Meg was in the feeder again, where she is not supposed to be. “Meg,” I said, “why do you go in the feeder?” She looked at me oddly.

I told Meg that this Valentine’s Week for me, and I explained to her that while I am fond of her, I cannot honestly say that I love her. I don’t. When I think of love, I think of my feeling for Maria, or for my daughter, and I feel nothing like that for any chicken. To lump Meg in with that – or even the love I feel for Frieda and Lenore – is to diminish its power, worth and meaning.

Meg seemed to take this in stride, and wobbled over to the garbage can where I keep the birdseed and I gave her a handful of seed and she was very happy. I do love doing that.

Meg has what she needs, I think. I do not think I can ever truly love a chicken. Or a sheep.