Clara was a chicken, and a noble chicken at that.
It was tough to be a noble chicken. Most of her fellow hens just wandered around, pecking at the ground and suffering under the rooster’s dominance.
Not Clara. She fought the rooster when needed, putting him in his place. She nibbled only the choicest morsels, the most nutritious. She kept her chest puffed up when strutting about, practiced her flight when and where she could, and roosted outside of the house, sitting on the lone tree in the yard.
When the other chickens fought, she stayed separate. Let them battle it out, she thought, losing feathers and suffering the slings and arrows of internecine conflict. Clara would not lower herself to the petty politics.
When the farmer finally slaughtered her, she went with grace, knowing it was the end, and accepting her fate. She was a model chicken, one the others tried to live up to.