The first time I caught Clove—the plump, opinionated bird from next-door—roosting in our empty coop, I chalked it up to a child’s whim. Yet every couple of days, there she was again, clutched to my daughter Junie’s chest like a ragged teddy bear while secret promises were whispered into downy feathers.
I kept escorting Clove back to Miss Dottie, our widowed neighbor. Each apology was met with the same husky chuckle and a shrug. “That girl of yours,” Dottie said, “she loves deeper than most. Let her be.”
Then one afternoon I spotted Junie again—blanket, juice box, and chicken loaded into her red wagon like an outlaw heading west. I knelt and asked, “Honey, why do you keep taking Clove home?”
Junie’s eyes widened. “Miss Dottie said she’s putting her down. Like we did with Grandpa. Clove didn’t do anything wrong.” My throat tightened.
We walked back together. Dottie, pruning roses, heard my daughter’s plea before I could speak. Junie blurted, “You can’t! I promised Clove she’s safe.” The old woman’s shoulders sagged.
“Clove isn’t just any hen,” Dottie murmured. “Clyde bought her the year before he died.” Her lined face carried the weight of nights too quiet for sleep.
“She’s the last piece of him,” Dottie continued. “But she’s old, stopped laying, eats like a horse. Vet found a tumor. Surgery’s money I don’t have.”
Junie stroked Clove’s wing. “Junie thinks she can save her,” I said. Dottie smiled sadly. “Hearts don’t settle vet bills.”
That night, as I tucked her in, Junie asked, “Can we help Clove?” I explained hard choices. She nodded once. “Then I’ll make it simple.”
Days later, a lemonade stand appeared at the curb. No 50-cent cups—only donation jars beneath a crayon sign: “Help Save Clove.” Word spread online; cars arrived from two towns over. After a week, she’d raised more than four hundred dollars.
We handed the envelope to Miss Dottie. She sat on the porch steps, tears streaking. “Clyde would’ve loved that girl,” she whispered.
Clove’s surgery was Tuesday. The tumor? Benign. The vet predicted cranky but healthy years ahead. Junie made a paper medal for the coop: “World’s Bravest Chicken.”
Two months later, Junie found Dottie collapsed in her garden at dawn. The ambulance arrived in time; doctors said an hour later might have been too late.
From rehab, Dottie asked, “Would you keep Clove for good?” We shifted the coop under a shady maple; Junie festooned it with streamers and dubbed it Clove’s Castle.
While clearing Dottie’s shed that summer, we discovered one forgotten egg. Against all odds, it hatched—a wobbling chick Junie named Clover.
Clove mothered the fluff-ball like destiny. Watching Junie gently guide them—feeding, teaching, confiding secrets—I realized the story was never about poultry.
It was about choosing compassion over convenience. About a little girl who saw hope where adults saw expense.
Dottie never returned home; her niece sold the house after adding ramps and raised beds, just in case. One crisp autumn day, Dottie visited, cane in hand, and sat beside Clove’s Castle watching Junie chase Clover through fallen leaves.
“She saved me, too,” Dottie whispered. “Your girl reminded me what love looks like.” I simply nodded.
Now, whenever Clove waddles across the lawn and Junie’s laughter drifts through the screens, I remember how it started—with a child who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m grateful she didn’t.
Because children see what we forget: every life—feathered, furry, or fragile—deserves a fighting chance.
Have you ever underestimated the power of a child’s love?
If Junie’s story warmed your heart, share it with someone who could use a gentle reminder that kindness still changes the world.
