the chicken.

The chicken stared at me.

Then she made a strange little sound.

“Bawk.”

Mr. Jenkins nodded seriously.

“She likes you.”

“Okay.”

“She thinks you’re her father.”

I nearly dropped my coffee.

“What?”

“She follows you everywhere.”

I looked behind me.

Susan followed my gaze.

Then she followed me.

I walked three steps.

She walked three steps.

I walked backward.

She walked backward.

I ran.

She ran.

I climbed onto my porch.

She waited at the bottom.

Mr. Jenkins laughed.

“See?”

“This isn’t funny!”

“It is a little funny.”

“How does a chicken think I’m her father?”

Mr. Jenkins shrugged.

“You wore yellow yesterday.”

“So?”

“Susan’s mother was yellow.”

I stared at him.

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It does to Susan.”

From that day forward, my life changed.

Susan followed me everywhere.

When I went to work, she waited by the driveway.

When I returned, she ran toward my car.

When I sat outside, she sat beside me.

When I tried to eat lunch, she stared at my sandwich.

One afternoon, I opened my front door and found Susan sitting on my couch.

I screamed.

She screamed.

We stared at each other.

Then she walked into my kitchen.

I called Mr. Jenkins.

“Your chicken is in my house.”

“Again?”

“Again?”

“You need to stop leaving the door open.”

“I didn’t leave it open!”

“Well, she knows how to open it.”

I looked at Susan.

She looked proud.

“This chicken is smarter than you.”

“I heard that!”

Mr. Jenkins arrived five minutes later.

Susan ran behind me.

“She won’t come with me.”

“Why?”

“She thinks you’re her mother.”

“Father!”

“Whatever.”

Susan refused to move.

Mr. Jenkins pulled out a bag of corn.

“Susan!”

She ignored him.

He shook the bag.

Nothing.

I shook my sandwich wrapper.

Susan immediately ran toward me.

Mr. Jenkins stared.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Neither have I.”

Then he said,

“You should probably start buying chicken feed.”

“No.”

“She’s your daughter now.”

“No.”

“You need to accept responsibility.”

“No.”

He walked away laughing.

The next morning, Susan was waiting outside my bedroom window.

At 6:00 a.m.

She screamed.

“BAWK!”

I opened my eyes.

“Go away.”

“BAWK!”

I pulled the blanket over my head.

“Please.”

“BAWK!”

I got out of bed.

“Fine!”

I opened the window.

Susan flew onto the windowsill.

Then onto my shoulder.

I stood there in disbelief.

“You know you’re a chicken, right?”

She pecked my ear.

“Ow!”

She seemed satisfied.

My coworkers noticed something was wrong.

One asked,

“Why do you have feathers on your shirt?”

I sighed.

“My daughter.”

They laughed.

“I have a chicken.”

Silence.

Someone asked,

“Did you just say daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

Soon everyone at work knew.

People started sending me chicken jokes.

One coworker gave me a mug that said:

WORLD’S BEST CHICKEN DAD

I hated that mug.

I used it every morning.

Then things got worse.

Susan started bringing me gifts.

The first gift was a leaf.

She dropped it on my porch.

I said,

“Thank you.”

The next day, she brought me a spoon.

I didn’t know where she found it.

Then she brought me a sock.

I was missing that sock.

I began to suspect Susan had been stealing from me.

One evening, I found her standing beside a pile of objects.

Three socks.

Two spoons.

A toothbrush.

A remote control.

My car keys.

I stared at her.

“Where did you get my keys?”

She clucked.

I picked them up.

“Are you robbing me?”

She looked offended.

Then she walked away.

The following Saturday, Mr. Jenkins knocked on my door.

“I need a favor.”

“What?”

“I’m going out of town.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even asked.”

“No.”

“Can you watch Susan?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“She loves you.”

“She is emotionally dependent.”

Mr. Jenkins smiled.

“You’re learning.”

I agreed.

It was the biggest mistake of my life.

For three days, Susan had complete control of my house.

She slept on the couch.

She followed me to the bathroom.

She sat beside me while I watched television.

She even tried to enter the shower.

“No!”

She looked at me.

“No chickens in the shower.”

She walked away.

Five minutes later, she returned.

I eventually discovered something interesting.

Susan hated silence.

If the television was off, she screamed.

If I stopped talking, she screamed.

If I went into another room, she screamed.

So I started talking to her.

About work.

About bills.

About politics.

About my terrible dating life.

Susan listened.

Sometimes she nodded.

One night, I said,

“You know, you’re actually a good listener.”

She blinked.

“I’ve been lonely since I moved here.”

She stepped closer.

“I guess that’s why I don’t mind you following me.”

She rested her head against my leg.

I smiled.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

She clucked.

“Deal.”

When Mr. Jenkins returned, he came to pick her up.

Susan refused to leave.

“She doesn’t want to go.”

Mr. Jenkins looked at me.

“You’ve become her father.”

I sighed.

“Apparently.”

He tried to carry her.

Susan escaped.

She ran back to my house.

I looked at her.

“You want to stay?”

She clucked.

I looked at Mr. Jenkins.

“Can I keep her?”

He smiled.

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

And that was how I became the owner of a chicken.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Three months later, Susan disappeared.

I searched the neighborhood.

I checked the park.

I checked Mr. Jenkins’s yard.

Nothing.

I was heartbroken.

Then one morning, I heard scratching at my front door.

I opened it.

Susan stood there.

Behind her were six tiny chicks.

I stared.

Mr. Jenkins came running over.

“Congratulations!”

“Congratulations for what?”

He pointed at the chicks.

“Grandchildren.”

I looked at Susan.

She looked at me.

Then she pushed one chick toward my shoe.

The chick climbed onto my foot.

I stared at it.

“No.”

Susan clucked.

“No.”

She pushed another chick forward.

“No.”

Then another.

“No!”

Within five minutes, all six chicks were sitting around my feet.

Mr. Jenkins was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.

“You’re a grandfather!”

I looked toward the sky.

“Why me?”

Susan clucked proudly.

The chicks clucked.

Mr. Jenkins laughed.

And I realized something terrible.

I had spent years worrying that I would never have a family.

Apparently, I just needed to buy a house next to a chicken.

Today, five years later, Susan still lives in my backyard.

She has had three more batches of chicks.

I now own eleven chickens.

My neighbors call me “The Chicken Man.”

Children visit my yard to feed them.

My coworkers still give me chicken-themed gifts.

And Susan?

She still follows me everywhere.

Every morning, she waits outside my bedroom.

Every evening, she sits beside me on the porch.

Sometimes I look at her and say,

“You know you’re not actually my daughter.”

She always tilts her head.

Then she climbs onto my lap.

At this point, I’ve stopped arguing.

Because honestly…

I may have started out as a single man with a broken fence and a leaking roof.

But somehow, I ended up with a family.

A very loud family.

A family that lays eggs.

And a daughter who occasionally steals my socks.

I suppose that’s life.

You make plans.

You buy a house.

You expect peace and quiet.

And then one day…

a chicken decides you’re her father.

And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.