This pretty much sums up finals week:

My parents have three cochins. If you have never seen cochins, you simply need to accept that with the exception of polish top hats, they are the most absurd chickens ever. And my parents have three. Two hens and a big poofy rooster. The cochins always remind me of cats, in that they are actually much smaller then they seem. They’re mainly feather and poof.

Anyway, back to heff. When the rooster first came to live with us, he was named lief erikson, a strong viking name. My parents, however, have taken to calling him Heff. Not because of the obvious “two hens” and “Hugh Hefner” connection, but rather, the “heffalump” connection.

Please tell me you know heffalumps. As in heffalumps and woozles? If you don’t, you need to go back and re-do childhood. Clearly something important was missed.

Below you’ll find a video of Heff strutting around and clucking. I love his voice. It so deep and dramatic. Such a contrast to a puffy, plodding chicken.

(Video is mine. Please don’t steal)

If you’ll recall, my heart has recently been stolen by a tiny chicken. I bring to you know video of little peep chasing my boyfriend’s hand. She thinks hands are her mama. And she’s been practicing flying. Video is best at high volume, so you can hear her peeps.

Video is mine, don’t steal, so on and so forth.

I am at the beck and call of a chicken smaller than my thumb.