When I was 11, my parents and I went to the market and saw chickens. So cute they were! I asked to buy at least one. My father said, “Why not? Take care of the chicken yourself. Feed and clean after him. Now you can settle it in a cage at home, and then take it to the country. We will have a chicken. He will be carrying eggs.”



I was pleased. She cleaned the cage, fed and cleaned. When my parents were not at home, I first held him under my chest, on my chest. He grew more and more, showing his character. He loved sitting on my feet while I was lying down and reading.



When it was hot, the chicken grew up with long legs, warts and spurs, and we learned that it was a cock. He was taken to Dacia. But as they called Manka, so they continued to call. I went to feed him every day. I was supposed to go there every day and wash my bed for 8 to 12 days, and he was always somewhere around. Sometimes he flew and sat on my shoulder.



Before the beginning of the cold, he became an adult, but entirely handy cock. He calmly walked in his hands, could fit on his knees, did not show aggression at all.



And one day the father brings a body of chicken, without a head, and says, "Well, here is you Manka! Cook the soup.” I was crying. My mother cooked the soup. I did not touch him.