The Death of a Chicken Salesman

The Bad News: A member of our household has passed.

The Good News: If I had to vote one member out, she would be the one.

That’s right everybody, the chicken has gone to Great KFC in the sky. And before I start my whoopee’s and tra-la-la’s, I do have to say that I don’t condone gruesome, violent deaths. Not even for chickens.

But I also won’t lie to you. I did not like this chicken. She has a habit of stealing food from the puppies, and even pecking at them. The adult dogs do not want a one-eyed puppy, and so they chase her away.

Yesterday, she overstepped her bounds and the dogs had to put her in her place. Her place on the food chain, that is.

Satch and Poos-Poos, our two proud mothers, chased the chicken around the back of the house and bit her, pulling all the skin off her breast. Then, being the domestic pansies that they are, they became confused about what to do next and went to go take a nap. Sweet Mother found her and called Mus in a panic. Mus and I found the chicken and, well- let’s just say that I had quite anatomy lesson. I couldn’t believe she was still alive.

Sweet Mother took her over to her owner’s house for him to kill and cook. I guess he wasn’t there, so she gave it to some women- maybe relatives?- hanging out at his house. We haven’t heard about it yet, but we’re afraid he’ll be mad.

But this chicken had a sticky end coming, if you ask me. She refused to stay in her yard with the other chickens and roosters. Instead, every day she’d flap her way over to our yard. The roosters would try and follow her, but they were justly afraid of our Baker’s dozen of dogs, and kept their distance. So this prudish chicken didn’t lay an eggs. And tell me, what happens chickens that don’t lay eggs?