#henharbor

It was a lazy summer day when the lady with the camera appeared.

Soon, Peanut Butter had her own YouTube video, and when she found out over 15,000 people had viewed it, she was thrilled. 

But her elation gave way to confusion when she began reading some of the comments. Some were mocking, while others were downright threatening.

"But... but why? Why do all these people hate me?" wailed Peanut Butter. "Tsk tsk," clucked Jelly. "Haters gonna hate."

Sparkle the rooster was a bit more philosophical: "All this hostility, these are just things that insecure people say so they can feel better about themselves," he opined. "Besides, what do you care what a bunch of strangers say about you?"

But she did care. She felt more than a little hurt; she felt indignant. The next time The Human came by, she cackled out her displeasure.

"Oh, Peanut Butter," sighed The Human. "I should have told you this before. You're a public figure now. People will be jealous of your success; they will feel threatened by you.

"The most important rule you've got to learn is, Never Read the Comments Section. How do you think Britney Spears deals? How does any celebrity deal? They don't read the comments."

"It's true," thought Peanut Butter. "Now I know how Britney feels. I've got to learn the same coping mechanisms or I'll go crazy." 

For as long as he could remember, he'd always felt like an outsider, different from the others.

When he walked across the yard, he could feel the hostile stares from the other boys, while the girls turned their backs to him and clucked cattily.

"Creepy Dave," they whispered in hushed hen voices. But he pretended not to hear. He knew he was considered small-boned, and he knew that his crows lacked the deep, sonorous quality of the others.

But he was not a rooster easily discouraged.

He kept up his courtship -- one day dancing for the speckled hen; the next day, dancing for a hen with snowy white plumage like his own. He even sidled up to some of the older matrons of the flock, twice his size. But all were indifferent to his charms.

And then he spotted her. With feathers the color of flames and eyes of amber, her beauty struck Creepy Dave like a bolt of lightening.

Tossing caution to the wind, he put forth his most magnificent display yet. Tapping into his inner Flashdance, he stamped his legs like pistons and tossed his feathery head with wild abandon.

The ginger-feathered object of his affection didn't run from him and she didn't turn up her beak. Instead, she did what Creepy Dave had previously dared not even dream of: she kissed him.

Beaks touched and time stood still.

It was then that Creepy Dave knew he could die a happy bird.

At long last, he'd found acceptance; he'd found love. 

She'd heard it all a million times before, usually from total strangers.

"Smile. C'mon, it can't be that bad."

"You'd look so much prettier if you smiled."

"C'mon, where's that smile? Why do you always look so mad?" Hearing these words did not sit well with Sing Sing, who more often than not would be walking along contentedly, lost deep in thought while browsing for bugs, when she heard them.

"But I'm not angry. I'm just thinking," she'd say to herself. "Is that so wrong?"

And what's more, "Why don't the roosters get these kinds of comments?"

It all felt uncomfortably sexist to her.

She spoke to a flock-mate about it. "Oh, that's sweet. I don't think it's sexist; I think it's caring!" was the unsatisfying feedback she received.

But she did not feel the comments were caring; she felt they were invasive. She felt they were presumptuous. She felt they were oppressive.

As she often did in times of angst, she marched into The Human's compound all aflutter. The Human was the only one there; it would have to do. Squawking and flapping, Sing Sing wove her tale, clucking out her frustration. The Human seemed to understand.

"Oh Sing Sing, there's nothing wrong with you; you just have Resting Bitch Face. Own it!"

Resting .... Bitch.... Face.....

Sing Sing mulled the words over in her mind. Now that she had a name for it, she felt oddly empowered. If there is a name for it, she thought, others must have it too.

It was all getting to be be a bit much: the incessant clucking, the daily barrage of unwanted male attention, the ruthless pecking order and politics of barn life.

Martha had been around along enough to know that things were never going to get better around this place. She needed a new gig, one more suited to her delicate sensibilities.

Gathering her wits, she raised herself up. Slowly she strode out the  door and across the lot, purposeful yet not hurried. She didn't want to attract any attention; she didn't want to tip her hand, not just yet.

As luck would have it, the door to The Human's compound was open. The floor felt smooth and cool under her calloused feet. The air, strangely quiet.

She found herself being drawn deeper into The Human's compound, until she discovered what she'd been searching for. A giant, elevated cushion, shaped like a square, and perfect for perching on. Choosing carefully, Martha found herself a spot atop the giant, cushiony perching platform and settled in. Sweet softness cradled her weary talons.

Free from the cacophony of the compound across the yard, Martha was finally able to think clearly. She knew she'd found her place, and she was never going to leave it.