I have the top drawer of my two-drawer dresser wide open right now because, well, it's full of my underthings, and I was scavenging for a decent pair to throw on.
Before I can say, "Where the Hell is Chicken?" I see random pairs of underwear throwing themselves over the edge of the open drawer. A black pair, The Fiance's favorite. Purple ones. A sock with no partner.
And then I see. It's Chicken. In the drawer. Digging herself a hole. In my underwear, mind you. While, as of late, she's become quite loving, and almost so adorable I can nearly feel my heart stop when she curls up in the crook of my stomach at night, she still likes to hide at any given moment. Any time. Anywhere. Wherever it's dark, comfortable, and nobody minds that she scrawls her plans to blow up the universe on scraps of toilet paper that Harley dug out of the trash the night before because, I don't know if you're aware, Harley is the devil.
And apparently this place - this place where dreams come true and Chicken finds the solitude needed to plot the demise of each and every one of us - is my underwear drawer.
Dang, I love her.