If the cats come, who else will come? I had a kindergarten surprise once.
We walked somehow with Daddy on the rose, on the forest strip. Suddenly someone slipped out of his feet. Look at a chicken type. In the puff still, colorful, and on the back - so generally stripes, as in the bucket. “The caterpillar!” - immediately identified the dad and said, "Look and listen, somewhere must be the mother with the rest." We were standing, listening, listening – nowhere. They took the caterpillar with them and brought it to the apartment. My mother had a cognitive dissonance, and when he turned off, it didn’t make sense to say something for or against. The birds remained. He was called Prochor.
The peach was rooted without problems: he ate almost everything he was given, even boiled eggs and dried cabbage. I caught him a fly every day, the fly he appreciated. On the balcony he was placed a large cardboard box with a good shell and leaves, in which he went for the night.
Well, he was ugly, of course, but only on the smooth floor! Father, as the chief specialist on training (not just the puppets), in two or three cracks made him understand that from the bed, sofas, carpets, you have to go down first on the linoleum, and then scratch your masterpieces. Unbelievable, but the fact: the prophecy has learned. Here we lie with him on the bed, I read a book, and he, falling to my side, cleans his mouth. Suddenly he stands up, knocks and knocks - jumping from the bed to the floor, planting clay there - and back, to the bed, to me under a barrel.
I loved when a sunspot under the window appears, to sit on a warm floor and chemistry. At the same time, he began to fall to the side, the legs from under him on the smooth floor went to the side, and so he rolled on the side, like a cat of any kind.
And once I come to the kitchen in the morning, I find a picture: Mom is sitting, Prochor is on her knee, she holds a cup in front of him, and he is drinking something from there. Coffee with milk...
But not all cats are mackerel. Prochor had real feathers, and his dad said, “He should be taught to fly. Otherwise, he will not survive in the forest.”
He said – he did. Prochor began training. He strongly opposed bird flight. From a small height, he either simply reluctantly jumped, or intentionally clung to his hand with his nails. The height was increased. Then he stumbled, touching with his nails the hand raised with him, to descend on it down, on his shoulder, and it was not so scary to be breathed from there. No flights were made. And here the prophecy began to grow. “Oh,” said the dad, “then it’s definitely a cock. I don’t know what he did in the woods, but it’s a cock. And once a cock, it is not necessary for him to fly... but to fight to learn - it is necessary!" Must – must be. Training went to Parter. The dust was scratched with the foot, and he attacked her. He did it with excitement and zeal, achieving success. As a result of the success, everyone had to wear two socks on each leg - then there were almost no bleaches.
In general, with good nutrition and proper physical upbringing, after a couple or three months, we had an elegant guard cock of cherry-brown colour, with green and blue feathers in the tail, cheerfully arming at 5 a.m. on the balcony. “Hmm,” said the dad, “but now he needs a chicken!” Dad knows what he says. Needed so much. And from acquaintances from the village was brought a young chicken, the same varied. The chicken was brought in the evening, and Proha had already slept on his cradle in a box. True, the box was no longer on the balcony, so that it did not fly away unintentionally. "The chicken should be planted directly to him now. Then you wake up in the morning as if it was. Otherwise he will beat her,” the father instructed.
In fact, in the morning Proha saw a strange mademoiselle, knocked her only a couple of times on the head, indicating who is the chief here, and the family idyll came. Only in the evening we had to leave until late, and when we arrived, there was complete defeat in the apartment. It seems that the village chicken with a complete lack of manners was trying to find a place for insects. She quietly waved in the bathroom, on the shelf in front of the mirror, dumping everything there stood on the floor. After removing the fragments and wiping out a slice of toilet water, my mother said, “Either she or I.” Prochor and his young wife were sent into exile to the village to the same owner of the chicken.
We were there later, a year later. The dust was mattered, still increased in weight and size, there was only one eye. "Therefore, the whole harem - entirely his, said the master, - he made my cock then almost to death, lost his own eyes, but it had to be cut, so as not to suffer. Strangers are all afraid to go here, although people, even cats, are not talking about neighboring cockroaches at all."
Without much hope for the effect, my mom called him, “Please!” He stumbled, listened — and suddenly the kaak will come to her, running! He ran, we slapped him... The next morning I watched — the father was sitting at the doorstep on the corks, stretching the bread on his palms. Procha someday plunged around, then stumbled on his hand to cling, as before... Although now he was barely fit on his hand and hardly balanced. But I remembered! They say “chicken brains.”
And Proha was an individual, a person of a chicken breed, not worse than a cat.