I saw a man walking chickens in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale.
The man, Jose Penagos, politely corrected me when I asked if they were his chickens.
"They are hens. But yes, they are mine."
The hens lay up to six eggs a day, depending on their moods. Walking them at night relaxes them, Jose says.
Their names are Josephina, Dorothea, Gina, Carolina and Raquel. Up ahead, Shakira, the loner, was submerged in
the hedge scratching for crumbs.
Jose had chickens as a child in Columbia.
The residential neighbourhood where he now lives is known for palm trees, not poultry.
Jose recently parted ways with a rooster to appease his neighbours.
Shakira appeared to be his favourite.
He reached for her when I suggested a photo.
When in Rome.
(The owner of the B&B where I was staying said he had never heard such a thing.)
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