Sophie (my daughter) registered our pet Sophie (a laying hen) in today’s pet show – an event I remember participating in myself when I was the same age (both times I entered I managed to humiliate myself and my pets: don’t ask). As opposed to the hot library lawn the contest was held in our wooden stadium – one of the most comfortable large-scale gathering places I’ve ever known. It was a small, friendly, lovely event.
Of her own accord Sophie (the human) made herself a special necklace to look nice for the judges, then cut out and hand-lettered the exhibition sign thusly:
This is my chicin,
Sophie. She has some
Damege on her Brain.
First name: Sophie Last: Hogaboom
(not chicen!) age: 7
‘Nuff said. The girls were awarded 3rd place in the “Best Dressed” category (Sophie the chicken had a homemade princess hat, you know, the kind that is a cone with a long fluttery fabric bit on top. I think they should have placed higher given they were the only non-dog and the only homemade costume in the category, but there were at least two of four judges with on-record anti-chicken sentiments).
My daughter not only showed complete expertise and calm in handling the bird, but was the first contestant to take advantage of the promenade set out on the grass. She walked quite calmly and with aplomb, turned, smiled, affording her beloved fowl* all the time in the world. The bird behaved herself so well many people clapped, exclaimed, and complimented us on her poise.
My children spent the rest of the rather lovely little event going from contestant to contestant, complimenting and examining the other pets. I hadn’t originally wanted to take time out of my day for a pet show, but in so many ways I’m discovering our children have wiser plans than we.
* In direct contrast our son Nels is determined to eat Bluster, our other laying hen. Why, I do not know.