Laine and Fluffy were a good pair.  In the pictures below, Laine is swinging while Fluffy is doing her rounds.  In the bottom three, Fluffy is standing on the picnic table striking poses for high resolution portraiture.   Fluffy has an interesting story, at least for a chicken.  Fluffy’s personality and that of Laine were in resonance.  Anna, Mathew, and I (Mia was a baby, Laine was not yet born) wanted a pet.  But between Mia’s continuous medical care, a young active boy and a baby on the way, and my work, our lives were full to the brim.  We did not think it would be appropriate to bring a pet into the home at that moment.  Cats were a possibility, but there was some concern over allergies (Anna, Mathew).  Turtles and fish were considered and put aside as they were not sufficiently interactive.  Anna had the brainwave of chickens!  It was not common (at all) in 2007 to have chickens in the Bay Area’s cities.  But diligent as usual, Anna figured it out, found a way.  Four well-investigated, day-old chickens arrived while Anna was eight months pregnant with Laine.  Mathew named them while watching them curiously under the heat lamp in a small box of bedding in the garage:  Fluffy, Chip, Blacky and Yolanda.  Yes, Yolanda.  Don’t ask.  They were good chickens, very friendly.  They were also productive.  Ammachy discovered after six months that they had indeed been laying eggs, when she and Appachen were visiting and heard them making the egg-laying sound.  What was that, you say, there is an egg-laying sound?  Who knew.  Ammachy did, fortunately.  She located three piles of eggs, 72 of them in all.  The chickens were neatly making a giant pile, then two, then three, being very careful not to break a single egg in the stacking process.  We started getting 3-5 eggs per chicken per week, exceeding our ability to eat them.  We started packaging them and giving them away to close friends and family.  Mathew branded them:  “Straight From the Butt”.   He had seen be reading Straight From the Gut (JW) and thought this was a funny name.  A sad element of having chickens is the struggle of watching them establish a pecking order.  It lasted several weeks, and Blacky was on top, then Chip, then Yolanda then at the bottom was poor Fluffy.  No blood, fortunately.  But there it was.  Fluffy was the last to eat, the last to walk into their coop (The Egg-Loo) and the last to emerge in the morning.  Several years later, Chip got sick, and slept outside the coop.  Ironically, it was Fluffy that stayed with her, and nursed her until Chip died.  Later Yolanda was taken by a large bird, leaving only a pile of feathers.  Blacky made it to five years old, and hurt her leg.  Again, Fluffy nursed Blacky through her pain. And then there was Fluffy, the Queen, the survivor, a gladiator who became Emperor of Rome.  Wait, that’s an exaggeration.  Laine loved Fluffy most of all.  She would, however, fight with Fluffy over food.  When Laine was served breakfast, for instance, and Fluffy came by (of course she would, as she knew there would be left overs).  Laine would say “Bad Chicken!  Go away, this is MY food!”.  Then ten minutes later and Laine was filling up, she would ask Vijaya or Anna or me “Maybe Fluffy is hungry  We need to give Fluffy something to eat”.